I spent thirty-seven years believing I was born deaf, ruling an empire in silence while everyone feared the cold stare of a mafia boss who never spoke. Then a new maid touched my ear, pulled out something no doctor had ever mentioned, and in a single terrifying moment, I heard the world for the first time—and realized someone had stolen nearly four decades of my life.

"Richard," I said.

The word was crude, a flat, unmodulated block of sound that bounced off the plaster walls of my study. It didn't sound like the voice of a crime boss; it sounded like a machine breaking down.

Dr. Sterling froze.

His hand, which had been unzipping his black leather bag, stopped dead in its tracks. The zipper let out a tiny, metallic zzzt that sounded like an angry insect.

He slowly turned his head to look at me. His eyes, usually so calm and clinically detached, darted from my face to the Walther PPK in my right hand, and then to the green-and-white hospital scrubs I had worn to my bi-annual exam two weeks ago.

Finally, his gaze fell on the silver tray.

He saw the bobby pin. He saw the tiny, grey silicone plug covered in yellowed wax.

The color drained from Sterling’s face so fast it looked as if he had suffered a stroke. His mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out—only a small, dry wheeze that my new ears caught with terrifying clarity.

"Vincent..." he whispered. Her voice was no longer rich and smooth; it was thin, reedy, and vibrating with a primal, animal terror. "What... what is this?"

"This," I said, my voice growing stronger, my mind beginning to map the boundaries of this new landscape of sound. I held up the silicone plug between my fingers, the sticky wax transferring to my skin. "This... was... in... my... ear."

"Vincent, listen to me," Sterling said, taking a swift step toward my desk, his hands rising in a placating gesture. "You don't understand. That's... that's a protective device. Your father—"

"My father?" I interrupted, the words coming easier now, my brain rapidly adapting to the feedback loop of my own voice. "My father... did this?"

"Your father wanted to protect you!" Sterling stammered, his eyes darting toward the door as if praying for Marco to walk in and save him. "You were the firstborn, Vincent. The heir to the Turner estate. But you were... you were soft as a child. You cried at the sound of the thunder. You couldn't handle the noise of the docks, the sirens, the screaming. Your father... he saw what happened to your uncle, how the noise of the streets broke him. He wanted to make you strong."

"He made me deaf," I said, the cold, iron mask of Il Silenzioso settling over my face, though my voice was now a deep, rumbling growl that filled the study.

"No, no! It was a temporary measure!" Sterling cried, his voice rising to a frantic shriek that hurt my sensitive ears. "We were supposed to remove them when you turned eighteen. But then... your father died. And you... you became the boss. You were so powerful, Vincent. The silence made you a legend. Everyone was terrified of you. If you could hear, if you could speak... you would have been just another target. We did it to keep you on the throne!"

"Who is 'we'?" I asked, my finger tightening on the trigger of the Walther.

Sterling’s eyes flickered to the side, a split-second movement that I would have missed in the old days of silence. But now, I could hear the rapid, shallow rhythm of his breathing, the frantic thump-thump-thump of his heart against his ribs.