Prelude in Smoke and Shadow
The club was not loud, nor brash, nor vulgar, though it trafficked in all three. It wore its sins like silk.
Red velvet draped the walls, soaked in the scent of cigar smoke, perfume, and old money. The piano sat on a small raised dais in the corner—not centered, not lit, not featured. A detail. An afterthought. But even in the haze of murmured deals and drunken laughter, the music was undeniable.
It floated through the lounge like perfume on a lover’s neck—fragile, aching, beautifully out of place. And it drew him in.
Matteo Vescari stood near the bar, untouched drink in hand, listening. Really listening.
He’d heard this pianist once before. A month ago. Same song, same hands—haunted, untrained, transcendent. At the time, Matteo had thought nothing of it. He was there to meet a man about a weapons deal, not to be emotionally ambushed by Debussy. But tonight the music sounded lonelier. The pianist played as if he didn’t know anyone was listening—or worse, didn’t care.
That intrigued Matteo more than he’d like to admit.
From his vantage point, he could only see the musician in profile. Slender, pale. Perhaps too thin. A loose white shirt tucked into grey trousers, sleeves pushed to his elbows. Fingers that trembled slightly, not from nerves, but something deeper. Hunger? Cold? Grief?
Or simply devotion.
Matteo leaned toward the bartender, eyes still on the stage. “The pianist,” he said softly. “Name?”
The bartender glanced up. “Moreau. Luca Moreau. Comes in three nights a week. Doesn’t talk much. Doesn’t drink.”
Matteo hummed faintly and turned back to the music. The piece was ending now—a hesitant cadence, a pause that stretched, and then silence. No applause. No recognition.
Luca rose slowly, bowed his head, and began to collect his things. His shoulders were narrow, his frame fragile, like someone still growing into their own bones—or perhaps slowly falling out of them.
Matteo watched him descend the stage and disappear toward the staff exit.
He didn’t follow. Not yet.
But he would.
Elsewhere, outside, in the brittle air of midnight, Luca lit a cigarette with trembling fingers. The money from tonight would cover three days’ rent, maybe four if he skipped dinner again. He didn’t play for money. Or for praise. Or survival, even.
He played because if he didn’t, he feared he’d disappear completely.
He did not know that a man with gold on his hand and danger in his shadow had already decided to learn the shape of his music. And soon—the shape of his soul.