Mafia's Mute Lover Is A Liar

TWO WEEKS

The room went silent.

Not silent like my world. Silent like the kind of silence that comes before something terrible happens. The kind of silence that warns you to run.

I typed: I cannot take your place.

"You can. He's never met me. He doesn't know what I sound like. He doesn't know anything about me except my name and my qualifications."

I typed: I am not qualified. How will he not know i can't talk! Do you just want me to die in your place?

"You read lips better than anyone I know. You type faster than anyone I know. You can do this."

I typed: I cannot speak.

"You can. You choose not to." she slapped me with those words, I hated her when she said it becasue she knew how much I hated when i had to use my words that could barely hear. She was the one who had told me to never speak again becasue it was irritating and now she hated my voice.

I touched my throat. The scarred tissue. The unused muscles. The voice that had not been heard in twenty-one years.

"I have not spoken since I was four years old," I typed. "How could you ask me to do something like this? Why are you so selfish?"

"You have to."

"No."

Lydia grabbed my phone. She typed something and shoved it back into my hands.

Michael's school fees: $15,000. Due in two weeks.

Mom's eviction notice: 72 hours.

The mortgage: $120,000. Past due.

Your savings: $0.

I read the words. Read them again.

"You knew," I typed.

"I knew. Your job at the library doesn't cover it. Your night shifts at the club don't cover it. You've been drowning for years, Sila. And I've been keeping your head above water. So this is my way of helping you. He will pay you enough and you won't have to suffer any longer. You might even be able to get your hearing back after the surgery you have been wanting. He has money."

"Why?" I was shocked was she really doing this for me? Or was i falling for a trap again like always as i got easily swayed by her manipulative tacticks and did what she needed me to do.

"Because I love you. Because you're my sister. Because you took care of Mom when I ran away. Because you raised Michael when I was too busy being selfish. Because I owe you."

She grabbed my hands. Her fingers were cold.

"This job pays two million dollars. Two million. You can finally breathe."

I typed: And if I get caught? If he finds out I'm not you?

"He won't. Two weeks, Sila. That's all. Two weeks of pretending. Keep your head down. Then you walk away. You never see him again. You never see any of this again."

I looked at the body on the floor. The blood spreading across the hardwood. The dead man's open eyes.

"Who is he?" I typed.

"One of Daniil's men. He tried to stop me from leaving. I stopped him first."

She said it like she was talking about the weather. Like she had not taken a life. Like the blood on her hands was paint.

I should have said no.

I should have walked out of her blood-soaked apartment and never looked back. I should have called the police. I should have let her deal with the consequences of her choices.

But Michael's school fees were due. My mother's eviction notice came yesterday. I was twenty-five years old and I had been taking care of everyone my entire life and I did not know how to stop.

I typed: Two weeks. No more.

Lydia hugged me. I did not hug back.

She gave me her notes. Her hand signals. Key phrases in Italian and Russian.

"He's never met me. He doesn't know what I sound like. Try speaking again. Please you have to."

I typed: What if he asks questions I can't answer?

"Say you have a headache. Say you're tired. Say you don't feel well. He won't push. He's not interested in you. He's interested in the deal."

I typed: What if he touches me?

Lydia's face flickered. Something passed through her eyes. Guilt. Fear. Regret.

"He won't. He's not like that."

"How do you know?"

"I just know. Believe me."

I wanted to believe her. I wanted to believe that I would walk into that penthouse, do my job, and walk out two weeks later with two million dollars and my life intact.

But I have learned that wanting does not make things true.

I went home.

My mother was in her chair. The television was on. She was watching a cooking show. She had not cooked a meal in eleven years.

I kissed the top of her head. She smelled like lavender and sleep. Her hair was gray now, all gray, though she was only fifty-two.

How was your day? I signed.

She blinked at me. Her eyes were the same green as mine, but hollow. Like someone had scooped out the insides and forgotten to put them back.

"Fine," she said.

I waited. She did not ask about my day.

I made her dinner. Soup and crackers. She ate three bites and pushed the bowl away. I washed the dishes. I organized her pills. I wrote her a note: I am going on a work trip. I will be back in two weeks. Lydia is paying for everything. You don't have to worry.

She read the note. She nodded. She turned back to the television.

I wanted to shake her. I wanted to scream. I wanted to say: I am your daughter. I am still here. Please see me. I couldn't.

I went to my room. I stood in front of the mirror.

I touched my throat. The scarred tissue. The unused muscles. The voice that had not been heard in twenty-one years.

I opened my mouth.

Nothing came out. Just air.

I tried again.

"My name is Lydia Mercer."

My throat burned. I coughed. Blood sprayed onto the mirror.

I wiped it clean.

I tried again. "I am your interpreter." It was hard to form word, I didn't feel like myself at all.

More coughing. More blood. My throat felt like it was tearing open from the inside.

I tried again. Again. Again.

By 3 AM, my throat was raw. I had coughed blood seven times. I sat on my bed. I opened my journal. I wrote:

My sister just asked me to pretend to be her for a Mafia Don. I said yes. Not because I love her. Because I love Michael. Because I cannot watch my mother lose her home. Because I am desperate and desperate people do desperate things.

I have not spoken in twenty-one years. Tomorrow, I will have to speak. I will have to pretend to be someone I am not. I will have to translate words I cannot hear. I will have to look into the eyes of a man who kills people for a living and convince him that I am not lying.

I am going to die in that penthouse. Not because he kills me. Because my body cannot do what I am asking it to do.

But Michael's school fees are due. My mother's eviction notice came today. I have no money. I have no family. I have no one.

I have nothing to lose except my life.

And I am not sure I want to keep that anyway.

At 8 AM, a black car arrived.

Two men got out. They did not knock. They opened the door. They walked into my mother's house.

My mother looked up from her chair. "Who are you?"

They did not answer her. They looked at me.

"Miss Mercer?"

I nodded.

"Don Romano sent us. You're late."

I picked up my bag. I walked to the door. I did not look back at my mother. I could not look back. If I looked back, I would break.

"Sila," my mother said.

I stopped.

"Come back."

I nodded. I walked out the door.

The men put a bag over my head. They zip-tied my wrists. They pushed me into the back of the car.

I did not scream. I have not screamed since I was three years old.

The car pulled away from the curb.

I closed my eyes.

Two weeks, I told myself. Two weeks. Then you go home. Then you never see him again. Then you never speak again.

Two weeks.