Chapter Text
Pierre plays calmly, does not allow the trembling in his fingers to affect the smooth melody that he outputs on the strings of his violin: something modern, calm and harmonious, he knows what this particular guest likes. He closes his eyes a little, focuses on the music and pretends that the main criminal boss of Britain is not here right now, ordering the best vegetarian menu from their chef, because the only blood he agrees to tolerate on his hands is human.
Lewis Hamilton is in their restaurant, booked exclusively for several guests for tonight and overnight, talking quietly with one of his people, enjoying the most ridiculously expensive wine that their restaurant has, and Pierre is praying, gently stroking the strings of a white violin, that he will be able to get out of here alive.
Pierre looks at Lewis secretly from under his eyelashes, not risking to stare at him openly, so as not to get a bullet between his eyes, but somewhere deep inside he thinks that maybe it would not be a pity to die for such a sight. Lewis smiles, even laughs, pomegranate-dark wine paints his full lips, he is so relaxed and calm, as if the whole world around him belongs to him. He unbuttoned the top buttons of a white lace shirt under a pearl-blue jacket. Mafiosi often visited their restaurant, although rarely of this level, and Pierre managed to get used to noticing them. But Lewis stood out among them so clearly with his extravagant style and relaxed demeanor that even a blind man would have noticed it.
Pierre changes the melody, looking away when Lewis suddenly looks directly at him, not stopping to have a quiet conversation, slightly grinning when Pierre pretends to turn over the notes with one hand to hide his embarrassment. He isn't inclined to have illusions, but it suddenly seems to him for a moment that Lewis is frankly sliding his tongue over his already moist lower lip, looking at him.
Pierre is playing, it seems, the fifth symphony – he can hardly say now, focused on his thoughts. Of course, he shouldn't be thinking about what the tattoo on Lewis's chest would look like if he undid another button on his damn transparent shirt, and most likely he would have been shot for such thoughts, but he absolutely can't help himself. Lewis's imperiousness is driving him crazy.
"Mr. Hamilton asked me to give you a wish to play something from Vivaldi. Is it possible?" one of Lewis's men comes up to him, forcing him to look straight at him, and Pierre calmly nods, not showing his nervousness in any way..
He begins the slow heavy rhythm of Winter, brings out a complex composition note by note, secretly reveling in the attention of Lewis, whose dark eyes closely follow his every movement, and Pierre allows himself to relax a little. He bites his lip before moving on to the climax, the bow dances in his hands over the white dense wood of the violin, the strings under his fingers sing exactly as he needs, and it seems that he could not get such a clear sound even in the conservatory at his best performances.
Pierre shakes his head, captured by the melody, highlights the strong beat of the music, continuing the movements of the sound with his movements, and does not look down this time when Lewis, impressed and pleased, bites his lip, not holding back a slight smile. Pierre leads the bow more slowly, subordinating the melody, and Lewis seems to follow her. Pierre accelerates the beat
Lewis pulls out a sleek black pistol with a silencer from under his jacket. Pierre shudders, momentarily confused, but continues to play, knowing that he should not anger him even more.
Pierre shudders, momentarily confused, but continues to play, knowing that he should not anger him even more.
Lewis raises the gun, pulling it slightly away from Pierre.
Pierre brings out the hard lower notes with a bow trembling in wet fingers, almost closing his eyes, and says goodbye to his life.
Lewis shoots.
In the deafening silence, Lewis's footsteps on the smooth parquet sound too loud, and Pierre is already sure that he is dead when Lewis touches his palm, in which the neck of the violin is clamped, tracing the contours of his fingers to the wrist with one single sensitive movement. Pierre looks up, meeting Lewis's greedy dark eyes, surprised to find admiration and desire in them instead of cold calculating rage.
"I'm sorry that I had to stain you and your wonderful instrument with the blood of this traitor."
Pierre looks down, frowning, and only now notices someone else's blood on his light trousers and red splashes on the white wood of the violin. Lewis gently touches Pierre's chin with his fingers, lifting it slightly, forcing to look directly at him.
"He didn't deserve to listen to such beautiful music before he died. Go on."
Pierre feels that his heart is about to stop: from adrenaline, fear, emotions, from everything that he has experienced during these moments and cannot survive until now, but Lewis suddenly smiles, confusing him once again, and adds politely.
"Please."
But Pierre knows that this is an order.