Read Online Playing With Fire by Tess Gerritsen - Free Book Online Page B

wondered why the Balbonis chose to keep such an unfriendly woman in their employ. He’d gathered that Alda had been with the family since before Laura was born, and had been the personal maid to Laura’s mother, who had died of blood cancer ten years ago. Perhaps after all those years, the Balbonis had simply grown accustomed to that stone face, the way you learn to live with a clubfoot or a bad knee.
    Three days before the competition, Lorenzo dined with the Balbonis one last time.
    Their final run-through had gone exceedingly well, so well that the professor shot to his feet and applauded. “No other duo comes close!” he declared. “Your instruments are like two souls joined together, singing as one. Tonight, why don’t we celebrate your victory? I’ll open a special bottle of wine.”
    “We haven’t won the prize yet, Papa,” Laura said.
    “Merely a formality. They should already be writing your names on the certificate.” He poured the wine and handed goblets to his daughter and Lorenzo. “If you both play as well as you did tonight, you cannot lose.” He winked. “I know that, because I’ve heard the other contestants.”
    “How, Papa? When?” asked Laura.
    “Today, at the college. Professor Vettori has been coaching some of the other duos. While they played, I just
happened
to be standing outside the rehearsal room.”
    “Naughty Papa!”
    “What, was I supposed to cover my ears and block them out? They were playing so loudly I could hear every sour note.” He held up his goblet. “Come, let’s have a toast.”
    “To the prize,” said Laura.
    “To competent judges!” said her father.
    Laura beamed at Lorenzo. Never had he seen her so beautiful, her face flushed from the wine, her hair like liquid gold in the lamplight. “And what do
you
toast to?” she asked.
    To you, Laura,
he thought.
To every sacred moment we’ve shared.
    He raised his glass. “To what brought us together. To music.”
    —
    Lorenzo paused outside the Balbonis’ front door and breathed in the damp night air. Lingering in the cold, he listened to the slap of water in the canal and tried to commit to memory this night, this moment. It was his last visit to their house, and he was not yet ready for it to end. What else did he have to look forward to? Now that he could not enroll at Ca’ Foscari, all he saw was an eternity in his father’s workshop, sanding and carving wood, building instruments for other musicians. He would grow old in that dim and dusty space, would shrink into a bitter version of his father, Bruno, but Laura’s life would go on. For her there would be college and all the pleasures of being a student. There would be parties and concerts and films.
    And there would be young men, always circling nearby, hoping to catch her eye. They had only to glimpse her smile, hear the music of her laughter, and they’d be enchanted. She would marry one of those young men, and they’d have children, and she’d forget about the Wednesday afternoons years before, when his violin and her cello had sung together so sweetly.
    “This will come to no good. Surely you know that.”
    Startled by the voice, he spun around so sharply that his violin case scraped the wall. Alda lurked in the shadow of the alley beside the Balbonis’ residence, her face barely visible in the glow from a streetlamp.
    “End it now,” said Alda. “Tell her you can’t take part in the competition.”
    “You want me to quit? What possible reason would I give her?”
    “Anything. Use your head.”
    “We’ve rehearsed for months. We’re ready to perform. Why should I withdraw now?”
    Her answer, spoken so softly, held the quiet note of menace. “There’ll be consequences if you don’t.”
    Suddenly he laughed. He’d had enough of this gargoyle of a woman, always scowling in the background, always casting her shadow over every happy evening he’d spent with Laura. “That’s supposed to frighten me?”
    “If you have any sense—if