Damian Volkov had fired every nurse who dared enter his room, and the entire mansion had learned to fear the dying mafia boss behind the forbidden door
“She can hear what none of you can.”
The guards at the doorway exchanged uneasy glances. Dr. Anton Petrov, the physician who had treated Damian since the poisoning, stood near the window with his leather medical case open. Even he appeared uncertain whether Damian was speaking from fever, pain, or something far more disturbing.
I moved quickly toward the bed.
“Lila, come here.”
My daughter did not turn.
She sat beside the most feared man in Baltimore as if he were simply another lonely patient. Her tiny palm remained pressed against his chest, her cloth rabbit tucked beneath her arm. Damian’s hand covered hers, not forcefully, but almost protectively.
“Mr. Volkov,” I said carefully, “she doesn’t understand where she is.”
Damian’s dark eyes lifted to mine.
“She understands more than anyone in this house.”
His voice was barely above a whisper, yet every guard straightened.
Lila studied his face. Then she raised her free hand and signed slowly.
Your heart is scared.
My throat tightened.
Damian stared at her fingers.
“What did she say?”
I hesitated.
“She said your heart is frightened.”
One of the guards shifted uncomfortably. Men like Damian Volkov were not supposed to be frightened. They made other people afraid. They entered rooms and changed the air. They spoke softly, and powerful men disappeared.
Yet Damian did not become angry.
Instead, his fingers curled around Lila’s hand.
“She’s right.”
The confession was so quiet I wondered if I had imagined it.
Lila reached into the pocket of her yellow raincoat and pulled out her worn cloth rabbit. One ear had been sewn back on twice. The faded blue ribbon around its neck was the last thing her father had given her before he died.
