Chapter 23 Micah
TWENTY-THREE
MICAH
My heart is pounding as I step onto the stage with my cello. I sit down in the designated chair and look out into the bar.
Most people aren’t paying attention to me. They’re too busy eating and chatting with their friends, or maybe they don’t care about a random cello performance. But sitting near the front is Ilya, who’s smiling brightly at me.
He gives me a thumbs up signal. I briefly freeze, remembering the last time I’d been given a thumbs up in this particular establishment, but I relax as I remind myself who it’s coming from. This is different. This is better.
I take a deep breath, then pick up the bow. I don’t know why I’m so nervous. I’ve played so much at the restaurant that I should be more than used to performing for crowds by now. If anything, the restaurant diners would be more judgmental of my music than the open mic bar patrons.
This piece is new, something I’ve been working on long enough to feel comfortable playing here but not ready to perform in the restaurant yet.
Unlike last time, there’s no deep grief in the notes.
There’s only joy, the expression of my new life, and I pour all of those emotions out into the piece.
I think of Ilya, forever encouraging and an ally at my side; I think of the friends I’ve started to make at the restaurant, who had all wished me good luck tonight like they’d known how momentous this was for me.
Strange, to think that it is.
Despite the relative newness of the piece, it’s easy to lose myself in it instead of fussing over the notes, and when I blink back to myself, I realize the audience is applauding.
It seems every bit as sincere as it had been the last time, and a small, shy smile curves onto my lips. My gaze goes to Ilya, who looks like he’s going to burst with pride, and he gets up to help me with the cello.
“You were amazing,” Ilya says. “The best performer tonight.”
“I was only the third performer,” I point out, grinning. “There might be others after me who are a lot better.”
Ilya shakes his head. “Impossible. Nobody can top you.”
“You can top me,” I joke, and I can’t believe how a simple joke like that makes my heart flutter—because I’m allowed to joke. I’m allowed to have fun.
Ilya laughs and kisses the top of my head. “But only me.”
“Only you,” I promise. I don’t mind the possessiveness, coming from him. It doesn’t feel dangerous, kicking up the anxiety within me that it always had with Adam. It’s just something safe, something comforting, and I realize I like this.
I like all of this.
We go back to the table, where Silvano Cresci and Kyran Winters are waiting for us. Kyran has one hand on his guitar, waiting for his own turn to perform.
“Wonderful performance,” Silvano says with a small clap. “But I knew it would be.” He elbows Kyran gently. “You’ll need to try even harder to impress me now.”
Kyran rolls his eyes. “I impress you by existing,” he grumbles.
I can’t suppress my smile at that. “Thank you,” I tell Silvano.
As always, I wonder about who Silvano really is. Ilya called him a professional acquaintance, and Adam had said Silvano is a ruthless mafia boss, but I only know him as this elegant man who likes to tease people.
Whatever he does professionally, I know that he’s been very supportive of Ilya’s new ventures with the restaurant.
It’s something I’m grateful for. I hadn’t been sure how it would go, even if he had said that his allies had been willing to help him transition from being the lead on the less savory aspects of their business to focusing on the restaurant.
Ilya holds my chair out for me like I’m a lady, and I graciously sit down. Maybe other men would bristle, but I find that I enjoy the attention.
“But in all earnestness, I much preferred this performance over the last one I saw,” Silvano says, smiling. “The music didn’t feel quite so…”
“Depressing,” Kyran finishes for him.
Ilya scowls at him, and Silvano rolls his eyes.
“I wasn’t going to pick that word,” Silvano assures me. “Both performances were good.”
“Thank you,” I say. “And…” I glance at Ilya, and he takes my hand. I squeeze it. “I liked this one better too.”
Kyran looks between us, then shakes his head. “You’re a bad influence, Cresci,” he says.
“I am a good influence,” Silvano says earnestly. “Anyway, it looks like it’s almost your turn. Go show Micah how to perform generic guitar songs.”
Kyran scowls at him. “Generic,” he mutters. “I’ll show you generic.” He gets up, taking his guitar with him, and heads to the stage.
I glance at Silvano, who’s watching Kyran with so much affection and fondness that he looks like a lovestruck teenager. I don’t doubt for a minute that he would do anything to protect Kyran, even though Kyran probably doesn’t need the help. He’s got more than enough muscle to take care of himself.
Ilya wraps his arm around my shoulder—another thing Adam would never have done, not in public.
