Broken Whispers (Perfectly Imperfect #2)(8)

Somehow, the small clutch purse hanging across my chest on a thin gold chain survived this evening’s events. I reach inside, take out my phone, and give it to him reluctantly. I didn’t expect him to confiscate it.

Instead of taking my phone away, he starts typing.

“I’m entering my number, as well as the number of the security desk downstairs. If you need anything, you can message me. I may not be able to message you back right away, but I’ll do it as soon as I can.” He offers me back my phone, and I slowly raise my hand and take it.

“Feel free to go around and explore, but my office is off-limits. Everything else is okay. Are we clear on that?”

I nod again and keep staring at him, expecting him to say something like “See you in the morning” or “Good night,” but instead, he just reaches over and traces his finger down the back of my hand, his touch feather-light. It lasts just for a second, and then he’s gone without a word.

What a strange man.





“He had an Albanian gang tattoo on the inside of his forearm,” I tell Roman. “Do you think it’s Dushku?”

“Possible. Maybe he found out it was me who offed his friend Tanush. Or maybe he was mad because we beat him to making a deal with the Italians.”

“It could be both.” I nod. “Or someone wants us to think it was Dushku. They sent only one man, and half of the people in that room were armed. It was a suicide mission. And how very convenient that he had a tattoo that would connect him with the Albanians. Something doesn’t add up.”

Roman leans forward, drumming his fingers on the desk. “It could be the Italians playing us, setting the stage for something bigger. They were in charge of the security for the wedding, and an armed man managed to get through.” He points his finger at me. “You need to watch your wife. Watch her very closely.”

“I will.” I nod and leave the pakhan’s office.

On my way back home, I think about what Roman said. Could Bianca be acting as a spy for her father? It would be a great opportunity—one I was sure a capo as ruthless as Bruno Scardoni wouldn’t miss. Still, I have a feeling that isn’t the case here. The distaste I saw in Bianca’s eyes every time she looked at her father couldn’t be faked. Yes, my wife has very expressive eyes.

I wonder if I should tell her that I am proficient in sign language. It would make the communication much easier, but it would lead to things I’m not ready to discuss with her yet. We will have to manage without sign language for now.





When I am stressed, I either clean or cook. There is nothing here to clean. Everything is spotless. So, I head into the kitchen and start looking for ingredients to make my quick cheese pasta.

Earlier, I showered in the guest suite bathroom and spent some time walking around Mikhail’s place. The apartment is crazy huge—spanning the whole top floor and decorated in the modern style, mostly glass and dark wood combined with white accents. I checked out the kitchen first, which is a chef’s dream and fully stocked. I stumbled on a few interesting items such as cocoa in the pantry, small packs of strawberry yogurt in the fridge, and a drawer full of sweets. My husband didn’t strike me as a person who would like sweets and strawberry yogurt, but hey, people have strange tastes.

Next was Mikhail’s bedroom. If felt wrong poking around in there, so I just went to his closet and took the first T-shirt I saw. I was not sleeping in a towel or naked. Wearing no panties was bad enough already.

After Mikhail’s bedroom, I skipped the housekeeper’s room and stopped in the doorway to the gym, confused. I expected a bunch of high-end bodybuilding machines, a treadmill, and similar stuff. Instead, there was just a rack with old school weights of different sizes in one corner, a pull-up bar next to it, and a punching bag. Everything was lined along the wall across from the floor-to-ceiling windows, and it didn’t take-up even a fifth of the room. What a waste of space. He could have fit another room in there. From the gym I went back straight to the kitchen, ignoring the door to his office.

When I finish cooking the pasta, I make myself a plate and leave the pot with the rest on the counter. I look around, searching for something to write with and some paper, and eventually find a pen in one of the drawers. No paper though. I take the empty pasta box, tear one side, then sit at the dining table and start writing on the cardboard.

When I’m done, I leave the note on the floor next to the front door, where Mikhail can’t miss it, and go back into the guest room.





I pick up the piece of cardboard lying on the floor and start reading.

I made pasta. I left it on the counter.

I borrowed one of your T-shirts. I hope you don’t mind.

With everything that happened, I forgot I needed to drop by my father’s house and pick up a bag with my stuff. Can you drop me by tomorrow to get it?

We may need to stop by a store where I can buy a change of clothes. I can’t go to my father’s house wearing only your T-shirt.

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 am not the most pleasant person in the morning before I get my hit.

My lips curl slightly at that last line, and I head toward the door to the guest room, which is slightly ajar. Bundled under a thick duvet, Bianca is sleeping soundly, her hair tangled around her head. I lean onto the doorway and watch her sleeping form until the light of dawn starts seeping into the room.