Broken Whispers (Perfectly Imperfect #2)(34)

Bianca points to something that resembles a blue plate with an assortment of white and green artificial flowers springing from it. It’s atrocious.

“Are you serious?”

She just nods, takes the blue-green monstrosity, and puts it on her head. I find it hard not to laugh when she walks to the mirror and starts turning her head left and right, regarding the hat from every angle. Even with that crazy thing on, she is heart-stoppingly beautiful. She picked a flowery skirt that reaches to her knees, and paired it with a beige top and heels in the same color. I’ve grown used to seeing her with her hair loose or in a braid, but today, she twisted it into a bun at the top of her head. I think she wants to make a good impression with the day care teacher. She turns to me and signs, “We are taking it.” Then, carries the awful hat to the cash register.

When we leave the shop, I take Bianca’s hand and lead her toward the small restaurant with outdoor tables that I noticed down the street. I have to go back to work after we pick up Lena, and I won’t be back till late, so I want to spend a bit more time with her.

We take one of the side tables, and while we’re waiting for the food, I check out our surroundings. This situation with Albanians is starting to worry me.

“So, you are sure your grandmother will like that . . . thing?” I sip my wine and look at the box laying on the corner of the table.

“She’ll love it,” Bianca signs and digs into her food.

I highly doubt that. “She has a strange taste then.”

“Everybody thinks that Nonna Giulia is a little bit crazy.”

“You don’t?”

“No. She just pretends she is, so she can get away with anything. She hired male strippers for her last birthday.”

Bianca bursts out laughing when I almost choke on my wine. I love her smile, the way it reaches her eyes reminds me of a sunray on a dark stormy day.

“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.”

I find it hard to believe, but her cheeks actually turn a little red. Sometimes I forget how young she is.

“Does the age difference between us bother you?” I ask.

All things considered, I assume that the ten-year age difference is the least of the things that would be a problem.

“No. Why?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you’d like to go out every night, party, do what other . . . girls your age do.”

“Most of the girls my age haven’t been training six hours a day since they were twelve. Partying until morning was never my thing. But I wouldn’t object if my husband took me dancing sometimes. Or are you too old for that?”

I lean over the table, take her chin between my fingers, and kiss her pouty lips. “We’ll see.”

“How is work?”

“Same as always. Pakhan’s wife invited us for dinner on Monday. Do you want to go?”

“Sure. How is she? She wasn’t at the wedding.”

“Three months pregnant, and very unpleasant lately. I think she might end up killing Roman.”

“Why?”

“Let’s just say that Roman’s behavior became a bit extreme once he found out she’s pregnant. You’ll see.”

“You never told me what you do for the Bratva.”

“I organize drug distribution,” I say.

“Do you know my brother? Angelo.”

An interesting question. “I don’t think we met.”

“Strange. I got the impression he knows you.”

Yes, he probably knows of me. Most of the people in our circles do. I need to change the direction of this conversation.

“When did you start with ballet?”

“My mom took me to my first lesson when I was four. I started with more intensive training at six.”

“Fifteen years. Must have been hard to leave all that behind.”

“The hardest thing I have ever done. I could have stayed, played some side roles with less demanding choreography. Fewer jumps. Instead, I decided to retire. To leave while I was still at the top. It’s vain, I know.”

“It’s not vain.” I take her hand and brush my thumb over the inside of her palm. So soft. “What happened with your voice, Bianca?”

I feel her go still. She pulls her hand from mine, takes a sip of her orange juice, and looks somewhere behind me.

“I was eleven. Father was driving me to training. It was Sunday, around seven in the morning. There was a party the previous night, they were celebrating something. He was still slightly drunk. We crashed.”

I watch as she takes a deep breath and looks at me.

“They said I wasn’t breathing when the ambulance came. They had to intubate me on the spot. The paramedic who did it was young and scared. He messed up something. Damaged my vocal cords.”

“And your father?”

“Dislocated shoulder.” She smiles and looks away. “Bruno Scardoni is like a cockroach.”

It’s evident that she doesn’t want to talk about it anymore.

“I’m sorry.” I reach for her hand and kiss the tops of her fingers.

Someone needs to kill that bastard.





I don’t like the way Lena’s teacher is looking at Mikhail. From the moment we entered the playroom, she has been throwing looks in our direction every now and then, so I move closer to him and wrap my arm around his waist. The teacher talks about some books that parents should buy for next month’s activities, and, for a moment, her eyes wander to me, looking me over from head to toe like she is sizing me up. It’s evident she is into Mikhail, and I don’t like that one bit.