Broken Whispers (Perfectly Imperfect, #2)

by Neva Altaj

As always, I leave a single rose and proceed to the exit.

I wait for her to leave, then start toward the door only to stop in front of my vanity and look at the crystal vase holding a single yellow rose. Usually, I donate all the flowers I get after a performance to the children’s hospital. This is the only one I keep. I reach out with my hand and trace the long thornless stem wrapped in a yellow silk ribbon with gold details. There has been one left for me after every performance for the past six months. No message. No signature. Nothing. Well, this is the last one I’ll ever get.

I hope she won’t run off screaming upon seeing me, because I will be chasing.

I couldn’t find coffee in the kitchen. My name is Bianca, and I am a caffeine addict. If you have it somewhere, please message me the location before you go to sleep. I’m not the most pleasant person in the morning before I get my hit.

Those scars look old. The interesting thing is, I don’t mind them at all. Actually, I find my husband extremely handsome, so physically, I have no complaints whatsoever.

My actions are petty, I know, but I couldn’t control myself. No one gets to speak like that about my husband. We may have an arranged marriage, but he’s treated me better in the last twenty-four hours than some of my family members ever have. And I’ll be damned if I’ll allow my sister to say something like that without hitting back.

It happens so quickly I barely manage to follow. Mikhail takes the decorative letter opener with one hand and my father’s wrist with the other and plunges the thing right through the center of dear old Daddy’s palm and into the wooden desk.

“Now, let’s clear up a few things,” Mikhail says. “You touch my wife again, in any way, I cut off your hand. I hear you speak badly about her, I cut out your tongue. You dare to even think about hitting her ever again, I cut off your head. Am I clear, Bruno?”

Five yards from the door, and looking right at me, stands a little girl in a pretty pink dress, her dark hair gathered in pigtails at the top of her head. She can’t be more than three or maybe four, and she’s the spitting image of Mikhail. “Hello,” she says, her face serious, and cocks her head to the side as she regards me with interest. “Lenochka . . .” Mikhail says from behind me and steps inside. “Daddy!” The girl squeals in delight, her lips widening in a huge grin as she runs and jumps into Mikhail’s arms.

Then his fingers start combing through my hair. He’s still reading but keeps playing with my hair, and I lean my head back into his touch. And his voice . . . it feels like a caress by itself. He has an accent, I realize. It’s subtle, but it’s there. I love it.

“And it doesn’t bother you? The scars? The eye patch?” “No. I find Mikhail sexy as hell.” “You’re out of your mind.” “Wait until you see him in the tight Henley he put on this morning. Hot. I bet he’s even hotter without it.”

“Father hit me again yesterday when I came to get my things. Mikhail wasn’t pleased with that.” I smile when I remember the look on my father’s face as he stared at the letter opener lodged into his palm. “It was very exciting to watch.” “Okay, that’s it. I’m calling Mom’s psychiatrist. You need professional help.” “No, I don’t think I do.”

Mikhail turns his gaze toward me, looks down at my hand on the work surface, then tilts his head to the side, offering me his chin. Slowly, I reach out and brush away the remnants of the flour using the back of my hand, taking slightly more time than necessary.

The neural pathways in my brain must have snapped and rearranged themselves, because in that instant, I decide I’m done. My issues with skin contact can go fuck themselves. I grab Bianca’s hand, pull her to my side, and wrap my arm around her. Not close enough. She’s not close enough. I tighten my arm around her and stand with her back plastered to my front. The pressure in my chest eases. That will do. I don’t need a shrink to interpret my actions. When a man has already lost all he’s held dear, it’s normal for him to become slightly unhinged and scared it may happen again.

If I was a better man, I’d send her away, annul the marriage, and set her free. I guess I’m a bad man, though, because I don’t plan on letting her go.

He crosses his arms, places his fist over his mouth, shakes his head, and then bursts out laughing. It’s rich and throaty, and I can’t take my eyes off him. He’s so beautiful when he laughs.

Bianca dashes toward the playhouse on the other side, and she’s rather fast. However, I’m faster and my strides are much larger. I catch up with her just a few feet from the playhouse, grab her around her waist with my free arm, and pull her against me. She’s laughing. I can’t hear it, but I can feel the way her chest moves under my arm. I lift her from the ground and carry them both to the small coffee shop opposite the park.

“Ty luch solntsa v pasmurnyy den’, Bianca,” he says into my lips, kisses me again, and slowly lowers me to the ground.

19:52 Bianca: From now on, I expect a goodbye kiss too. Please keep that in mind, Mikhail.

“V tvoyikh glazakh kusochek neba, solnyshko.” She looks at me, confused, so I translate for her. “It means, ‘there is a piece of the sky in your eyes.’”

