Chapter 2 — The Velvet Note

Adrian

The piano was old, its keys yellowed and chipped, but Adrian’s fingers moved across them with an intimacy that belied the instrument’s state. The faint hum of the Velvet Note’s neon sign buzzed through the walls, its irregular rhythm a counterpoint to the melody he played. It was a slow, haunting tune—low notes lingering, trembling like the remnants of a memory he couldn’t quite let go of.

The weight of the day pressed against his shoulders, but the music lightened it, if only slightly. Each note felt like a question, each chord a tentative answer. The tune faltered, incomplete—an echo of something he once knew by heart but couldn’t quite piece together now. He paused, his hands hovering over the keys, fingers trembling before retreating.

The club was empty except for him. Chairs were stacked atop small round tables, their silhouettes stark in the dim amber glow of a single lamp over the bar. The scent of whiskey and cigars clung to the air, heavy and familiar. The walls bore faint scars—scratches from long-forgotten brawls, remnants of a time when the Velvet Note had been more than just a refuge for misfits and ghosts. This place, with its faded grandeur, was his one sanctuary—a space where he could remember, for a fleeting moment, who he might have been before the syndicate had hollowed him out.

His thumb slipped on a key, breaking the rhythm. Adrian exhaled sharply, his frustration barely restrained. Silence flooded the room, the absence of music amplifying the faint hum of the neon sign outside. He let his hands fall to his sides, his gaze dropping to the piano key necklace resting against his chest. His fingers brushed the worn ivory, the edges smooth from years of wear. He could almost hear the laugh of his father, the rich timbre of it filling the room as they played together at the piano that once stood in their home. Before the fire. Before the blood. Before everything had been taken.

The sound of footsteps broke through the quiet. Adrian stiffened, his posture straightening as his hand instinctively tightened around the pendant. A shadow stretched across the doorway, long and deliberate.

“Chopin would weep,” came a voice, low and gravelly with a note of dry amusement.

Adrian turned his head just enough to confirm what he already knew. “Uncle,” he said evenly, the single word carrying a weight of resignation.

Lucien Moreau stepped into the light, his sharp blue eyes glinting beneath the brim of a dark hat. His tailored suit was immaculate, but there was nothing refined about the man. He was a blade in human form—cold, precise, and deadly. His movements were fluid, calculated, as if every step were a deliberate part of some unspoken choreography.

“You’re wasting time,” Lucien said, his gaze sweeping the room with palpable disdain. “I’ve never understood your attachment to this... shack.”

Adrian rose slowly, his movements deliberate, controlled. “And yet here you are,” he replied, his voice steady, his expression a mask of indifference.

Lucien’s lips curved into a thin smile, the kind that could cut. “I wouldn’t be if it weren’t important.” He gestured toward the bar, where two glasses and a bottle of whiskey had mysteriously appeared. “Join me.”

Adrian hesitated for a fraction of a second. Refusing would only prolong whatever game Lucien had planned. He crossed the room, each step measured, and slid onto the stool opposite his uncle.

Lucien poured them both a drink, the amber liquid catching the faint light as it swirled in the glasses. He pushed one toward Adrian but didn’t lift his own, choosing instead to study him, his gaze as piercing and unrelenting as a scalpel.

“I’ve come to discuss your future,” Lucien said finally, his tone casual but weighted.

Adrian’s grip on the glass tightened, though he didn’t drink. “You mean my lack of one.”

Lucien chuckled softly, though the sound was devoid of humor. “Always so dramatic, nephew. You’re more valuable than you realize. Which is why the family has decided to... secure your position.”

Adrian’s jaw tightened, but his expression remained carefully neutral. “Go on.”

Lucien leaned forward, his elbows resting on the bar. “A marriage. To Dr. Elena Vasile.”

The name hit harder than Adrian anticipated. He’d heard of her, of course—everyone in their circles had. The brilliant criminal psychologist who had built her institute from the ground up. The woman who had turned her back on her family’s legacy, carving out her own path. She was a curiosity even from a distance, a reminder that escape was possible. Or at least, that it should have been. Now, apparently, she was to be his wife.

Adrian let out a low, bitter laugh. “That’s your plan? Tie me to a woman who hates her own family as much as I hate mine? Brilliant.”

Lucien’s smile didn’t falter. “The Vasiles are in a precarious position. Vera needs this alliance as much as we do. And you... you need to stop pretending you have a choice.”

Adrian’s gaze drifted to the bottle of whiskey, the muscles in his jaw working as he suppressed a retort. “And what exactly does this alliance gain us?”

“Stability. Consolidation of power,” Lucien replied smoothly. “And for you, a chance to prove your loyalty.”

The word “loyalty” burned like acid. Adrian’s fingers tightened around the glass, the faint sound of it scraping against the bar cutting through the tension. His father’s voice echoed in his mind, a fragmented memory—Loyalty is earned, not demanded.

“And if I refuse?” he asked, his voice low.

Lucien’s smile faded, replaced by something colder. “Choice is a luxury you’ve never had, nephew.”

The silence stretched between them, taut and suffocating. Adrian forced himself to meet Lucien’s gaze, his expression unreadable.

“When?” he finally asked.

“The meeting is tomorrow,” Lucien said, draining his glass in one measured motion. “You’ll meet her and discuss the terms. I suggest you make a good impression.”

Adrian didn’t reply. He watched as Lucien stood, adjusted his hat, and turned toward the door. But before leaving, his uncle paused, glancing back over his shoulder.

“Play something better next time,” Lucien said. “Something with a little soul.”

Adrian’s lips twitched, a faint, bitter smile forming. “I didn’t realize you had one to spare.”

Lucien’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he said nothing as he disappeared into the shadows, the door closing behind him. The club was silent once more, but the tension lingered like smoke.

Adrian stared at the untouched glass of whiskey, his reflection fractured in its surface. A marriage. To a woman he didn’t know, for reasons that had nothing to do with him and everything to do with power. It was another chain, another shackle. But maybe... maybe it could also be an opportunity.

His fingers found the piano key necklace again, his thumb tracing the faint etchings on its back—the notes of an unfinished melody. He thought of Isabelle, of the promises he’d made to himself all those years ago. Escape. Freedom. Redemption.

If this marriage could bring him closer to any of those things, then he would play along. For now.

He returned to the piano, his fingers hovering over the keys. The melody came to him again, fractured but persistent. This time, he played with more force, the notes filling the empty club with a quiet, mournful resolve.