Chapter 3 - The Unspoken Language
The second meeting was entirely different from the first.
The heavy velvet curtains in the east wing were drawn shut, letting in only thin slivers of gray autumn light. Damian was propped up against three goose-down pillows, wearing a dark silk robe that hung loosely over his skeletal frame. His dark hair was uncombed, falling across a forehead damp with cold sweat.
Lila stood in the center of the Persian rug, clutching her cloth rabbit—Barnaby, missing one button eye—in her left hand. Her pink hearing device blinked a tiny green LED light every few seconds, indicating the battery was functioning.
Mara stood nervously near the door, her hands wrung together inside her apron pocket.
“Come here,” Damian said. His voice was stronger today, though still coated in gravel. He didn't look at Mara; his dark eyes were fixed entirely on the little girl.
Lila didn't hesitate. Children do not understand reputations. They do not read the Baltimore Sun editorials detailing the syndicates, the dock strikes, or the unsolved disappearances tied to the Volkov name. To Lila, Damian was simply a very tall, very pale man who looked like he needed a hug.
She walked across the rug, her yellow boots squeaking softly on the polished wood, and climbed up onto the edge of the mattress.
This time, Damian lifted his right hand—his fingers trembling visibly—and placed his palm flat against the mattress beside her.
Lila didn't wait for instructions. She crawled closer, ignored the terrifying aura of the mafia boss, and slid her small hand directly over his heart once more.
Damian closed his eyes.
A sharp intake of breath hissed through his teeth. For months, his heart had felt like a runaway freight train crashing down a ruined track—erratic, painful, and terrifyingly fast. But as the warmth of the child’s small palm settled over his chest, the rhythmic pressure seemed to anchor him. It was a focal point. A physical anchor in a sea of internal chaos.
“What is her name?” Damian asked, his eyes still closed.
“Lila, sir,” Mara answered quickly from the door.
“She’s deaf?”
“Yes, Mr. Volkov. Since she was a baby. Meningitis.”
Damian opened his eyes, looking down at the little girl whose dark curls brushed against his collarbone. Lila was staring intently at his face, her thumb tucked into the corner of her mouth, her tactile senses absorbing every micro-tremor in his chest wall.
“She doesn't hear the rumors,” Damian murmured, almost to himself.
“No, sir.”
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“Good,” Damian said, his voice dropping into a dark, resolute register. “Rumors are useless noise anyway.”
From that day on, an unholy, impossible routine established itself within the terrifying walls of Grayhaven House. While the underworld buzzed with speculation about the dying boss’s imminent demise, and while his underbosses sharpened their knives behind his back, Damian Volkov spent one hour every afternoon with a four-year-old deaf girl who sat on his bed and listened to his heartbeat.
