“And what gift would that be?”
His eyes sparkled with curiosity. “Some call it a curse.”
Shit.
“By the way you stiffened, I’m guessing you might call it a curse, too.”
I smiled tightly. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I think you do.” Stroking his daughter’s black hair, he whispered, “Funny how our minds fixate on things, isn’t it?”
Ice fell over me like a blizzard. “What are you saying?”
He chuckled. “Depends. Show me your hands.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Show me your hands.” Simo looked pointedly at where I clutched my glass.
I searched for a reason to say no but couldn’t find one. Slowly, I unwound my fingers and presented them palm up. I didn’t breathe as Simo reached across and stroked the pads of my fingers of my left hand. “You play.”
I coughed.
This meeting was over. What the fuck was he doing?
Simo held out his own left hand. “Go ahead. If it will make you feel easier.” My legs bunched to walk out of the restaurant, but my fingers disobeyed me, creeping across to touch this man in the same way he’d touched me.
Calluses and thickened skin, just like mine.
“The cello?” My voice barely carried.
He nodded. “I’ve researched you, Elder. I hear you were a prodigy.”
How the fuck did he hear that?
Memories of a happier time with music, surrounded by my mother, father, and brother—memories that riddled me with bullets and made me bleed—tried to enter my mind.
I gritted my teeth, pushing them back. “Once. That’s over now.”
“Yet you still play.” He leaned back, cuddling his daughter. “You know, Elder, in my country, we don’t label things like the western world. If one has the tendency to focus until perfection is created, we praise rather than worry. I think all great virtuosos have what you have, and you should not run from it.”
“What I have?”
“Sorry, it’s not what you have but what you are.” Changing the subject, Simo smiled. “I wasn’t going to tell you this as it has no reflection on our business together. However, I think, after learning what sort of man you are behind your reputations, it can’t hurt.”
Once again, he put me on the back foot.
I fucking hated it.
My brain scrambled to catch up from talking to a fellow cellist, finding out he understood what lurked inside me—now, he wanted to expose yet more revelations?
Liquor suddenly held allure as did the pull of a joint.
Doing my best to keep my voice calm and disinterested, I drawled, “Tell me what?”
His gaze darted to the bathroom, obviously wanting to finish this heart to heart before the women returned. “I might not be the king, but I have access to everything my second cousin does—including the best private investigators. When my wife and I decided to purchase a yacht, we were meticulous in our research. Your company and product are second to none, but I would never have done business with you based on your reputation and dealings with men who are corrupt beyond comprehension.”
I smiled, but it wasn’t the cold boastful smile I’d perfected when dealing with criminals—it bordered the man I’d been. “Normally, that’s why business seeks me out.”
“I figured as much.” He lowered his voice. “But that’s what turned us away. The royal family can’t be seen to be dealing with murderers and thieves.”
I hid my scowl.
What would you say if you knew I was a thief?
“So what changed your mind?” I asked.
“Your past.”
“My past?” My voice snapped. “What about my past?”
Rubbing his callused fingers together, he said, “We are about the same age. I started playing the cello when I was eight, and the music community was small. The world is not a large place when the love of something draws us together.”
Once again, memories that had no right to hurt me tried to swarm.
My mother bought me my first cello lesson when I was four. I’d cried when it was over because I never wanted it to end. The next week, my father borrowed money from our neighbours to buy a second-hand cello, so I could play and play and never fucking stop.
The strings. The frets. The music.
Shit, the notes I could create—it gave me purpose. I’d never been so drawn or so addicted. That was the beginning of the end for me. I’d cursed my entire family because of it.
Simo’s voice blew away the recollection. “As I worked through my levels, a name kept being mentioned. A boy who played until his fingers bled. A boy who would strum for two days straight until he’d mastered a song he’d only just heard on the radio rather than sheet music given by a teacher.”
I shot upright. “I’ve heard enough.”
Simo didn’t stop. “My parents would use him as an example if I grew bored of practice. They would say ‘why can’t you be more like him?’ Whether he knew it or not, he became widely recognised for being the best. Until his ‘death,’ of course.”