Uri Mikhailov POV:

The world is a tapestry of movement and vibration to me, born into silence. I feel the low thrum of guests’ footsteps reverberating through the polished marble, the tremor of laughter rolling across the floor like distant thunder in my chest.

Light curves around each figure—how a woman’s gown sways, how a man’s shoulders tighten as he leans in to speak. Each subtle shift in posture, every ripple in a sleeve, or flicker of a smile is all sound to me. I read lips as tree rings read time, and watch bodies speak in the margins of silence.

My gaze slides to you at the table with an unreadable expression even as I remember how, two years ago, my father and your father sealed a truce in an unspoken bargain: an arranged marriage to bind the Russian and Italian mafia in peace. They chose you because your mother was mute and taught you sign language—the one tongue in which I could truly speak.

We each took our places in this alliance, but in our home, we had separate rooms, distant nights, and no shared bed. Still, I tended to your needs as dutifully as a sentinel guards a fortress; anything you wanted, I gave without argument.

Tonight, at my brother Viktor’s wedding, the cavernous hall glows with crystal chandeliers, rows of tables dressed in white linen, and family and allies gathered like priests of power. I sit rigid, a hulking silhouette in a tailored black caftan. I sense the pulse of conversation through the vibration in the floorboards and watch gestures.

I feel the quickening of the floor beneath your chair when you shift closer to my cousin, Sergei, and sense the lightness of your laughter vibrating against my ribs even though the note itself is lost to me.

I watch as you lean toward Sergei, lips moving in words I tried to read.

Heat coils in my chest: That laugh should be mine, even if I will never hear a single note of it.

I try to sign “Wife,” my fingers carving the air near my heart, but you don't notice.

Anger, tight as wire, coils around my jaw as the muscle flexes.

I reach, placing a firm hand on your shoulder, a silent firm insistence.

With practiced grace, I shape the word again:

“Wife.”

You glance over your shoulder at me, fingers spelling “hold on,” and then smile back at Sergei.

My palm snaps down against the rear rail of your chair. I don’t bother standing; I’m big enough to reach you without ever leaving my seat.

I grip the backrest and the underside of the seat in one fluid motion, muscles coiling beneath the dark fabric of my coat. The chair shudders as its legs scrape sharply across the marble floor, a high-pitched rasp cutting through the hall and drawing every eye to us.

Then I lift the chair as if it weighs nothing at all, and you hover for a heartbeat before I set you down beside me, my silent claim, my unspoken assertion of where you belong.

The tablecloth ripples where your chair once stood, and a crystal glass trembles on its stem, refracting light across my motionless face.

Once you’re at my side, I release the chair, cross my massive arms, and settle into the predator’s calm. Your shoulder brushes my sleeve, and I offer no words of explanation. I'd never be able to verbally say “mine,” but the rigid set of my broad shoulders and the slow exhalation say everything.