Chapter 3 - Blood on the Ivory Keys
Three weeks passed, and an uneasy rhythm settled over the Vance estate.
During the daytime, Meline visited Riverbend. For the first time in two years, her mother looked rested. Norah sat in a sun-drenched private suite surrounded by fresh flowers, her frail hands resting peacefully in her lap. Sometimes Norah recognized Meline, offering a faint, watery smile; other times, she looked through her, humming fragments of the unfinished melody under her breath.
""You have to finish it, Ellie,"" Norah had whispered during a lucid Tuesday afternoon, using her childhood nickname. ""The ending... the ending isn't notes. It's a key.""
Meline hadn't understood what her mother meant, but she kept the words locked inside her heart.
At night, the mansion belonged entirely to them. Garrison Vance was a man transformed. The dark circles under his eyes faded. His sharp temper with his captains grew measured and deliberate. For the first time in years, the local newspapers reported that the Vance syndicate was moving with surgical precision, consolidating shipping terminals and squeezing rival families out of Lake Michigan’s freight lanes.
Yet, danger never sleeps in that world.
On a freezing Thursday evening in late October, Garrison sat on the sofa in the music room while Meline practiced. Outside, sleet tapped against the glass like restless fingernails. Garrison had brought two crystal glasses and a bottle of sparkling apple cider for her, a gesture so oddly domestic it made Meline’s pulse flutter in her throat every time he looked her way.
""You play differently than Clara did,"" Garrison said, his voice surprisingly gentle as he watched her hands glide over the ivory. ""Clara played with perfection. Every beat was metronome-precise. But you... you play like you're fighting for your life.""
Meline paused, her fingers resting lightly on the keys. ""When you grow up with nothing, Mr. Vance, everything you do feels like fighting for your life.""
Garrison rose from the sofa, walking slowly toward the piano. He stopped right beside the bench, his large, warm hand coming down gently to rest on the wood beside her fingers. The raw power radiating from him was intoxicating, but the menace was entirely absent.
""Call me Garrison,"" he said softly, his slate-gray eyes boring into hers. ""Out there, I am Vance. In this room, with that melody, I am just a man who owes you his sanity.""
Before Meline could answer, the heavy reinforced glass of the north window exploded inward.
The deafening crack of a high-caliber sniper rifle tore the peace to shreds. Shards of safety glass rained down like hail.
In less than half a second, Garrison’s reflexes took over. With a low roar, he lunged across the bench, sweeping his muscular arm around Meline’s waist and slamming her down onto the hardwood floor behind the grand piano's cast-iron frame.
A second shot punched through the Steinway’s lid with a sickening, metallic screech, snapping three bass strings with violent twangs that echoed through the room.
Garrison pinned Meline beneath his heavy, broad frame, shielding every inch of her body with his own. She could smell the crisp scent of his cedar cologne mixed with the sudden, metallic tang of hot cordite. His breath was ragged against her ear.
""Stay down!"" he snarled.
From his hip, he drew a black semi-automatic pistol, his eyes flashing with the lethal, calculating fury that made rival mob bosses tremble. The alarm sirens through the estate began to shriek, their red strobes painting the ruined room in flashing crimson.
Meline looked up at his face, her hands clutching his shirt in pure terror. But as she gripped his shoulder, her fingers came away warm and sticky.
""Garrison,"" she gasped, her voice trembling. ""You're hit.""
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A red blossom of blood was rapidly spreading across the dark linen over his ribs where the first bullet had grazed him before he tackled her. But Garrison didn't even look at the wound. He looked down into her terrified eyes, his jaw clamped shut like iron.
""Nobody,"" he whispered, his voice vibrating with an ancient, terrifying vow, ""touches what belongs in this room.""
