A Thousand Years In Piano Notes Novels & Stories

I am about to book a room at a hotel owned by Luca Conti, a consigliere under my command, when a sharp voice suddenly cuts in from behind me. "Aspetta. That's not your price." I turn around. A woman wearing a manager's badge stands there with her arms crossed, scrutinizing me as if I am an unsightly stain she can't wait to wipe away. "We don't allow prostitution here," she says coolly. "If you're receiving clients, there will be a fine." As she speaks, she hands me a penalty notice. The charges are clearly listed on the paper. "Illegal guest reception fee: 350 thousand dollars. "Special soundproofing fee: 150 thousand dollars. "Special cleaning fee: 100 thousand dollars. "Total fee: 600 thousand dollars." Receiving clients? I have simply come straight from a Mafia cocktail party without changing clothes—that's all. What exactly does she take me for?" I lift my gaze and answer evenly, "You're mistaken. I am not that kind of person. You can contact the hotel owner, Luca Conti, and ask him who I am." A sneer flickers through Sofia Rossi's eyes. She spits to the side, full of contempt. "Still claiming you are not a puttana? Women like you come here every week. Every single one of them swears she knows him. "Our boss is the consigliere to the Russo family, the most powerful Mafia family in Seneriffe. Do you really think he needs someone cheap like you? "I suggest you pay up now, subito, before your client loses patience and drags you into the street and rapes you." I do not waste another word on her. I take out my phone and send a message directly to my secretary, Marco Bianchi. "Notify Luca. Either this manager, Sofia Rossi, disappears from this city, or he does."

It was almost New Year. I had just withdrawn money from the bank when I noticed that the amount on my passbook didn't match the cash in my hand. I counted carefully—my passbook showed a different figure than the five thousand dollars I was holding. Frustrated, I turned and went back to the counter to find the teller who had handled my transaction. Clutching the receipt, I tried to be polite. "Excuse me, I think there might be a mistake with this transaction." Instantly, she snapped, pointing her finger at my nose. "Don't you know that once you leave the counter, we are not responsible for any discrepancies?" I waved my hands, trying to explain. "No, wait, look again. I clearly withdrew five thousand dollars, but on my passbook, it shows…" She cut me off impatiently. "When you filled out the form, it was all right there. Once you leave the counter, it's not our problem. You signed the form yourself, confirming everything. Are we supposed to correct it every time someone claims a mistake after leaving the bank?" I froze. No wonder she kept repeating that the bank isn't responsible after leaving the counter. She thought I had come back to ask for more money. What I was really trying to explain was simple: I withdrew five thousand, yet my passbook showed that I deposited five thousand.

As the year’s end approached, the city of Portlas’ high society joked that there was no need to worship Lady Fortuna. They only had to worship me instead. That was because, after our remarriage, I became the most materialistic husband in all of Portlas. I no longer cared how much Lana Gable doted on that man. Even when my daughter called him “Daddy,” I turned a blind eye. There was just one new rule in the house. Every time they mentioned Eliot Speke’s name, they had to give me one hundred thousand dollars. Thanks to that, I saved up thirty million dollars in less than two weeks. On our wedding anniversary, Lana and my daughter mentioned Eliot once again. The two of them looked stiff, while I simply held out my hand with practiced ease. “One hundred thousand dollars. Transfer it to my account.” My daughter finally could not hold back any longer and looked at me with utter contempt. “Daddy, you’re so vulgar. Is money the only thing on your mind? You’d even demand money for such a trivial matter. You can’t even compare to a speck of dust on Uncle Speke’s shoes.” I did not argue. I simply held out my hand to my daughter as well. “One hundred thousand dollars. Since you brought it up first, you have to pay too.”

In the picturesque coastal town of Altea, Spain, lives Estrella Marquez, a young woman whose heart beats to the rhythm of adventure. Working in her family's seafood restaurant, she dreams of a world beyond the familiar shores. One fateful day, amidst the vibrant melodies of a local music festival, Estrella's path crosses with Samir Benali, a charismatic French Moroccan musician. Despite their differing backgrounds, a connection sparks, leading them on a journey that transcends borders and challenges tradition. Against all odds, they discover that love, like music, knows no boundaries. With echoes of Spanish and Moroccan culture, the novel paints a vivid portrait of love's resilience and the transformative power of shared dreams. Waves of Wanderlust: The Altea Odyssey is a journey filled with the intoxicating notes of love, the clash of cultures, and the harmonious melody of two souls finding their way in a world that often demands conformity.