I settle in to watch Kyran’s performance, and I’m glad I get to appreciate it this time.
He’s good, but I privately think that I’m better with my cello.
Maybe it’s just my dedication — and the fact that Ilya lets me spend so much time practicing.
He doesn’t mind it. If anything, he says he enjoys it.
I hope so.
Next week, I have an audition with an orchestra, and I’d be doomed if my own lover didn’t even like my music.
The thought threatens to make my smile fade, but only for a moment before I remind myself that Adam is gone, and Ilya is here, and I have everything to gain and nothing to lose.
I rest my head against Ilya and let my eyes drift closed as the music washes over me.
When he’s done, Kyran returns, red-faced as applause rings out around him, too.
“There. My generic guitar song,” he grumbles to Silvano.
Silvano laughs and ruffles Kyran’s hair, which looks silly with how much bigger Kyran is than Silvano.
“Very generic. But you might be able to serenade me anyway.” Silvano smiles at Kyran, and I catch Kyran’s face flush deeper before he looks away.
They’re together, but unlike Ilya, they aren’t quite as openly affectionate. Ilya admitted that until he was invited to their wedding, he hadn’t even known they were a couple.
They’re sweet, which isn’t a word I think most people would associate with either of them.
Ilya stands and helps me to my feet as the next performer takes the stage.
“Very well. We won’t impose longer. Thank you for coming to watch Micah,” Ilya says to them.
Silvano lets out a small laugh. “I came to watch Kyran blush on stage. But Micah’s performance was a highlight.”
Kyran mutters something under his breath that has Silvano chuckling again.
“Thank you,” I say again before ducking my head, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “I… Have a good night.”
Ilya says his goodbyes, and we make our way out of the bar. A few people stop us to compliment me, and I can’t believe how supportive people are.
Adam had said nobody cared about my playing.
There’s a lot more good in the world than he ever let me believe in.
I take Ilya’s free hand and squeeze it. “Thank you, too,” I say. “For showing up. I know you’re busy.”
Ilya shakes his head. “I’m never too busy for you.” His phone buzzes, as if to undermine his words. “I am too busy for whatever mudak is trying to call me right now.”
“What if it’s your lawyer?” I ask. “I can carry the cello, Ilya. Go answer your call.”
“You can’t carry the cello,” Ilya argues. “You’ll roll it.”
“Okay, I can roll the cello,” I agree. “But you should still answer the call.”
Ilya mutters, but he sets the cello down and pulls out his phone. He curses in Russian when he sees who it is.
“Da?” he snaps.
I’ve been trying to learn Russian, but he speaks too fast for me to keep up. I recognize Boris and Kolya’s names, and something about restaurants, but that’s it.
I roll my cello toward the car, and even though he’s on the phone, Ilya lifts it and places it carefully into the trunk for me. I smile at him, grateful for the small act, and he even opens the passenger door for me.
The phone’s Bluetooth transfers to the speakers of the car, and I recognize his lawyer’s voice.
I wish I could understand what was going on during the phone call, but he keeps me out of most of it. For my own good, he says, and he’s probably not wrong.
I slide into the car and put my seatbelt on, and even though he’s obviously irritated, his driving is careful as he gets onto the road.
It’s vastly different from how Adam would be driving if he was agitated, and I close my eyes and let the Russian words wash over me. It’s familiar.
It feels like home.
When the call ends, Ilya sighs loudly. “Finally. He talks too much.”
I fidget with my fingers. The words are sticky in my throat, but I know Ilya won’t get mad at me for asking. “Are they going to arrest you again?”
“No,” Ilya says firmly. “They don’t have enough for…” He fumbles with the word. “Indication. No. Different word. For real charges.”
“Indictment?” I suggest.
“Yes, that one.” Ilya comes to a stop at a red light and looks at me. “Don’t worry, Mishka. They can arrest me fifty times, it makes no difference.”
I bite my bottom lip. I still hate it when they pull him in for questioning, even when I know they’re not going to find anything.
It’s been over two months of constant police interviews and borderline harassment from them.
Everything they’d found at the gambling den had had to be thrown out, and Adam disappeared without a trace.
There’s no probable cause for them to link the two, and Ilya assures me that despite their grasping, they won’t find anything.
I have to trust Ilya, like I do in everything else. “Okay,” I tell him, reaching out to touch his hand.
Ilya squeezes my hand, then lets go so he can get back to driving. “How was your interview today? With the orchestra director?”