Hidden

Chapter One

I stare at the congestion of instruments in awe, seated in the apprehensive audience of the New Amsterdam theatre. Everyone of importance in Manhattan society is here, waiting patiently to see the guest of honor exit from one of the crimson side curtains of the theatre.

Matteo Giordano. An artist, a magician of music.

I can't help twirling my program in between my newly polished fingers, glancing around me. My notepad is tucked into my oversized purse, blank sheets prepared for whatever I am about to witness and hopefully, maybe even will hold direct quotes from Matteo himself.

I glance down at the red pass hanging around my neck. It's the first time I've been given one. I've only ever known the corners of a cubicle, the solitude and comfort of my office. At the New York Chronicle, I've always been the fact-checker, the human form of anything resembling a book. However, when my boss approached me with the subject of gaining a corner office and the prestigious title of Arts Editor, hell yes was the answer I could come up with.

I'm twenty-two years old and my idea of a good time is curling up in my bed with a cup of ramen, watching Penny Dreadful until I mold into my pillows. There has to be more... there has to be, which is why it's more important than ever I get backstage of this concert and speak to Mr. Giordano without fumbling through my words or freezing at the renowned looks he's supposedly known for.

My eyes flicker down to the pamphlet, to see if I can catch a glimpse of his face on any of the pages in the dimming light, yet as I flip through the program, I find only ads and photos of the members of the orchestra. Not one of him.

I dawn on the strangeness of that... the idea that the performer, a man known around the world for his talents, doesn't have a single reference to himself, other than his name on the title page. Maybe he's shy? Maybe he likes his privacy? Maybe he thinks he's good enough that the audience already knows where he's been?

And as the lights dim completely over the rows, I realize many of them do. Men and women alike sit up, setting down their drinks, preparing their full attention. I cross my legs and clear my throat, looking up from the fourth row at the mass of instruments.

The clapping begins as the seats begin to fill on stage and the instruments rise into the arms of the symphony performers. I clap along with them, smiling at the enthusiasm around me. Wow... you'd think they were going to see Lin-Manuel Miranda himself.

As I'm chuckling to myself, watching a woman gasp to her friend, hitting her arm repeatedly, the shouts and claps suddenly become deafening and my eyes flicker back to the stage where Matteo Giordano is exiting behind a curtain, entering the limelight.

I find my body slowly leaning back into my chair as my face grows red, my skin flushing with surprise. The man who stops at the edge of the podium, dressed to the nines in a tuxedo, complete with the famous tailcoat, is nothing I could have ever possibly imagined. As if the name weren't a dead giveaway, it's abundantly clear that he is of Italian descent.

He stands straight as a statue, nodding at the violinist on his right and then to the cellist on his left. His dark hair drifts across his shoulders as he turns his head, full of waves and probably more luxurious than mine. Even from the fourth row, I catch the sharpness of his jaw, the shine of his porcelain skin. I feel my heart in my throat, a new experience for me as he nods to the roaring audience once more before stepping up onto the podium for the microphone.

I wait in anticipation to hear his voice, noticing now that my hands are gripping the edges of my hand rests. I pull them away fast and blink, closing my eyes when I hear his voice for the first time.

"Thank you."

What is happening to me?

I force myself to look up, holding my breath.