Chapter 2 - The Language of Hands
I couldn't move. My feet felt as though they had been nailed to the floorboards.
"Get... her... off," Damian rasped. His voice was a ruined, terrifying scrape, like rusted iron grinding over stone. Every syllable looked as though it cost him a piece of his soul.
I took three shuddering steps forward, dropping to my knees beside the bed, keeping my head lowered in complete submission. "I am so sorry, Mr. Volkov! Please... please forgive us! She's deaf, she didn't know, she didn't see the signs—I turned my back for thirty seconds in the kitchen, I swear on my life she didn't mean to intrude—"
"Take... your hand... back," Damian growled, his gaze shifting back to Lila. He didn't look at me. He looked at the four-year-old girl who was currently staring back at him without a single flinch.
Lila felt the vibration of his voice through her palm on his chest. A small, fascinated smile spread across her face.
She brought her free hand up, her fingers moving in sign language. Big heart. Warm. But hurt inside.
Damian stared at her moving fingers, his heavy brow furrowing in confusion. "What is she... doing?"
"She's signing, sir," I stammered, my tears finally spilling over my cheeks as I gently reached out to pull Lila's arm away. "She can't hear you. She lost her hearing to meningitis when she was two. She uses Sign Language."
Lila resisted my pulling gently, turning to look at me with a soft, scolding expression. Mommy, quiet, she signed to me. The man is cold.
Without waiting for permission, Lila unbuttoned her bright yellow raincoat, took off her small knitted pink scarf, and carefully draped it over Damian’s massive, trembling hands where they clutched his ribs.
Damian looked down at the bright pink wool resting against his dark silk robe. The contrast was absurd—a blood-soaked, deadly mob boss covered in a toddler's pink scarf.
He raised his eyes to mine. "You work here?"
"I'm... I'm Maya, sir," I whispered, holding Lila tightly against my shoulder now, though I remained on my knees. "I was hired two weeks ago by the housekeeping agency. I clean the ground floor and the kitchens."
"You brought a child into my house?" His tone wasn't loud, but it possessed a terrifying, heavy weight that made the air in the room feel dense.
"I had no one else to watch her today, sir," I confessed, my voice breaking. "I couldn't lose this job. I'm sorry. I will pack our things and leave immediately. You won't ever see us again."
I began to back away toward the door, holding Lila close against my chest.
"Stop," Damian ordered.
The single word cut through the room like a blade.
I froze.
Damian slowly shifted his weight, letting out a low, gut-wrenching groan of agony that made his face go completely gray. The wound on his side seeped fresh blood into his dark robe. He closed his eyes, his breathing ragged, shallow, and fast.
"The nurse..." he panted, his sweat-soaked forehead resting against his raised knee. "She left... the antibiotics... on the tray."
I looked over at the silver tray resting on the vanity table near the window. A sterile glass vial of clear fluid, an unopened syringe, and a bag of IV saline sat alongside a clean pair of medical gloves.
"You want me to call Viktor, sir?" I asked cautiously.
"No," Damian spat, his gray eyes snapping open, blazing with a fierce, paranoid light. "Viktor is... too loud. The guards... talk. They look at me... like I am already dead."
He looked directly at Lila, who was leaning over my shoulder, watching his face with deep, calm empathy.
"She wasn't afraid," Damian whispered, his raspy voice dropping into a quiet, stunned realization. "Fifty men in this city... want my head on a spike. My own lieutenants... tremble when I enter a room. But this... tiny creature... walked in here and touched me like I was a broken bird."
He pointed a long, scarred finger toward the silver tray.
"You cleaned medical offices... before this?" he asked, reading the resume details he undoubtedly kept track of for every employee.
"I worked as a nursing assistant at St. Jude's for three years before Lila got sick," I answered truthfully.
"Then prepare the IV," Damian commanded, leaning his head back against the velvet pillows with a heavy, exhausted sigh. "Administer the dose. If you try to poison me... my men outside the door will ensure you and your daughter never leave this estate."
My throat went bone-dry. "Mr. Volkov... I'm just a maid..."
"You are the only person in this house... who hasn't looked at me with pity today," Damian rasped, his eyelids fluttering shut as another wave of fever washed over him. "Do it. Now."
I looked down at Lila. She reached up and patted my cheek softly, giving me a reassuring nod.
May you like
Help him, Mommy, she signed. He's nice.
Nice was the last word anyone in Baltimore would ever use to describe Damian Volkov. But as I stood up, walked to the silver tray, and snapped on the sterile nitrile gloves, I knew our lives had just crossed a line from which there was no turning back.
