"First, Mr. Tom must wear formal performance attire," Franz said firmly.
"This is a high-end restaurant, and image is everything."
"No problem!" Voss nodded quickly.
"Don't worry, our restaurant will tailor a proper tuxedo for Mr. Tom."
"Second, the performance time is from 7 p.m. to 10 p.m. every night, with a fifteen-minute break in between."
"Completely fine!"
"Third, if the guests aren't satisfied, I can terminate the contract at any time."
"Of course, of course!" Voss was so excited he nearly jumped out of his shoes. "Then… the salary?"
"Five hundred dollars an hour, with a three-day trial period." Franz extended his hand. "If the performances go well, we'll sign a long-term contract."
"Deal!" Voss shook his hand firmly, his heart soaring.
Tom spun in circles on the piano stool, while Jerry flipped backward in celebration.
"Then Mr. Tom can start tonight," Franz said after checking his watch. "It's four o'clock now. You've got three hours to prepare."
A waiter was called over to measure Tom with a tape—height, waist, arm span, the works.
"We'll have the tux ready so Mr. Tom can shine tonight."
Outside the restaurant, Voss practically skipped down the street.
"We're rich! We're actually rich!" He hugged Tom and Jerry, spinning them both until they were dizzy.
"Three hours a night—that's fifteen hundred bucks! That's forty-five thousand a month!"
Tom stumbled a little, but he was just as thrilled. Finally, his talent had a place to shine.
Since they had time to kill, Voss treated Tom and Jerry to dinner before heading back to the "Blue Danube."
By the time they arrived, the restaurant was packed. The waitstaff bustled from table to table, silverware clinking and chandeliers glowing.
"Mr. Tom, your tuxedo is ready," Franz said, motioning for a waiter to escort Tom to the dressing room.
When Tom reappeared, dressed to perfection, Franz's eyes widened.
"Flawless. You look every bit the part of a professional pianist."
Tom gave a graceful bow in thanks.
"The guests are eager," Franz continued. "Word about this afternoon has already spread. Some came just to see you."
Voss glanced around. Sure enough, many diners kept sneaking glances at the piano with anticipation.
"Alright… let's do this," Voss muttered, trying to calm his nerves.
Tom strode toward the grand piano with deliberate elegance, the tails of his tuxedo swaying with each step. He adjusted the stool, flexed his paws, and tested the keys.
The restaurant went silent.
Then the first notes rang out—Mozart's Piano Sonata No. 16 in C Major.
Every note was clear, confident, and full of life. Tom's paws glided across the keys, transforming music into magic.
"Unbelievable…" whispered one woman.
"This cat's better than some pianists I've paid to see," said another.
Jerry sat nearby, listening intently. For once, the little mouse wasn't teasing Tom—he was glowing with pride.
When the sonata ended, the room erupted in applause. Diners stood, phones out, trying to capture the moment.
"Encore! Encore!"
Tom chuckled, sat back down, and launched into Chopin's Minute Waltz. His performance danced between playful lightness and passionate bursts, captivating everyone.
Voss stood off to the side, chest swelling.
"That's my partner," he whispered to himself.
For three hours, Tom played twelve classics, each piece greeted with louder applause than the last. When it was finally over, Franz stepped forward.
"Ladies and gentlemen, tonight's performance has come to an end. Thank you, Mr. Tom, for such a wonderful evening. He'll be performing here again tomorrow!"
Guests lingered, reluctant to leave, many still buzzing about the "piano-playing cat."
"Mr. Tom, you've exceeded every expectation." Franz beamed. "Our guests were thrilled, and business was up thirty percent tonight alone."
He handed Voss a stack of cash. "Here's fifteen hundred, as promised."
Voss accepted it with trembling hands. He had never seen so much money in a single night.
"And," Franz added, "I'd like to offer you a permanent contract. As long as Mr. Tom is willing, he's welcome here."
"Of course we're willing!" Voss nearly shouted.
Later, as they strolled home through the quiet night, Tom shed his tux and Jerry rode on his shoulder, both looking exhausted but happy.
"Tom, you were incredible," Voss said, patting him proudly. "I'm lucky to have you as a partner."
Tom scratched his head bashfully, purring in delight.
Jerry reached out and tapped Tom's cheek with a tiny paw. It was his way of saying well done.
"No more worrying about rent," Voss grinned, waving the money. "Tomorrow, we celebrate!"
The three hummed and laughed their way toward Hell's Kitchen. But as they turned into the alley leading home, five shadows peeled away from the darkness behind them.
The thugs had been tailing them since the restaurant. They'd seen the cash exchange.
"Boss, it's that guy," whispered a skinny one. "I saw him pocket a fat stack."
Their leader, a bald man with a scarred face and a skull tattoo, sneered. "Perfect. Rich boy and two pets—easy prey."
"Wait until they're home?" another asked.
"No need," the bald man said, licking his lips. "This alley's quiet enough."
His voice dropped low, cruel. "We're taking the money. If he resists, I don't mind leaving holes in him."
Voss suddenly froze. His ears caught the echo of footsteps closing in from behind.
He turned—and saw five shadows moving toward them.