Chapter 11
Play something for me?
brOOKLYN
Parting the metaphorical veil of my new sanctuary, I tugged on the tie of my silk robe with lace trim, my slipper-clad feet setting my rhythm on the classic parquet.
In the gallery, I allowed myself to stop and my eyes to wander, taking in the little details I hadn’t noticed before.
Like the way the wide, elongated hallway that connected the main entrance to the living and dining rooms was decorated with minimalist-style paintings and chrome and glass sculptures.
Marco’s house manager, Doc, was obviously not only a wizard at unpacking but knew how to run a house. There was not a speck of dust on any of the canvases, and everything shone like it was newly polished.
One waist-high piece was particularly captivating.
Like a moth, my hand was drawn to the frozen flame, with yellows, oranges, and reds bleeding together so naturally from the blocks of ice that appeared made from crystal.
It looked so real, part of me expected to feel warmth, but the glass was cool.
It changed the tempo of the space nearly as much as the sounds coming from the living room.
“I’d rather not,” Marco said, his annoyance not to be missed. I was learning that was the thing about him… He might’ve been hard to read, but only until he opened his mouth because he didn’t mince words, and his tone often gave him away.
Gliding over the herringbone pattern on the floor, I wrapped my fingers around the side of the arched casing of the gallery that led into the living room.
Leaning, I gradually inched myself around to search the room, setting my sights on Marco.
His back was to me as he sat perched on the bench in front of his baby grand, so he wouldn’t have noticed I was stealing a glance, but the urge to do so suddenly felt very important.
After a moment of silence, the deep baritone of his voice struck me, sending me around the corner once again. “Spare me.” More silence.
I narrowed my gaze, zeroing in on the high-end, embellished giclée on a gallery-wrapped canvas by a contemporary artist that was in line with my face as I played with the gallery walls like a little girl trying to sneak around her parents.
The artist used gel to mimic the texture of their wild brushstrokes and added glints of gold that drew the eye.
It was a minimalist piece but one that struck me as secretly craving maximalist attention, not unlike how I felt most days.
It was easy to be a minimalist, to focus on the things that served me, that brought me joy, like fine jewelry, but sometimes in my heart I wished I could be unapologetically abundant.
In an intentional way, of course. Although, I believed it was easier for the world to accept a minimalist, and I had to be accepted.
Acceptance was paramount to my thus-far complicated journey in this life.
It was what, at times, drove me to make drastic missteps in my attempts to stay close with my family.
“Obviously you won’t relent, so I give,” Marco said finally, shattering my reverie.
Did Marco feel similar to me given the complex nature of his family?
I wished I could glean who he was talking to, but whoever was on the phone was doing a stellar job of pissing him off. As if to punctuate what I assumed was the end of the call, Marco pounded on the keys of the piano.
Fearful that he’d catch me watching him, I only allowed myself another quick glance, but one glance wasn’t enough to study him and make a memory begging to be locked away. Never had I witnessed anything quite so beautiful, aside from watching diamonds and gemstones glisten in the right lighting.
The picture of concentration, he sat with his back straight and shoulders more tense than I suspected they should’ve been for tickling the ivories.
He wore a ribbed white tank top that exposed the defined muscles at the top of his arms, the back of his neck, and those that came down his mid-back creating that V I’d always liked on a man.
He was clearly pulling from his reservoir of inner strength as he shifted from pounding to what appeared an effortless strike of the keys.
The sounds that followed were more fluid.
His movements were seamless, as if he was somehow an extension of the piano.
His wrists were floating, rising and falling with the dynamics of the dramatic music.
Forcing myself to retreat, to give him privacy, I quickly pulled back around the casing but misjudged the distance and knocked my head on the trim.
I didn’t expect Marco to hear the noise because, while we were alone for the evening, Doc having already gone home, the sounds of the piece Marco was playing on the piano filled the air. So, I vigorously rubbed my head to avoid getting a knot and closed my eyes to continue listening to him play.
All that ensued was silence, though.
“Brooklyn?” Marco called, rounding the corner and practically bumping into me.
Nodding like an idiot, I smiled and pulled my hand away from my head. “Yeah, sorry.”
“Are you okay?”
The white gold pavé-set diamond cross necklace he wore caught my eye. It made me pause. Biting my bottom lip, I considered all the ways I could’ve answered him.
No, I am pregnant.
