Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 132791 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 664(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 443(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132791 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 664(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 443(@300wpm)
I allowed myself one lie to her. One, white, tiny lie in the entire length of our marriage. And only to protect her and Gennaro.
“He needed to save face after what happened in Vegas, and Igor. He had my blessing.”
“Are you sad about it?”
“It is what it is,” I said vaguely. “Comes with the job.”
When we got home, Lila put Nero in his crib and took the baby monitor with her before we left his room. Imma was in the kitchen, preparing enough food for an army. Lila’s mother and brothers were coming over for dinner, but we still had an hour to burn, and I knew exactly what we’d do with it.
We walked silently side by side to the ballroom. Opened the doors and reached the center of the room. There was no need for music. I kept my promise to her from the day of her baby shower, and we danced every evening.
We started moving to a soundless tune, our only music our heartbeats thudding against one another.
“Six weeks,” I said. She was going to get surgery for a cochlear implant. Everything was booked and ready to go. “Are you excited?”
She nodded. “It’ll be practical to hear, but I don’t feel like I need it anymore.”
“It was your dream to listen to music,” I pointed out.
Lila often wore her hearing aids, but not always. She attended speech therapy twice a week and joined the National Association of the Deaf, where she volunteered and helped with donations.
We swayed together, her arms tightening around my shoulders, her body pressing against mine, letting me know what she needed.
“I think…” She licked her lips, her eyes heavy-lidded.
“That’s always a good start,” I drawled. “What are you thinking, Gealach?”
“That I would like another dance.”
“Yeah?” I smirked.
“A horizontal one.”
“I see.”
“Without any clothes on.” She bit down on her lower lip, grinning. “It’ll help me find my muse for this next painting I’m working on.”
“Well.” I pretended to weigh her request seriously. “You’re the artist. Who am I to question your process?”
And I dove in, kissing her hard, drowning in her perfection, never coming up for air.
EPILOGUE
LILA
SEVEN WEEKS LATER
My rose-gold ball gown swished along the staircase of our mansion. I stepped over the hem, almost tripping forward. A rush of giggles bubbled out of my throat, and this time, I heard it.
I plastered my palm over my mouth, shaking with laughter.
“You’re going to wake the dead,” my husband muttered next to me, before sweeping me into his arms, carrying me honeymoon-style to the second floor.
His voice was magnificent. Low, gravelly, and deep. His accent also contributed to its sexiness. I could listen to him for hours.
“And you care because…?” I pouted.
“I’m responsible for many of their deaths, and they’ll come after my ass.”
I giggled, flinging my head backward so I could get a better look at him. I no longer needed to read his lips, but it was a force of habit. The cochlear implant meant I could hear, but it was still muffled and in very low decibels. I didn’t regret going through with the operation. Not that there was anything wrong with being deaf. My decision wasn’t a product of shame or prejudice. I simply thought it would be practical.
I didn’t compose music anymore. My obsession and fascination with it diminished, now that I had a family and my art to focus on. But I still wrote my son one lullaby to remind him of the resilience of the human spirit and how obstacles were nothing but reminders you could overcome anything.
“How was your first ball with music?” Tiernan grinned down at me.
I circled my arms around his neck, knowing full well that attending balls was far from the realm of his regular hobbies. People openly stared at his eye patch, and not everybody was happy to see the princess of the Camorra and king of the Irish Mafia at swanky New York parties, but I didn’t care.
I loved dancing.
I loved dancing with my husband.
And life was too short to give a damn about what anyone who didn’t truly love you thought about you.
Let them talk. About my age. About the wrongness of us. His mysterious past. My overbearing mother.
We were happy. And that’s what mattered.
“It was wonderful,” I purred.
“Good.”
“And I want to do it all over again tomorrow.” I kicked my feet while cradled in his arms, and he rolled his eye exasperatedly, an indulgent smirk tugging at his lips.
When we got to the second floor, Tiernan cautiously helped me back to my feet. I padded toward my son’s room, peeking into his crib.
He was sleeping soundly, but began stirring as soon as I opened the door and traces of the corridor’s light seeped in.
Yawning toothlessly, he tried stretching inside his swaddle, groaning when he realized his attempts were futile. My chest flooded with warmth.