She keeps smiling in the car as we leave the garage, and I’m wondering what could be on her mind when she leans in and whispers in my ear. “I don’t . . . have panties.” The car swerves, but I manage to righten it, barely avoiding the concrete pillar on the side. When I have it under control, I turn toward Bianca to find her leaning back in her seat, wearing a self-satisfied smirk on her face.

The waiter brings our drinks, and Bianca reaches for my glass, moving it from my right side to the left. I don’t think she did it consciously, as she looks too focused on picking out a canapé from the plate in front of us. She must have noticed I don’t keep drinks on my blind side.

“I married six times, you know?” she continues. “Everyone thinks I’m a little bit wacky in the head . . . the crazy Giulia who changes her husbands like they’re socks. But I was just trying to find a man who would look at me the way Vitallo, my first husband, looked at me.” “And how would that be?” I ask. “The way you look at my Bianca. Like you would lay your body over a field of burning coals, so she could cross it without burning her feet.”

“Eight?” he inhales and closes his eye. I lean forward, wrap my hand around his arm, and place a kiss on his tightly pressed lips. He’s hot when he is mad. “Make sure you never slip and tell me any of their names,”

“She doesn’t care about my eye. Or the scars. I don’t know why, but she doesn’t. She’s never asked what happened, even though I know she must wonder. But I can’t tell her what I do for the Bratva . . . I don’t think she’d be able to get past that.” “Well, shit.” He squeezes his temples. “Okay, I’ll talk with Maxim, maybe he can take over . . .” “No. Information extraction is my job. And anyway, who could be a better interrogator than someone who’s experienced most of the torture techniques himself?”

“And I get to kiss you everywhere. You got that? I will draw it for you, if needed. Everywhere. Yes, your eye is fucked. I want to kiss it anyway.” I grind my teeth and stare him down. “And you are going to let me.” I poke him with my finger in the center of his chest, then continue, “Because I am in love with you. Every part of you. Your grumpy personality included. Fucking deal with it.”

“Ya lyublyu tebya vsey dushoy, solnyshko,” he says into my ear. “Ya ne pozvolyu nikomu zabrat’ tebya.”

“You are . . .” a soft whisper right next to my ear, “so beautiful . . . when you smile.” I squeeze my arms tighter around her and brush my cheek against hers. My silly little sunray. “No one . . .” another whisper, “compares to . . . you.”

She nods, places her hand on my chest, and traces a shape of a heart with the tip of her finger. “I love you, too, baby.” I take her face in my palms and touch my nose to hers. “You can’t imagine how much.”

I look at him and note the dark circles under his eyes. “You aren’t sleeping. Again.” “I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”

“Is she there?” I ask. “I can’t find her. Are you sure she’s . . . oh, fuck!” There’s some more rustling noises and things being moved. “Sergei?” “I’ve got her. Fuck, she’s in a bad shape.” His steps come closer. “Hold the door.”

“I’ll call Varya and tell her to bring the doc.” I let the truck door fall back down. “We can meet them at the safe house.” “No. I’m taking her to my place.” “What? Are you crazy?” “I said I’m taking her with me.” There’s a strange look in Sergei’s eyes, like he’s ready to defend his precious cargo from anyone who’d come close. Roman is going to lose it when he hears about this.

I expect Sergei to place the girl in the back seat and sit up front, but instead of doing so, he just tightens his arms around her and gets in the back, cradling her.

“Bianca, Bianca.” She leans in and kisses me on the cheek, then runs to join Sisi, waving. “See you later, Mommy.” As I watch her leave, a feeling of warmth spreads inside my chest.

open my eyes and look straight into his blue gaze. Will I love Mikhail less because of what he does? No. A fucked-up world creates fucked-up people. I’m probably one of them, too, because I accept my reality for what it is.

“You scared me . . . so much.” The air smells of a hospital, but I don’t know how I got here. My head feels like it’s in a fog. The voice continues whispering, “When you are . . . well enough . . . I’m going . . . to strangle you.”

“He wants you to text him the list of people who were involved in you getting shot so he can kill them. He said he’s free this weekend.”

All the breath leaves my lungs as I stare at the delicate flower, its stem wrapped in a wide yellow silk ribbon embroidered with gold. “I never told you,” he whispers in my ear, “that I was always your biggest fan. I still am.” “Mikhail?” I utter, my eyes still focused on the flower. “There was a poster I saw one evening—I think it was in a shop window—almost a year ago. I remember walking past it, and then retracing my steps to take a better look at the image. It showed a group of dancers. All except one were wearing yellow costumes, and as I regarded them, I wondered why, among all of them, the one dancer who wore a black outfit shined brighter than the rest.” A kiss lands at the side of my neck. “Like a sun.”