Chapter Five Violet #3
“I didn’t sleep with anyone!”
I can hear her sigh through my car speakers. “You need to live it up while you’re there, girl. And you need to get more information on S.”
“Skye,” I correct. “She put her name in my phone as Skye.”
“What’s her last name?” she asks immediately.
“I didn’t get her last name.” I’m thankful that my new friend gets to dodge a full background check from my best friend. She thinks she’s an FBI agent every time I start talking to someone new. And I love her for that because it’s her way of trying to keep me safe with everything I’ve been through.
She’s the best.
“When you find out her last name—”
“You’ll be the second to know.” Implying that Michel will need to know first as my security detail. “I’m at the studio, so I have to go in and get to work, or Ollie is going to have my head.”
“Alright,” she whines. “My break isn’t over for another ten minutes, but I guess the famous pop-star schedule trumps boring hospital hours.”
I shake my head and grin at her. “I’ll call you later tonight if anything happens.”
“You better.”
Then I hear her talking to someone in the background.
“Hey,” I shout, almost forgetting. “I need you to send me a quick surgery idea for when I call Mom back later.”
“Easy peasy. Now, go write a best-selling song, Yolanda.” Her cackle comes through loud and clear before she hangs up, and I want to wring her neck for that one. But I can’t help finding amusement at my own expense. Ollie is creative, I’ll give her that.
“Buongiorno,” a man greets me as I walk through the front doors of Studeio Vellutio. The brass plaque beside the door holds the studio’s name in discreet lettering. Nothing about this place screams famous people are singing in here, and that’s probably why Ollie chose it for my practice days.
It’s dim, but not dark. There are soft amber lights tucked into corners, glowing behind panels, and hidden under the edges of furniture. The walls are layered with acoustic panels like modern art in charcoal, sand, and deep burgundy.
The air is still, but not empty. Pieces of voices, echoes of ideas, and it makes me wonder how many almost-songs live here.
“Hi,” I say, not knowing a single word of Italian. “I have a small vocal room reserved. Yolanda.”
He checks the screen, nods, and hands me a brass key attached to a heavy tassel. No questioning, no double take when he looks my way, just the pure routine of a customer in the studio.
“Booth three. Matteo will set you up.” His accent is heavy even through the simple phrases.
I give a smile, but he’s not even looking my way. Turning from the counter, I see a man appearing from behind a glass partition. Late twenties, headphones around his neck, ink peeking out from under a tight black t-shirt. He gives me a polite smile that says client, not celebrity.
“Just rehearsal?”
“Just writing.” I keep my voice lower than usual. Softer. Less recognizable.
He leads me down a hallway lined with framed vinyl records from local artists. Not platinum plaques, not screaming headlines. Real, earnest music. The kind that reminds me why I started all those years ago.
Booth three is smaller than any studio I use at home.
Soundproofed walls wrapped in charcoal colored fabric.
A single vintage-style mic suspended in the center and a worn Persian rug underneath.
Dim lamps sit in two of the four corners, which is a nice change from the harsh overhead lights in my home studio.
Matteo adjusts the mic height. “You want it recorded, or just the monitors?”
“Just monitors, please.” I look around, it’s such a good vibe just standing in this building among other musicians and lovers of the craft. “If something’s hitting, then I’ll know.”
He nods as if that makes perfect sense.
When he leaves, I lock the door out of habit.
I sit at the piano, pressing one of the worn keys that answers back immediately. The piano is such an intimate instrument. When I think of the piano, I think of burlesque. Sultry and sexy.
Inspiration pours from a single note, and I grab my pen, jotting down everything that comes to mind. The words are just falling onto the paper, and I couldn’t stop them even if I wanted to.
I’m halfway through a chorus idea when there’s a soft knock on the door.
“Everything okay?”
“Perfect,” I answer, and I mean it. My smile is so wide it almost hurts.
I’m learning that in Milan, anonymity isn’t suspicious; it’s polite. Maybe this is the place I belong. Maybe this is the safety I’ve been looking for.
After two hours of running through the song, my throat is warm, and my notebook is messy with crossed-out lines and one great chorus that may be the foundation of a bestseller.
Ollie is going to be thrilled.
“Arrivederci, Yolanda,” the receptionist says when I hand him the brass key.
I give a wave in return, embracing the feeling that for just a little while, I was simply a woman in a quiet room, chasing a melody.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” I smile and walk out the front door, ready to let Ollie know she can sleep well tonight.