Page 68 of Bad Bishop
I contemplated arguing with him, but that’d be hypocritical of me. I did the same thing. Came with the territory of living with a complete stranger.
“How did Beethoven?” I signed. “He was deaf, too.”
“He lost his hearing gradually. Did you?”
I shook my head. “No. But the principle is the same. You study the patterns, follow the cues, and come up with sequences that seem in sync. Writing music is analytical, more than anything else.”
“Do your brothers know you’re wicked smart?”
He thought I was smart?
I licked my lips, ignoring the heat spreading behind my rib cage. “Only Mama and Imma know the truth.”
“Why?”
“It’s better this way. I’ve been deaf since birth. When I was two, they started running some tests to eliminate issues. I didn’t respond to my own name and didn’t speak a word. Their initial diagnosis was that I was on the spectrum. It was extreme medical malpractice and completely changed the course of my life.”
Opening up felt like stepping out to the sun and feeling its rays on my skin for the very first time. Oxygen hit the bottom of my lungs. There was freedom in claiming who you were.
“Mama and Imma loved me all the same. Mama took me to classes and therapists. She dedicated her whole life to takingcare of me. Imma taught me how to cook, how to knit, how to bake, how to suture.”
Our eyes met, and something behind his mossy pupil softened.
“I was six when they found out I had been misdiagnosed. By then, I had taught myself to read, write, do a three-hundred-piece puzzle; Mama kept it all hush-hush. She and Imma were livid with the injustice and initially wanted to sue. But by then, people started noticing me. Powerful men in the underworld came knocking on Papa’s door, looking for an arranged marriage when I turned eighteen. The Cosa Nostra. The Bratva. La Eme. Mama realized my fate would be as bleak as hers if I went that route—a cheating criminal husband with blood on his hands. Someone who would bring me nothing but trouble and heartache. She decided to spare me the woes of matrimony, so we kept my abilities a secret.”
Tiernan’s face remained unreadable. He continued staring at me silently, fingers laced together.
“Because my brothers compete over the don’s throne, Mama said they couldn’t be trusted with my secret. She worried they’d sell me out to our father to win points with him. At some point during my adolescence, the lack of intellectual stimulation became too much for me. That’s when Mama started taking me to Ischia. It was close to our home base of Naples, but still far enough from Camorristi eyes for me to do the things I couldn’t do at home. I learned Latin and math and physics every summer. Attended soccer games and played tennis. Ischia holds my only good memories,” I admitted. “I want to go back. Maybe with the baby. I wouldn’t mind living with security, if that’s your requirement. And we wouldn’t have to put up with each other. I just want to be free.”
He flicked invisible lint from his charcoal slacks, ignoring my words completely.
“Your mother wanted to spare you marriage with a mobster. That ship has sailed. Why did you keep pretending?”
I pressed my lips together, wondering if I should be completely honest with him.
Yes. I was so tired of keeping everything inside.
“She said if you found out that I’m sentient, you would insist on consummating our marriage. And that you’d try to extract Camorra secrets from me. I don’t know any, by the way.”
Tiernan stroked his chin.
“Will you?” I asked.
He didn’t answer. A born strategist, and he still hadn’t made up his mind.
“Are you in love with Tate Blackthorn?” he asked out of the blue.
“No, but I’m fond of him.”
“Why?”
“He gave me a dance. My first taste of normalcy. My dream is to listen and dance to music. And he made a part of it come true. Whether he knew how much it meant to me or not, I’ll never forget his kindness.”
“That’s your dream?” he asked. “To hear music, and dance to it?”
I nodded. Surprisingly, I wasn’t shy or embarrassed about it. Even though it felt like stripping my soul naked, for him to know something intimate about me.
“And your art?”
