Broken Whispers: An Arranged Marriage Mafia Romance (Perfectly Imperfect Book 2)
Broken Whispers: Chapter 11

Happiness. I don’t remember the last time I felt truly happy. Satisfied, yes. But this thrill, this feeling of weightlessness that fills my whole body, is completely foreign. I look down at Bianca who is snuggled into my side, her hand on my chest, and one leg tucked between mine, and my heart warms.

“I have to get up,” I whisper and place a kiss at the top of Bianca’s head. “Sisi will be here with Lena in half an hour.”

She looks up at me, smiles, and reaches for my hand to inspect my fingers. Satisfied that the Band-Aids are still in place, she sits up and motions for me to turn around. The window shades are rolled up and the whole room is bathed in light, putting every mark on my skin on full display. Still, I turn onto my stomach, and looking at the window, I wait.

She places her palm on my lower back and slowly moves her hand upward, her touch impossibly light. I feel the tingling sensation when her hair falls onto my skin, and then her lips, placing a kiss between my shoulder blades where the scarring is the worst.

“Please, . . . don’t do that.”

The tingling sensation travels upward as the tips of her hair tease the skin just below my shoulder, and she bends and whispers in my ear, “Why?”

“Jesus, baby, how can you even ask?”

“I like . . . you, Mikhail,” she says, her voice barely audible. “Every . . . single . . . part . . . of you.”

The last word gets lost, and the only thing I hear are her short breaths as the chill runs down my spine. I spring up to a sitting position, cradle her face in my palms, and hope I’m wrong. “It hurts when you speak, doesn’t it?”

She looks at me, and nods.

I close my eyes and kiss her forehead. I should be put down like the bastard I am. A selfish, lying bastard who made her hurt herself for no reason.

“You will never do that again.” I put my finger on her lips. “Promise me.”

Her face falls, but she nods again, making me feel even worse. Shit. I get up from the bed, put my pants on, and stand in front of the window, looking at the people hurrying about on the street below. She’ll hate me.

I put my hands at the back of my head and take a deep breath. “I need to tell you something.”

Bianca

Mikhail is acting strange all of a sudden, pacing back and forth in front of the window. He stops for a second, looks at me, then shakes his head and resumes pacing. Did something happen? It must be something bad, because I don’t remember ever seeing him so distraught.

Finally, he stops and turns toward me. “I know you will be mad, and you have the right to be. I hope you’ll forgive me for not telling you right away. I’m sorry.”

My eyes go wide, my jaw nearly hitting the floor as I watch his fingers making familiar shapes while he talks. The way his hands move, quickly and with ease . . . my God, he’s not just familiar with sign language. I know just enough for an everyday conversation. I would never be able to have philosophical discussions and such. But the way Mikhail signs, it’s evident that he’s a pro.

“Why?” I sign and stare at him, making sure all the sadness and disappointment are visible on my face.

“Because it would have required explaining, and I wasn’t ready to give that to you. I’m sorry.”

“And you couldn’t just say so?”

I get off the bed and, without looking at him, go straight to the guest room, slamming the door with all my might.

* * *

The sound of Lena’s giggling reaches my ears, and I sit up in the bed. I spent two hours lying there, looking at the ceiling, thinking.

Mikhail knows sign language, and he didn’t say a word about it this whole time. It was selfish and rude, like putting the earplugs in your ears on purpose, just so you won’t hear what the other person has to say. I feel so betrayed.

“But I want pancakes,” Lena’s voice reaches me through the door. “Please, Daddy.”

I don’t hear what Mikhail says, only Lena’s unhappy reply. “Okay, Daddy.”

When I exit the guest room, I see Mikhail standing by the counter, a pan and a carton of eggs in front of him. Lena is sitting on the carpet in the living room, playing with the book we bought the other day, but when she sees me coming, she jumps up and runs in my direction.

“Bianca, Bianca, can you make pancakes? Daddy doesn’t know how to make pancakes. Can you make pancakes?”

I smile, brush the back of my palm over her rosy cheek, and nod.

She squeals in delight, grabs my hand, and starts dragging me toward the kitchen. “Daddy, Daddy, Bianca will make pancakes.”

She ushers me over to the stove, and I replace myself standing next to Mikhail, with my shoulder brushing his arm. Lena lets go of my hand and runs back to the living room, leaving me alone with my deceiver of a husband.

“You don’t have to,” he says without looking at me. “I’ll make her scrambled eggs.”

