Chapter 2 - The Song Without an Ending
By noon, the financial coordinator at Riverbend was weeping over the phone. Meline stood in the pristine guest bedroom of the east wing, clutching the receiver to her ear, listening to the woman stammer through disbelief.
""Meline... I don't know who Mr. Vance’s attorneys are, but a certified bank wire for one hundred and fifty thousand dollars just hit our corporate registry. Not only is the outstanding balance cleared, but your mother’s account is secured for the next five years in our premier private hospice wing.""
Meline hung up, her hands shaking so violently she dropped the phone onto the plush velvet duvet. For four years, she had carried the crushing terror of medical bills, collection letters, and eviction notices on her narrow shoulders. Now, with a single stroke of an arrogant man's pen, the mountain had turned to dust.
Yet, freedom in the Vance household was an illusion.
That night, at 1:45 a.m., Bennett Shaw knocked once on her door. He held a brass key and a clean silver tray containing hot chamomile tea and fresh lemon slices. The butler’s eyes, usually guarded and detached, held a strange, solemn reverence as he looked at her.
""The master has entered the music room, Miss Rhodess,"" Bennett said softly. ""The lower staff has been sent to the basement quarters. Whatever happens behind those doors... do not stop until he is motionless. The episodes... they take pieces of his mind each time.""
Meline walked down the silent corridor. The scent of ozone, polished brass, and tension hung heavy in the air. When she pushed open the grand double doors of the music salon, she found the room transformed. The shattered wood, the cracked molding, and the broken teacup from the night before were completely gone. The room was immaculate. A brand-new Steinway grand piano stood in the center, gleaming beneath the soft glow of a single recessed spotlight.
In the shadows by the far bookshelf stood Garrison. He had stripped off his jacket, his linen shirt soaked in sweat, his hands gripped around his temples as if trying to physically crush his own skull. His breathing was rapid, shallow, and ragged. Low, guttural growls vibrated from his chest, the terrible sound of an apex predator caught in an invisible bear trap.
Meline did not speak. She crossed the room, sat upon the leather bench, and lifted the lid. The keys were cool, heavy, and balanced to perfection.
She closed her eyes, whispered a prayer for her mother, and struck the opening chord.
D minor. G minor. A suspended fourth that lingered in the still air like a cold breath on winter glass.
In the corner, Garrison shuddered. A violent shudder ripped through his broad shoulders, his head snapping back against the bookshelves with a hollow thud. He let out a strangled groan, his fingers clawing through his hair. But he did not smash the glass. He did not splinter the door.
Instead, drawn by an invisible, hypnotic thread, the mafia boss took a slow, agonizing step toward the piano.
Meline played on. She poured four years of grief, fear, sleepless nights, and quiet endurance into the wooden casing of the instrument. The melody climbed like a fragile vine up a ruined brick wall, tender and full of yearning. She watched through the reflection on the polished fallboard as Garrison moved closer. He reached the edge of the piano, his scarred hands gripping the mahogany rim until his knuckles turned stark white.
He leaned forward, dropping his head until his brow rested against the cold curve of the wood, right where the soundboard vibrated with the lowest strings.
""Again,"" he rasped, his voice tearing from his throat. ""Don't let it go silent.""
Meline looped the twenty-four measures. She softened the touch on her left hand, letting the bass notes pulse like a steady, calm heartbeat beneath the floating melody. She played it three times. Five times. Ten times.
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Slowly, the violent trembling in his back began to subside. His breathing lengthened. His grip on the rim relaxed, his fingers sliding down the polished wood until his palm rested flat against the piano case.
By 3:15 a.m., the monstrous kingpin of Chicago’s underworld sank down onto the thick wool rug beneath the piano lid, curled on his side, his face slack and peaceful, fast asleep in the shadow of the music.
