Page 134 of Jude

‘Of course, but you’re hurting, my friend. I see that,’ Bishop murmured. ‘Let’s get some air.’

I crossed my arms over my torso, still fighting the storm inside me, then, with an exhale, I led him across the suite to the sliding doors.

We walked out onto the stone terrace of the hotel, where the historic architecture of Bebelplatz stretched out beneath a canopy of midnight stars.

‘You said you had a professional arrangement, brother, but I can see you care for her,’ Bishop rasped as we settled into outdoor armchairs. ‘At least acknowledge that.’

In the silence of the night, away from the screaming fans and the backstage hustle, an intense, agonizing longing for Sofia hit me hard, bypassing my anger.

‘I gave her the keys to a heart I thought I locked away forever.’

‘Then don’t make any radical decisions yet, Jude,’ Bishop countered. ‘Wait for the truth to clear the fog before you either torch what you both shared or go after her. Rage makes a terrible advisor, and she deserves a sober investigation, not a knee-jerk execution.’

‘Easy for you to say,’ I muttered. ‘You aren’t the one swallowing a throat full of glass right now.’

Bishop’s words brimmed with irritating logic, and my mood darkened even more.

As I mulled beside him, he ordered room service, and a server showed up with a silver tray bearing two steaming mugs of black espresso.

We shared a long, quiet coffee, staring at the illuminated beauty of Berlin’s classical domes.

My inner thoughts swirled, bounding between anger and terrifying vulnerability, a brutal internal warfare that threatened to rip my spirit to pieces.

I hated the uncertainty, yet the thought of erasing Sofia from my future was like stepping off a cliff into total oblivion.

‘I’ll wait for the analysis,’ I conceded, as I stared up at the stars. ‘However, if she lied, Bishop, there won’t be shit left to save.’

After Berlin, we hit Spain.

Because of a tour we canceled a year ago, management and our lawyers pushed us to embark on a makeup junket across Madrid, Barcelona, and Valencia.

Which meant two more weeks of dragging my miserable carcass through a relentless schedule of stadium dates.

Backstage, amid the dressing rooms and the endless corridors of roaring fans, I became a ghost.

I filled the hours between soundcheck and showtime pacing the floorboards and checking emails from the lawyers.

I also missed Sofia, craving her soft skin, the sweet heat of her passion, and the warmth of her presence.

Yet guilt ate at me; how the fuck could I sing to millions about grace and radical love? When my first primal instinct was to crush the heart of the woman I swore to protect?

I spent nights awake in bed, my mind, rage, and grief tearing through my chest, driving me to the ragged edge of sanity.

Wanting, desperate for more and too impatient to wait on Bishop’s analysis, I made a rash decision.

During a three-day break preceding our first stadium show in Valencia, I booked a covert flight to Italy.

Landing in the oppressive humidity of Milan, I hired a local driver.

I tracked the exact street coordinates of the club displayed in Ignazio’s photos, a notorious venue once infamous as Disco Velluto.

I ended up standing in front of a rusted, padlocked iron gate covered in layers of faded graffiti on the industrial outskirts of Sesto San Giovanni.

‘The venue is long gone, signore,’ an elderly shopkeeper next door told me in raspy Italian, flicking a cigarette butt onto the cracked pavement. ‘The Carabinieri shuttered that place five years ago during the syndicate sweeps. It never reopened.’

So the photos were more than likely now a blackmail setup.

I returned to our tour base in Valencia with a growing, sickening suspicion that I had probably ruined the only good thing in my life.