No, I am being forced into marriage.
No, I am obviously invading your space.
No, I am transfixed by you and your music.
I didn’t want to lie, but… “All good. Just walked into the wall.”
“You better watch out because I have quite a few, and they tend to sneak up on a person.” The judgment I expected to hear lacing his words was noticeably absent.
“Were you playing the piano?” I asked stupidly. Of course he had been playing. What else would those sounds have been? Not to mention, I had witnessed it with my own eyes. Which apparently hadn’t been working when I’d introduced myself to the wall with my noggin.
Nodding, he turned, heading toward the living room again.
He ate up the length of the room and went to the sliding glass doors that were in front of the piano.
Staring out at the skyline, he stuffed his hands in the pockets of the black sweatpants he wore.
“My grandfather, Vito, used to love the piano. He always wanted one of us to learn to play Italian pieces for him, but I was the only one willing to try. I spent years studying. In the end, he only lived a year after I’d mastered it in high school.
It was about the only thing I was serious about those days.
Then, after his death, it didn’t feel quite as important, so like everything else, it became trivial. Now I play for me.”
Goose bumps pebbled my arms. I longed to respond, to say something appropriate, but felt unsure exactly what that was.
Swallowing hard, I let my heart lead the conversation.
“Play something for me?” I asked, physically drawn to the instrument that now felt like the heart of his home.
I allowed my fingers, that had touched fire not long ago, to graze what looked to me like black tourmaline.
The piano was so polished, so shiny, that it was incredibly reminiscent to the crystal, but it was also more than that. Like in the obvious way, it anchored Marco’s energy in the same way the stone was grounding and the perfect companion for meditation.
I withdrew my hand as he strode over and sat down on the bench. “Any particular requests?” he asked, his eyes intent on the instrument.
Shaking my head, I crossed my arms over my chest and leaned against the side of it, ready to absorb every expressive flourish he unlocked.
Wrists poised, his hands glided across the keys. He was in control, something I was noticing he preferred, and he commanded the chords.
The piece he chose to play sounded very dramatic.
With heavy and fast movements, the sounds contrasted in a way that made them not only intense but powerful, like they dominated the space.
All else seemed to pale in comparison. The art, the furniture, the view that otherwise would have been enough to fill the space, suddenly felt inadequate and very small.
On instinct, I gradually moved closer, down the side of the piano until I was practically hanging on the corner of the keys in the same way I was hanging on every strike of the keys he made with his fingers.
The beat of his pulse was steady, like a drum.
Eyes meeting mine for the first time since he’d sat down, he made a seamless shift from those powerful, fast sounds to something that was far more delicate, like a soft breeze, before storm clouds rolled in and thunder roared in a beautiful crescendo.
Brittle with anticipation for what would come next, I leaned forward, holding my breath.
Once the piece concluded, Marco stilled. The pulse I could’ve counted before kicked up, beating against the hollow of his throat. “It’s been a long time since I’ve played for someone else,” he said, his voice low and just as in control as he’d been when he had been playing.
“Marco…I—” I swallowed hard, searching for the words.
For some reason, they always felt just a tad out of reach whenever I was near him, regardless of the circumstance.
There was something about this man that both infuriated me and intrigued me at the same time.
Giving up, I slinked around the piano and came to sit on the bench beside him.
Letting my mind wander back just a few moments, it was as though I could almost still hear him playing.
That was the kind of impact he made. On the piano.
“You play beautifully,” I finally said, trying to come to terms with what it was I was feeling in this moment as our shoulders brushed in the lightest, almost fleeting touch.
His gaze shot down to where the silky sleeve of my robe grazed his arm. “Thanks.” The beat of his pulse kicked up again. Faster somehow. Until it slowed, steadied, and his eyes connected with mine.
He drew his hand up from the piano, his initial ring a compelling reminder that Marco Deluca might have been different from his father, but he was cut from the same cloth.
Sucking in a breath, I stilled as the back of his hand grazed my cheek, the cold metal nearly causing me to shudder before he retreated.
“You should get your rest. I’m sure the baby needs it,” he said, his expression stony.
It was highly unlikely that I’d be able to rest, but I think we both knew it was the right move. Engaged or not, we needed to tread carefully. With that in mind, I stood up, pulled on my robe, and slipped quietly from the living room.
I wondered if our fathers knew they’d paired two birds in gilded cages together.