Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 75699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Just like this damned business I’ve gotten myself into. No matter how good things can get—and with Raven, things got pretty freaking good—I always end up in the dark tonality of my grandfather’s shadow. Never escaping. It’s like Chopin wrote my fucking life story.
When she’s finally finished, she closes her eyes for a moment and then lifts her fingers from the keys.
McAllister begins to clap, and Grandfather and I follow suit.
Belinda rises, walks toward us, gives a short curtsy.
Grandfather nudges me. This means I’m supposed to say something to my future bride. This little girl before me.
Again I force a smile, although I’m not sure why I bother. She hasn’t looked at me once, and I can’t blame her.
“That was lovely, Belinda,” I say. “How long have you been playing the piano?”
“Since I was five,” she says.
I nod. “It’s pretty amazing. I don’t know much about music. But it sounds like you’re playing at a virtuoso level.”
“Oh, she is,” McAllister says. “Belinda is quite the prodigy. We don’t have any musical talent in our family either, so we were really surprised when her kindergarten tutor brought her talent to our attention.”
“Oh?” I say. “How did that happen, Belinda?”
Still standing in front of me but not looking at me, she says, “There’s a piano in all the classrooms at my private school. Or there used to be.” She looks at her feet. “I don’t go there anymore. One day, I just sat down at it and started to play something.”
“What did you play?”
“Just a tune I had heard on TV.”
“And you figured out which notes were the right ones? Without any training?”
She nods slowly. “It was like sounding out a word you don’t know.”
“That’s fascinating.”
“Indeed it is,” McAllister agrees. “We found out she has perfect pitch, and that she can play by ear. Simply hear something and then sit down and play it.”
“But how did you know which keys to use?” I ask her.
She shrugs. “I figured it out.”
Damn. This little girl has a talent. She’s a prodigy. And her father’s hope is for her to marry a man over twenty years her senior and be an obedient little Mafia wife.
So many things wrong with this picture.
“Mr. McAllister.” The housekeeper enters, interrupting us.
“Yes, Dena?”
“Lunch is served.
“Thank you.” McAllister rises and holds out his hand to Belinda, who curls her little fingers into it. “Come. Dena has prepared one of Belinda’s favorites. Shepherd’s pie.”
Shepherd’s pie? A hot meal during summer in Texas? Well, at least this house has perfect air-conditioning.
We follow McAllister and Belinda into the large dining room.
Four places are set. One at the head of the table, where I assume McAllister will sit. Then two on his left and one on his right.
Belinda scrambles into the seat next to her father on the right.
“Vinnie,” McAllister says. “You sit next to Belinda, and Mario, you’re here next to me.”
Awkward just got a million times worse.
But I keep my forced smile on my face. Am I supposed to hold up the chair for her?
Thank God McAllister does it.
It’s okay for a father to hold out a chair for his daughter.
For a thirty-four-year-old man who’s supposed to marry her once she’s legal?
Not so much.
It would just feel all…wrong.
Everything about this feels wrong.
Does Belinda even know that she’s supposed to marry me when she turns eighteen?
I could’ve asked Grandfather, but I try not to think about these things.
By the time Belinda is eighteen, I’m hoping my Grandfather will be dead and buried and this family legacy is burned to ashes.
Grandfather, McAllister, and I then take our seats. The butler—yes, McAllister has a butler, just like my grandfather—serves shepherd’s pie, Irish soda bread, and red wine from a decanter. From a separate decanter, he pours something that looks like apple juice into the wine glass next to Belinda’s plate.
This is just unreal.
Then, in what seems really out of place, McAllister takes Belinda’s hand. “Shall we say grace?”
Am I supposed to take Belinda’s hand?
God, please no.
But she grabs my hand, so what to do? I dart a glance toward McAllister, who takes my grandfather’s hand.
This is so very strange.
McAllister says a few words of gratitude for the meal, but I’m not listening. All I’m thinking about is how wrong this little girl’s hand feels in mine.
It feels like a child’s hand. Which of course is what it is.
When the prayer is over, Belinda releases my hand, but something feels…
I look down in my palm. Belinda has placed a piece of paper in it.
What’s going on?
I discreetly place it in my pocket. I look over at Belinda, hoping to meet her gaze to somehow tell her that yes, I got her message.
But she’s still not looking at me.
I won’t have a chance to look at the paper until we’re done with this godforsaken lunch.
“Dig in,” McAllister says. “Dena is an amazing cook.”