Virtuosity Read Online Free Page B

glanced up. She didn’t. She turned to face the wall and sat on the bottom step.
    “Why are you calling?” Her voice was somewhere between hiss and whisper. “I told you not to.”
    Silence.
    The anger was gone when she whispered again. “It’s worse. At least according to Yuri …”
    I leaned forward, but there was nothing to hear. Seconds felt like minutes.
    “You’re right. It’s time … I agree…. No, you work out the details. Isn’t wiring money what you do?”
    The sharp taste of blood filled my mouth and I realized I’d been biting my lip.
    “Let me know when it’s taken care of,” she said.
    She snapped the phone shut, but she didn’t stand. She just sat, her shoulders rising and falling gently in the dark.
    My calves burned from crouching. They’d give outsoon. I wanted to stand, but if she turned and saw me now, she’d know I’d heard the whole thing. And clearly, she didn’t want to be heard.
    My mind pulled at the loose threads of her conversation, but everything was too short, too slick to grip. Why did she need money? According to my violin instructor, Yuri—what had she said was according to Yuri? Who was she talking to?
    My legs were on fire. I closed my eyes and concentrated on not falling.
    Finally, she stood. Her usually perfect posture had wilted into something less than elegant. She looked limp as she walked out of my view, back to Clark’s snoring.
    I stood and clutched the door frame as a wave of light-headedness washed over me. My brain ached. Something was very wrong. I closed my eyes and tried to hear Amazing Grace , but the melody was gone.

Chapter 4
    I woke up the next morning with an overwhelming urge to pray. I wasn’t particularly religious, unless going to mass on Christmas and Easter and when Nonna visited from Milan counted. In fact, I wasn’t even sure if I believed in God. But I didn’t specifically not believe in God, so erring on the side of caution seemed smart.
    Certain dire situations had a way of bringing out the Catholic girl hiding several layers down, and the Guarneri was the definition of dire. The problem was, I couldn’t ask for exactly what I wanted. If there was a God, I highly doubted he gave the less-than-devout exactly what they wanted. It seemed more respectful, more realistic, to skipthe praying to win and just pray to injure myself. Please God, break my arm. A nice, clean fracture that would require a few months in a shoulder-to-wrist cast to heal completely. Amen.
    I said the Lord’s Prayer, or what I could remember of it, and crossed myself, just to make the request more official. Would God punish me for not remembering what I’d only sort of been taught when I was just a little girl by an Italian grandmother who could barely speak English? Maybe. I didn’t know.
    I did know the Guarneri Competition was something only God, if He existed, could spare me from. Four years ago I’d sat in the audience for the final gala concert, knowing I was peering into my future. Diana had sweet-talked an old symphony friend into two eighth-row seats, too close for good acoustics but perfect for the view. The violinists’ faces shone with sweat under the stage lights. Sometimes, for concentration, they closed their eyes, but when they were open they held all the intensity of the music. Every emotion—elation, anger, grief, love—was magnified under those lights. I should have been watching their technique, but I couldn’t stop looking at their faces.
    Three finalists performed their concertos with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, then the judges deliberated while the audience waited. And waited. For forty-five minutes Diana circulated and chitchatted with people in the industry, while I mangled my program with sweatyhands and tried to smile at everyone who told me I looked exactly like my mother for the millionth time. How could people socialize right now? Weren’t they nervous?
    When the results were finally announced I cried. I couldn’t help it.