Married to the mafia boss Series

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Christian and Piero might not have seen or noticed, but it definitely didn’t go unnoticed from me.

I know that gesture anyway. The movement of Anastasia’s hands weren’t by mistake. The movement was precise. It was… a language.

“Leave!” I growl to the two.

“But boss-”

I throw my hand up and give them a warning glance. They take it as their cue to leave.

I look back at Anastasia, she has her back to me. I kick the bars-it would startle anyone. Well, almost anyone. But not her.

Opening the cell, I step inside forcing her attention to me.

“You know sign language?” I signed to her.

Her eyes widen, she’s shocked. Her hands raise as if to reply, but she looks away from me again.

I kneel in front of her, I grab her shoulders and look into her big blue eyes. “I saw what you said, I sign. I saw you call them idiots.”

Pursing her lips she finally responds, “Well they are.”

My head jerks back, confused, surprised, and also excited. “You are deaf.”

She nods her head. “How do you know sign language?”

“We are the same.”

Her eyebrows furrow. Aggressively she signs, “We are nothing alike.”

I hold my hands up in surrender. “Have you been deaf all your life?” I ask curiously.

“Why do you care?’ She rolls her eyes. “I’m your prisoner, not your friend. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like you to leave my prison cell and leave me alone.”She has every right to be mad. I am her kidnapper after all. But after knowing she can sign, something inside me has lit up. Some type of enthusiasm and excitement. I didn’t want to stop signing with her. It felt like freedom to talk with my hands. For the first time in a long time I feel like I didn’t have to pretend or hide.

Given the cold shoulder, I start to think of Nario. Her father did this. Her father savagely killed my best friend. My fists clench and the part inside of me-one that I have buried deep down-the same part that reminds me of my father and brother, tell me to break her. To ruin her so terribly that it’ll destroy Vasiliev. To make him feel as distraught, angry, and vengeful as I am feeling right now.

I look down at the girl. She’s meek. She’s so small and my mind screams at me not to do it. I would be no better than my father or Luca if I stooped to their ways. I will not hurt an innocent woman who is just unfortunate to be caught up in it all.

She can’t help who her father is as much as I can’t help who mine was.

I touch her shoulder and she violently shrugs my hand off her. I sigh taking that as my sign to leave her alone. My hands itch for conversation but I force the reminder that she’s my prisoner. She’s my bargaining chip to get what we want from Vasiliev.

Heading upstairs, Christian and Piero are at the bar getting drunk. They’re eyeing the prostitutes performing on the bar. A redhead and a blonde-both girls I’ve taken in the back room. None of them can sate me tonight. My frustration can only be taken out on a punching bag.

My father used to take Luca and I to the gym when we were children. He always pitted me against my older brother. Luca being older he was stronger and beat me every time. My father said that the beatings would make me stronger. For years Luca would win. It got worse when he entered puberty which was way before I did. He got bigger and trained harder. Those night’s coming home from the gym I was bruised, swollen, and sore. He trained because it was expected of him to be undefeatable. He was supposed to be Don, not me. Father was proud of him every time he came out of a fight victorious.

I didn’t start beating Luca until I entered puberty myself and starting surpassing my schoolmates in height. Muscles started forming as well as abs and I still remember the look on my brothers face when I beat him in the ring.

Anger. Bloodlust.

Walking into the gym brings back the memories. Although some things have changed, the atmosphere is still nostalgic. Making my way to the punching bag I have flashbacks of working myself too hard. My father screaming in my ear that I’ll never be good enough. He’d push me until I was on the verge of passing out.

The good memories are there, too. Nario and I used to train together. Those were fun. I wasn’t being pushed or yelled at, it was just Nario and I. He encouraged me to be my better self. He was the closest thing I had to family here in Boston.

Now I have no one.

I take out everything with each punch, pushing away my sadness, my anger, and my bitterness toward the cards I’ve been dealt with in this life. The unfair hand that will lose every time. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned from my father, it’s to have a good poker face.

Time passes quickly and before I know it, it’s almost midnight. My muscles have a satisfying burn, and sweat drips down the back of my neck from my sopping wet hair. It was a nice distraction while it lasted but my mind wanders to Vasiliev’s daughter. Anastasia.

She’s deaf and communicates through sign language. It’s almost as if God is sitting up there and laughing at me. The irony. The cruelness. She is my enemies daughter. Just by being the daughter of a Bratva member, she is the enemy. I shouldn’t even be thinking of her. In what world could her and I be associates? Acquaintances? Friends? Once again, a shitty deal. I should fold before I get myself into trouble.

Stop the thoughts.

But they can’t stop wandering to her. The way my heart raced when she signed that Christian and Piero were idiots, I almost couldn’t trust my own eyesight. I thought I was dreaming. Sign language became a well liked hobby of mine, at first it was necessary then I went to lessons because it was a sliver of joy in my dark life. My teacher was an older woman who could hear though. I met deaf people through online support groups but they were just names; Anthony, Melissa, Sarah, Michael, Lisa. They weren’t real people to me.

Anastasia, she is real. She is real and deaf and can speak to me. My hands twitch again wanting to talk to her, begging me to go back to the dungeon I put her in and talk to her. For the first time in a long time, I feel anxious about something. Excited for something.

It’s not a good idea, the sensible part in my brain tries to convince my other not so strong-willed body parts.

I left Anastasia with a guard, since Christian and Piero couldn’t do the trick, I had to choose the next best. A newer member of the Mafia. A younger man who fears me, I know he won’t fuck up because if he does. Well, he’s a dead man.

My bed doesn’t feel as comfortable as it normally does when I finally return to it after a long day. I have already showered and taken out my hearing aid. The world is silent except for the ringing. The ceiling has become a focal point for my nighttime entertainment. I stare at it but it’s not what I’m truly staring at. I’m picturing Anastasia lying on the cold ground in her cell-shivering.

Forcing my mind to think of something else, I picture Vasiliev tossing and turning in his bed worried sick about his daughter.

My stomach churns. Is he worried about his daughter?

What would I be forced to do if Vasiliev refused to give us what we want? Would I have to kill Anastasia just to prove to my men I can be cold and heartless?

Surely I can’t set her free if Viktor refuses.

He did kill Nario. It’s only fair that he suffers and feel the same pain of losing someone close to him.

My father and Luca would’ve already sent Vasiliev a message. Maybe they would’ve shaved her long blonde hair and sent it to him? Maybe cut off a finger or her ear. They might have defiled her in the worst way you could to a woman.

Already my men see me as weak for not touching her or ruining her. They’re all lined up with their own methods of torture. They want to see Vasiliev squirm. They want to see him nervous and begging at our knees. We want to control all of Boston, we want to run them clean out of our city and if we play our cards right, Anastasia will be our ace.

Insomnia is a symptom of the endless ringing, anxiety, and depression. My endless thoughts keep me up until nearly three in the morning. I swing my legs out of bed, and rub my tired eyes. I look over at my phone and check my text messages. I have an endless slew of messages from my sister.

Liliana: Are you okay? I’m worried.

Liliana: I heard the news about Nario. Are you okay?

Liliana: Please answer, I’m worried.

I put my phone down barely reading half of the messages she sent. I love my sister to death but talking to her-I just can’t articulate to her the extent of what’s going on with me. I don’t want her to worry either. Which is funny considering me not answering makes her worry more.

I just can’t explain to her how I feel. She wouldn’t understand anyways.

I head downstairs to pour myself a glass of wine. I keep the bottle on the table in front of me knowing I’ll need a second glass. The wine helps soothe my nerves and will hopefully make me tired enough to get at least a couple of hours of shut eye.