On the day we decided to get a divorce, I saw Miranda’s account book while I was packing up my stuff. Aside from our daily expenses, Miranda had also set up a scoring sheet for me. Miranda had taken notes of all the things I had done ever since we started dating. Some of them were such miniscule things that even I had forgotten. She took note of them all with a red pen, and she scored them by either awarding me points or deducting them. However, the further down the sheet, the more points were deducted. In the end, I saw Miranda add one line in black ink. [He’s no longer the Henry Jones who used to love me: -100]

After Charlene Downing's family goes into bankruptcy, I move into a basement with her. I have to work three jobs per day in order to help her rebuild her career. When Charlene finally succeeds in her career, she vows to give me a real home. On our third year of marriage, I accidentally notice the property deed of our marital home. The owner of this deed appears to be Charlene's first love, Travis Roach. With red-rimmed eyes, Charlene explains to me, "I owe him this much." I nod in return before pushing a pile of photos in her direction. These are photos of the I.O.U notes from back when we stayed in the basement. "You've already used our home to pay Travis back for what you owe him. Then what about the sum you owe me?"

She was meant to inherit an empire. Instead, she became a prisoner in her own home. Grace Wellington, a gifted piano prodigy and heiress to the Wellington fortune, has been missing from the public eye for nearly a decade. People say she’s living abroad in peace. But the truth was that she’s been locked away, hidden by her own stepfamily, slowly fading into silence as the world forgets her face. Her inheritance depends on one rule: marry by 26 and get 50% of her father’s estate. Have a child, and she gets 85%. But as her birthday nears, her stepmother and stepbrother conspire to steal her identity and fortune, using a beautiful stranger to play her role. But Grace isn’t the fragile girl they once controlled, not anymore. Now, she’s ready to reclaim her name, her life, and her voice. But the deeper she digs, the more dangerous everything becomes, especially when the man she loves is being seduced by an impostor.

Alessandra Marino, 35, runs New York's most powerful criminal organization from a penthouse forty-two floors above a city she owns. She has built this empire with one purpose: to avenge her father Vittorio, murdered seventeen years ago in a warehouse on Fifth Street when Alessandra was eighteen. She has a scar above her heart from that night — a knife meant for him. She has never once questioned the direction of her war. The night she executes a traitor named Theron, she receives a call from an unknown woman who claims to know why Vittorio really died. The woman is Giuliana Torelli — daughter of the man who pulled the trigger, made to watch as a fourteen-year-old, carrying the truth for seventeen years while waiting for someone ready to hear it. What Giuliana reveals dismantles everything Alessandra believed: Vittorio wasn't killed for his power. He was killed because he was going to go federal — because his wife was pregnant with a second child and he wanted to run, to be ordinary, to give his family a life outside the empire. Thomas Accardi, the man who married Alessandra's mother after Vittorio's death, was the architect of the murder. And Accardi has always known about the second child. Her name is Mara. She is twenty-eight years old, living in Williamsburg, and completely unaware that her entire life is a lie — or that Accardi has just wired a hundred thousand dollars to a fixer named James Sullivan.

Since The Fires of Alira one thousand five hundred years ago, dragons have lived separate from the other races in Midgar. They rarely make contact with others, unless in terms of conflict. Eleonora is the descendant of the dragon sovereign, and will one day assume the throne of the Perilous Horde herself. The horde, despite years of murky conflict, forges an alliance with the human kingdom of Samirya located in the northern region. It is no longer a matter of petty bickering. Now, with the eve of a Great War looming over them, both groups lives depend on a truce. As conflict thickens and land disputes grow increasingly more bitter, the chieftain of the Perilous Horde makes a final desperate move to unite the two worlds: the dragons will send an ambassador to protect the humans capital city of Mimmgar from the oncoming invasion. And who should be that ambassador be but Eleonora? Eleonora just hopes to complete that task quickly so she can return home, but soon finds that the humans are nothing like she expected. Forming an unforeseen connection with the human king, and becoming captivated by a young blacksmith, she begins to question everything she's ever known and learns that her homeland may have some terrible secrets of its own. Book one of A Dragon’s Legacy.

My wife, Rosalind Judd, has been tearing up our marriage certificate 99 times in the past ten years of our marriage. This is her usual tactic to make me apologize and make amends. The first time, I transfer 100 thousand dollars for Rosalind to come back from her travel abroad with her childhood friend, Jackson Lane. The tenth time, she ruins the anniversary I have prepared meticulously and forces me to immediately help him get back to work. The 50th time, she humiliates me in front of my client during the day and forces me to sign over the transfer agreement to a villa at night, while she has a candlelit dinner with Jackson. ... Now, for the 100th time, she forces me to transfer my company shares. Staring at the love bites on Rosalind's collarbone, I suddenly chuckle. Then, I board the plane decisively. This time, I no longer want her.