Chapter 3

I played for three straight hours in that underground bar, surrounded by cigarette smoke and the stench of booze.

At two in the morning, the gig ended. I shoved $200 in crumpled bills into my pocket, slung my cello case over my shoulder, and walked past the dumpsters in the alley behind the bar toward the late-night subway.

But a pair of black stilettos blocked my way.

Victoria stood there in an ankle-length white fox-fur coat, with two bodyguards in black behind her. She looked me up and down with open contempt.

"Look at yourself. You're practically trash." She covered her nose and mouth in disgust as her gaze traveled from my old, wine-stained coat to the cracked flats on my feet.

I gripped the strap of my cello case and stared back at her, my face blank.

"You spend every night playing for a bunch of disgusting drunks in some basement, all for a few lousy bucks?" Victoria stepped closer, her cloying perfume making it hard to breathe.

"Matteo is about to reshape the balance of power among New York's five families.

"As the Don, he needs a Donna who understands the law, knows how the family operates, and can hold her own at the negotiating table. Someone like me.

"And you? Some orphan from the slums who scrubs dishes and plays a beat-up cello for pocket change? What makes you think you're good enough for him?"

"If Matteo wants me gone, he doesn't need to send you to do his dirty work." My voice was hoarse. I was too tired to say another word to her.

Victoria sneered. "To him, you're just a novelty. A pathetic little charity case. Do yourself a favor. Take some money and get lost. The DeLuca family has better things to do than entertain you."

I stepped around her and started for the mouth of the alley.

"I told you to stop!"

Victoria's eyes went cold. She lashed out and kicked my cello case as hard as she could.

With a dull thud, the case slammed to the ground. My old cello tumbled out, its strings scraping against the jagged bricks.

Victoria lifted her stiletto and brought the sharp heel down toward the cello's soundboard without hesitation.

"Don't touch it!" I screamed.

Cheap as it was, that cello was the only thing keeping my dream within reach.

I lunged forward, shoved her away, and threw myself over the cello.

The shove only pushed Victoria half a step back.

She could've easily stayed on her feet. Instead, she deliberately threw herself against the brick wall, scraping her arm hard enough to draw blood.

Meanwhile, my hand came down on broken glass, and a shard sliced deep into my palm.

Blood gushed from the wound, ran down my wrist, and dripped into the muddy slush. The pain was so sharp that my vision went white.

"Victoria!"

The black iron door at the entrance to the alley flew open.

Matteo strode out. Gone was the cheap jacket he'd worn to hide his identity. Now he wore a jet-black overcoat, a symbol of the DeLuca family's power.

He looked first at Victoria's bleeding arm.

Then his head snapped toward me.

Matteo's eyes widened, and he took an instinctive step toward me.

Just one step.

Then Victoria called out to him, and he stopped.

"Matteo... help me..." She clutched her wounded arm, grimacing as though she'd just lost both hands. "Do you remember the promise you made to my father?"

Matteo froze.

His jaw tightened, and his eyes reddened.

At last, he turned back and lifted Victoria into his arms.

But he didn't leave right away. He turned to me, his eyes filled with a desperation I'd never seen before, silently begging me to understand.

"Go home for now," he said hoarsely. "It's too cold out here. Just go home, okay?"

"If my father were still alive, he'd never let me bleed like this..." Victoria murmured in his arms.

Matteo didn't look at her. He simply ordered his men, "Have a doctor ready to treat her."

He spoke quickly, almost desperately, as if he were afraid I'd start asking questions.

"Tomorrow I'll make everything right. I promise. Just wait for me, okay?"

I didn't get the chance to answer.

Without another glance at me, he carried Victoria straight to the Rolls-Royce waiting at the curb.

The car sped off right in front of me.

I knew what he was thinking.

He thought I'd always be there, no matter what he did. After all, I'd sold my own blood for him in the freezing cold. Of course he'd expect me to sit in that basement and wait for him like a good little girl.

I looked down at my hand, still bleeding.

And I laughed.

Not this time. I was done waiting for him. I didn't know how long I'd walked through the freezing wind before I finally made it back to the basement apartment.

I didn't take anything he'd given me. Not the expensive chilblain cream, not the sprigs of pink myrtle, not the matching rings he'd made for us himself...

All I took was the money from my tin box: the last $120 I'd saved for the conservatory's second-round audition fee.

And the pawn ticket for my cello.

Then I slung my canvas bag over my shoulder and caught a bus out of New York before dawn.

I pressed my face against the cold glass and watched the city skyline slip away, inch by inch.

Save your excuses, Matteo.

I'm done taking your tests. For good.

Goodbye. For good.