Page 149 of Silenced

His brows lift.

“He’s why I can sign.” Nikolai tilts his head to the side in silent inquiry. “There was a blast at the mine. He lost his hearing. Had to transfer to the offices. Our family was lucky he didn’t lose his job. He could have. Can’t exactly have a deaf miner underground.”

“I suppose not,” he signs. “Your mother can sign too?”

“She can.”

“Your ASL is unusual.”

“It is?”

“Yes. You sometimes use gestures that I can’t interpret.”

My brows lift. “I didn’t know that.”

“Probably because you picked it up from your family rather than a book or a class.”

“True. The accident happened before I was born so I always had to sign to communicate with him.

“That’s why even though I know you can hear me, I tend to use sign language anyway. It’s a habit. Though I admit I was rusty at first. How did you learn?”

“I had a variation of sign language that I used to communicate with Misha and Maxim.”

“Not RSL?”

“No. The orphanage didn’t care enough to teach me. It was a…” His mouth tightens. “You can’t raise children in a hellhole and expect them to come out as angels.”

A fair point.

He rubs his forehead before continuing, “We had our own way of talking, a patois almost, but then when we came to the US, I was isolated again. ASL was something I picked up fast; Misha and Maxim did too. Then, it spread as my reputation grew.”

“What kind of reputation?” I whisper, not even sure that I want to know the answer, but I still ask.

Like he heard me say that out loud, he muses, “Do you want to know?”

Swallowing, I shake my head.

His smile ghosts over his lips and disappears in a heartbeat. “The more power I had, the more anxious people were to learn ASL. Now, only Dmitri, Maxim, and Misha ever use our patois. But you understand that. You have your own.”

“I didn’t know I did,” I say dryly. “Maybe I’m making them up. As I said, ASL isn’t like riding a bike. It was difficult to remember at first.”

“Your father probably picked up sign language the same as me.”

“If I use a sign that you don’t understand, tell me so I can clarify in the future?” When he agrees, I ask, “I thought men in the Bratva had to have tattoos.”

“That’s random.”

“Not particularly.” Not when I’ve been meaning to ask after coming across hundreds of inked men at the gala.

Is itmyfault he swallowed some of his wine and it made his delicious, tattoo-free throat bob and that gorgeous Adam’s apple jut?

Technically, that’s a ‘him’ problem.

He smirks, and his gaze is knowing—my fascination was noticed. “They do. They indicate status or their role in the brotherhood.”

“Why don’t you have any?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

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