I ignore him and go to the other side of the kitchen to get the mixer from the drawer, then open the cupboard to take out a bowl. It’s on the second shelf, so I raise onto my toes and reach for it. Two large hands circle my waist as Mikhail lifts me the last couple of inches. Once I get what I’m after, he lowers me down without a word, then leaves the kitchen and heads to sit on the floor next to Lena. She takes the book and moves onto his lap, and I watch him as he points at something on the page and starts making animal noises. Lena giggles and kisses him on the cheek, then points to something else.

I start making the pancake batter but can’t resist throwing a look at them every few minutes. He is so strange, my husband. I don’t understand him, and I’m still mad at him, but I can’t make myself ignore his presence. It’s as if a magical force pulling me toward him. Even though I’m mad, it takes a great deal of self-control to keep myself from going over there just to be closer to him.

While I am waiting for the pancake to cook, I scroll through my messages on the phone. There are three from Milene, asking how things are going and asking about Nonna’s present. Shit. I forgot about it again. I shoot her a quick text saying that everything is fine and asking about school. The next message is from Angelo.

11:17 Angelo: Everybody knows Mikhail fucking Orlov! I can’t believe Dad went through with that! Are you okay? I don’t know when I’ll be back. I have some shit to deal with here, but as soon as I’m back I’m coming to see you. If he does something to you, you need to tell me right away and I’ll handle him.

I flip the pancakes and read the message one more time, confused. What does he think Mikhail is doing to me?

21:13 Bianca: I am great. What’s the problem with me being married to Mikhail? Did you two get in a fight at some point or something?

My mom’s message is next. She is asking about that shopping trip I promised, again. I ignore it, put my phone away and get back to the pancakes.

I am almost done when Mikhail’s phone rings. He takes the call, and for a few moments, he just listens to the person on the other end, then curses. Scooping Lena up, he carries her into the kitchen, places her on one of the barstools, and turns toward me.

“Can you watch Lena for an hour or so? Something came up and it’s too late to call Sisi.”

I nod and pour more batter into the pan.

“I won’t be long.”

There is a light kiss at the top of my head, and then he’s gone. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. It’s hard to stay mad at Mikhail when every cell of my body seems, somehow, attuned to him, yearning to get closer.

Mikhail

I park my car inside the warehouse, jump out, and head toward the corner where the Albanian guy from this morning is sitting on the floor. He looks half dead. I turn to Denis, who is standing next to him, and grit my teeth.

“Where the fuck is the doc?” I bite out.

“He’s out of the city. Can’t get here before tomorrow. I told him the guy’s symptoms, and he says that it was either a serious concussion, or he has intracranial bleeding. He needs to go to a hospital.”

I look down at the bastard sitting in a puddle of his vomit. “He dared to shoot at the car while my wife was inside. He’s not going anywhere.”

There is a bottle of water on a nearby chair, so I grab it and splash the contents over the guy’s head. He shudders, mumbles something incoherent, and leans back onto the wall. Based on how pale he is, and the unfocused look in his eyes, he won’t last long. I’ll have to work fast.

I walk back to my car, open the trunk, and take out a toolbox. On the outside, it looks like an ordinary toolkit, but removing the interior box reveals a hidden compartment, where I keep the real tools of my trade. I grab one of the syringes and a scalpel, and head back.

“What’s that?” Denis asks, pointing to the syringe.

“Adrenalin shot,” I say as I bury the needle into the side of the guy’s neck. “It might make him more coherent for a little bit. I’ve never tried it on someone with a concussion.”

“So, it will make him better? Why didn’t Doc think of that?”

“Because Doc doesn’t kill people for a living.” I throw the syringe to the side, crouch, and take the Albanian’s hand. “When the adrenalin leaves his system, he’ll crash. Hard. Grab his shoulders and keep him still.”

Holding the guy by his wrist, I force his palm to the floor and place the scalpel at the root of his thumb. The Albanian comes to at the exact moment I cut off his finger and starts screaming.

“Shut the fuck up.” I slap him across his face. Not the wisest thing to do considering his condition, but I’m in a bad mood. “Listen to me carefully. You are going to die tonight. It can be quick, or I can make sure it’s extremely painful and long-lasting. Nod if you understand.”

He whimpers and nods, trying to pull out his hand from my grip. I swipe the scalpel and cut off another of his fingers, which results in another screaming fit.

