AllFreeNovel
Share Us
My Papa always said I was a waste of space. By nature, I’m shy and quiet—add in my aphasia, dyslexia, panic attacks, and sensory issues, and it’s clear I’m defective. With my shortfalls, I would never be good enough for any mob bachelor to take as a respectable wife. Vlad loves me and has always protected me from the world, but the problem remains.
I’m not safe from suitors. Far from it. My husband could stake a claim to the Kislev bratva leadership, should the chips land in their favor. I was only allowed to hang out with Sebastian because he wasn’t a bratva or mafia man, and look how that ended.
Arman and I haven’t spoken today; I didn’t leave my room because I was too embarrassed after last night’s events. Eventually, I had no choice but to emerge to attend the party. When we arrived, he delivered me to my dressing room without a word. Now he’s out there in the club, eyes only for me.
I’ve always been able to feel Arman’s attention—he’s my bodyguard, after all—but last night, it was about more than protection. He was angry, certainly, but with something intangible beneath it. Sometimes, he seems to be everywhere, burning me with his intensity as though he’s trying to create a force field around me.
Avel’s head appears in my mirror, around the doorframe. “Time to shine, little sis,” he says.
I smile and flip him off. “I was born three minutes after you, dumbass!”
“Still younger.” He beckons me. “Shake it. Your admiring public awaits.”
The spotlight is too bright, and I can’t see the faces in the audience. That’s probably for the best. Why did I agree to do this?
It’s okay. Just concentrate on the music.
I exhale slowly and close my eyes. My hands caress the keys, easing the opening bars into the room, and the low hum of conversation gives way to a stunned silence as I begin to sing. Many in the room are Italian and understand the lyrics.
Senze Mama is a beautiful, tortured song. Puccini’s Angelica sings that her beloved child died alone, not knowing his mother’s love. In her anguish, she poisons herself to be with him, but realizing this sin will abandon her to Purgatory, she prays for the Madonna to intervene and let her be with her baby in Heaven. I’ve heard it many times, yet it never fails to move me.
There are kids in my family now, and seeing my brother’s wives with their children hits me hard. I love them dearly, and Vlad and Sasha would do anything for their little ones, but I feel the loss of my own mother in a new, visceral way.
Mama died of sepsis when Avel and I were a few days old. Vlad and Sasha were adults then, instilled with the qualities she taught them, and they kept her alive with stories of her strong heart and deep kindness. I felt I knew her as I grew up, so it was soul-crushing to realize she never knew me. Our housekeeper, Dulcie, loved my Mama well and cared for me and Avel in her stead, but it wasn’t the same.
I’ve always felt adrift without my Mama’s guiding hand. I needed a mother more than anything when I was young, and I still do. The void she left in my life can never be filled, but my music makes me feel close to her—she played piano, too.
I’m struggling to keep going. My dress feels like steel wool, itchy and rough, and it makes my skin crawl. My anxiety creeps like strangling vines, constricting my throat.
I stop playing, flooded with shame and humiliation. As the last note dies, the room breaks into patronizing applause, and the house lights go up. The sight of the audience clapping and whooping becomes too much, so I bow awkwardly and make a break for the curtain, ducking out of sight. I lean against the wall, trying to ground myself and not cry.
I will never be able to perform. Why do I insist on pretending my dreams are within reach?
“That was wonderful, bella!”
It’s the birthday boy himself, Aldo, his bow tie undone and wrapped loosely around the collar of his dress shirt. His large gut and thin legs make him look like a penguin on stilts. He’s getting way too close, too fast.
Before I can react, he puts his hands on the wall on either side of my head. “You know what I think?” he slurs. “I think your big brother Vladimir sent you to tempt me.”
I give a trill of fake laughter. “Hahaa. No, I don’t think so.”
“Let’s go on a date,” Aldo says. “I’d have asked sooner if I’d known how lovely you’ve become. You used to be Sergey Kislev’s weird daughter. The girl with the broken brain. You look alright to me.” He grins, scotch rank on his breath. “I think we’d have cute babies, and maybe I wouldn’t have to be in my brother’s shadow all the fucking time!”
Terror grips me. As far as anyone knows, I’m taking a minute before returning to my performance. The club is humming again, and I doubt anyone will hear me if I scream.
Through the gap in the curtain, I see Arman seeking me out. He is so tuned in to my responses; he must have seen my distress as I left the stage. All he has to do is look over here; he’ll know I need him.
I swat the curtain. It billows, and Arman catches only a glimpse of me, but it’s enough. With a roar of fury, he jumps over a table and onto the stage.
5
Arman
Igrab Aldo’s hair, ripping out a handful of his thinning strands. He lets go of Lilyana and moves faster than I expected, ducking my jab and landing a good left hook on my jaw.
I should have known better. Aldo Moretti is no schoolboy; he’s the brother of Don Giovanni Moretti, a mafia boss with whom the Kislev bratva has a superficially friendly relationship. Don Moretti doesn’t like Vlad much but knows it’s better for business to stay on his good side. As for Vlad, he believes in keeping his enemies close, so when he realized he would be away for Aldo’s party, he asked the rest of us to attend as a show of good faith.
Aldo wanted Lilyana to play, but it wasn’t about Puccini. She’s off-limits to everyone, always, no dispute about it. What’s changed?
