Broken Whispers (Perfectly Imperfect #2)
Neva Altaj
Author’s note
American Sign Language (ASL) is used frequently in this book for communication. While the sentence structure of the ASL is considerably different than in spoken language, I took the creative liberty to have the ASL dialogue follow the American English grammar rules for an easier story flow. I hope you won’t mind this decision.
There are a few Russian words mentioned in the book, so here are the translations and clarifications: Solnyshko – солнышко (little sun; sunshine); used as endearment.
Zayka – зайка (bunny); used as endearment.
Lenochka – a diminutive form of Lena.
Piroshki – пирожки (hand pies); these are small pastries that could be made savory (filled with minced meat and/or vegetables) or sweet (filled with fruit or jams), and can be either baked or fried.
Dusha moya - душа моя (my soul, soul mate); used as endearment.
Ya lyublyu tebya vsey dushoy, solnyshko …Ya ne pozvolyu nikomu zabrat' tebya. – I love you with all my heart, sunshine… I won't let anyone take you away.
Ty luch solntsa v pasmurnyy den’ – You are a ray of light in a cloudy day.
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Trigger warning:
Please be aware that this book contains content that may trigger certain audiences: domestic violence, mentions of abuse, graphic descriptions of violence and torture (none occur between the hero/heroine).
Prologue
Twelve years ago
A door bursting open pierces through my hazy consciousness, followed by the sense of falling in slow motion. Unfamiliar voices whisper somewhere far away, gradually becoming louder, until all I can hear is hurried shouting.
A gasp to my left, “Dear God.”
I try opening my eyes but fail. It takes me a few tries before I manage to peel my eyelids apart, but all I can see are blurry shapes.
And then comes the pain.
It feels like I've been stabbed by a thousand knives, with blades lodged into my flesh. The sharp, searing, body-wide sensation encompasses everything.
I choke on my breath and try to talk, but the only thing that comes out is a pained wheezing gasp. The void closes in again, the sounds slowly fade, and I let myself float away. The last thing I remember are broken sentences that breach my fading consciousness until there is nothing left. Only the pain.
“Roman! . . . Mikhail is still alive!”
“Jesus . . . press something over his face . . .”
“I’m not sure he’ll make it . . .”
“Anyone else?”
“No, they are all dead.”
Chapter 1
Present
My shoes echo in the empty anteroom of the Chicago Opera Theater, mixing with the faint opening notes of Swan Lake coming from the hallway on the left. With the ballet already starting, the entrance is vacated. I nod to the security guy, then turn and follow the long hallway toward the double wooden doors at the far end, where a poster hanging on the wall attracts my attention.
They changed the photo. The previous one showed the whole troupe in the middle of the group jump, taken from afar so the whole stage was visible, but the new one shows only one dancer, the shot zoomed in. I take a step closer until I’m standing right before the image. Without conscious thought, my hand rises and traces the contour of her face—her sharp cheekbones, her cherry blossom mouth, down her slender neck, then back up over the outline of her eyes, which seem to be looking straight at me. The big letters at the top of the poster announce this evening’s show as her last performance. Looks like the season is closing.
Sometimes, I imagine approaching her, maybe after one of her shows. We would exchange a few words and I would invite her to dinner. Nothing fancy, perhaps that cozy tavern downtown. They have the best wine and . . . I catch my reflection visible on the glass covering the poster, and I instantly let my hand fall back, feeling like my touch somehow tainted her. I guess this is as close as someone like me, hideous inside and out, should be allowed near such perfection.
I carefully open the big wooden door and quietly slip inside. With the only source of light coming from the stage, the space is rather obscure, but I still keep myself to the back where the darkness is the thickest. I’ve been extremely careful in pursuing my obsession, always making sure I come after the play starts and leave before it ends. It's better to keep a low profile. Saying I don’t blend into the crowd would be an understatement.
My looks have never really bothered me. In my line of business, the scarier you look, the easier it is to make people talk. Sometimes, the only thing needed was for me to enter the room and they would spill all they know. My reputation has helped as well.
Finding a suitable fuck was usually tricky, but it had nothing to do with my face. A lot of women from our circle were eager to lure the Bratva's Butcher into their bed, but they became significantly less eager when I presented them with the rules: only remove enough clothes to get the job done, strictly from behind, and no touching of any kind.
The civilians had different reactions. Most tended to avoid looking directly at me. Others liked to stare. I was perfectly fine with either approach.
So, why the fuck does it bother me now? Why am I hiding in dark corners, stalking this girl I’ve only seen from afar, like a psycho? I’m still debating my sanity when the solo violin theme begins and my eyes snap back to the stage. I know nothing about music, but I haven’t missed any of her shows for months, and by now, I recognize exactly when her part comes. When my gaze finds her gliding toward the center of the stage, I feel my breath catch in my chest.