“Who sent you to intercept us, and what were your orders?” I yell into his face.

“I don‘t know,” he chokes out. “Arben talked with the guy who paid for the job.”

“Who is Arben?”

He mumbles something and closes his eyes. It looks like the adrenalin isn’t working.

I slap him again. “I said, who is Arben?”

“The driver.”

One of the guys I shot. Shit. “What did they want you to do?”

“Kill the man with the eyepatch.” He looks up at me and shudders. “It was just a job.”

“What about the woman?”

“The guy said she is not important.”

Not important. I take a deep breath, trying to keep myself from killing him right away. “Anything else?”

“N-n-no.”

“Do you know what the man who met with Arben looked like?”

“No.” His voice is barely audible now.

Fuck. I stand up and take the gun from the holster under my jacket. “Not important,” I spit out and shoot him in the head.

Turning toward Denis, I pin him with my gaze. “Make sure you are not late next time, Denis.”

He takes a step back. “Of course, boss.”

“Good. Clean up this mess.”

Bianca

It’s almost midnight and I’m starting to worry. Where is Mikhail?

When Lena fell asleep, I went to the kitchen to tidy up the mess, and then took a quick shower, expecting him to be back by the time I finished. Did something happen?

I take one of his T-shirts that I stole and put it on. I’m finishing braiding my hair when I feel rough palms covering my hands. I release the strands, and my hair falls as I look up at Mikhail’s reflection in the mirror. He stands behind me and divides my hair into three sections again, then starts braiding my hair for me. His moves might be a little clumsy, but it looks like he knows what he’s doing.

“My sister always pestered me to braid her hair when our mother wasn’t around,” he says without meeting my eyes, and there is so much pain in that one sentence, it pierces me right through my heart.

“Oksana was deaf from birth. She was four years older than me, so I learned sign language before I learned to read.”

It’s not just the fact that he’s using the past tense. I can feel it in the tone of his voice… Something bad happened to his sister. Mikhail raises his head, then and our gazes collide in the mirror. There is such a haunted look in his eye, that I know for certain that whatever happened is much worse than I can imagine.

I take the hair tie from the cupboard, offer it to Mikhail, and wait for him to secure the braid.

“Not my best work, I’m afraid.” He sighs. “You might want to do it again.”

“It’s perfect,” I sign into the mirror.

Mikhail places his hands on my hips, turns me around, and raises his hand to run a finger down the side of my face. “I’m sorry.”

I sigh, pull on his arm until he bends, and I place a kiss on his lips.

“Am I forgiven?”

“Not yet. You will need to work much more for that.”

He raises his left eyebrow, and his lips widen slightly. “What did you have in mind? Some kind of manual labor?”

“Yes.” I smile and start unbuttoning his shirt.

I feel his hands on my stomach, going up and pulling on my shirt. “I better start then.”

He pulls the shirt over my head, removes my panties, and turns me to face the mirror, with my bare back pressed to his chest. I stare at our reflections—me completely naked, and him standing behind me in his black shirt and dress pants. He places a kiss on my neck while his hands come to my waist and slowly start sliding down, over my hip bones and then lower.

“I want you to watch”—his right hand slides even lower, between my legs—“how beautiful you are when you come.”

His palm glides against my pussy as he bites my shoulder at the same time, making me shudder from the combined sensation. One finger enters my core, and I grab onto his forearm, pressing myself onto his hand. There is something improper in seeing myself like this, with him touching me so intimately while he’s still fully clothed.

His other hand slides down, his finger circling my clit, then presses the spot at the top of my pussy. A silent moan escapes my lips and I close my eyes, enjoying the sensation.

“Eyes on the mirror, Bianca. Or I stop.”

I open my eyes instantly.

“Good girl.”

I can’t remove my eyes from the scene in the mirror. Mikhail’s huge body pressed up against mine, his hands between my legs, his lips trailing a line of kisses on my shoulder. Another finger enters me as he starts teasing my clit with his other hand, changing the tempo from slow to fast, then slow again, making my body tremble harder.

“Come for me, my little lamb,” he whispers in my ear and curls his fingers inside me while pressing onto my clit, and I explode.

The tremors rocking my body are so strong that I can’t hold myself upright, so I grasp his forearm with both of my hands and watch Mikhail in the mirror. Composed. Not a hair out of place. Looking straight into my eyes. Wicked, wicked man. The silent types are always the most dangerous.