Page 12 of Ruthless Silence
"Self-taught," Luca adds. "Inefficient form. I could fix that."
Marco's voice cuts through with absolute authority. "She's to be respected. She's about to be family." He pauses. "Try not to terrorize her, Dante. We need her cooperative for the merger. Dead brides don't sign territory agreements."
The word 'family' makes Sofia's smile turn too bright, something I notice immediately. Whatever memories that word triggers from that night ten years ago, she buries them quickly.
Day two begins with watching the surveillance feed as the hotel concierge delivers my gift to Ana's room. She opens the box cautiously, like it might explode. The note reads simply: "For your collection. —D.R."
Then she laughs, the first genuine laugh I've witnessed. Not bitter or sharp, but actual amusement. She holds the knife pendant up to the light, examining the craftsmanship, then actually puts on the necklace.
Throughout the day, the cameras catch her fingers finding it, touching the blade. She touches the knife pendant repeatedly, fingers tracing the metal, and I imagine those fingers tracing my scars instead. The thought makes me adjust myself, cock hardening at the idea of her hands learning the geography of my damage.
Nico texts his report: "She went to the gym at dawn. Then confession at St.Mary's."
Confession. Two days before marrying me. The ache in my scarred throat intensifies. Praying for forgiveness for what she plans to do, or seeking strength to do it?
That evening, she practices signing in her room. Her fingers move carefully through: "Thank you for the gift."
Then she adds, with a slight smile that makes my chest tighten: "I'll wear it when I kill you."
But she's still wearing the necklace, her fingers tracing the blade pendant as she signs death threats. The contradiction makes me want to pin her against a wall and show her exactly what kind of monster she's threatening. Make her sign my name while I'm buried inside her.
At 2 AM on the eve of my wedding, I sit alone at my piano, fingers moving through Chopin's Nocturne in E-flat major. The melancholy notes fill the silence where my voice once lived. The keys feel smooth under my fingers, and I play her a promise. Each note is something I'll do to her body: this crescendo when she comes, this diminuendo when she begs, this fortissimo when she finally breaks for me.
I don't hear Alex enter until he speaks, still perfectly groomed despite the late hour.
"Can't sleep? Nervous about tomorrow?"
My look says what I think of that suggestion.
"She's nothing like Coco was." The name makes my hands freeze on the keys. Coco: Marco's attempted match from five years ago. The society girl who'd seen my scars and run screaming from the room.
"This one won't run," Alex observes, settling into the nearby chair. "She'll fight, not flee."
I nod, returning to the piano but abandoning Chopin for something darker, more passionate. My fingers find notes I haven't played in years, a composition that burns with danger and desire.
"You know she'll try to kill you tomorrow," Alex says quietly. "During the ceremony, probably. When you're distracted."
I nod again, the music building under my hands, violent and beautiful. Tomorrow I marry a woman who wants me dead. My cock hardens at the thought of her trying, of catching her wrist mid-strike, of showing her exactly how her assassination attempt ends: with her bent over the altar while I claim what's mine.
For the first time in ten years, I feel truly alive.
6 - Ana
The small room behind the altar reeks of dust and dead prayers, a thousand confessions rotting in the walls. My hands won’t stop shaking as I lift the white lace of my wedding dress, fingers fumbling for the leather strap cutting into my thigh. Papa’s blade burns against my skin, metal slick with sweat. I practice the motion again: reach, pull, strike. My reflection in the tarnished mirror shows a bride about to shatter, not kill.
Four days since I arrived in Chicago, three since I signed my life away, and I'm already falling apart.
The knife pendant burns against my throat, his gift, his mockery. My fingers shake as I practice once more. Reach, pull, strike. The movement feels wrong, clumsy. When did my hands become so unreliable? The exhaustion makes everything heavy, like I'm moving underwater.
My hair is swept up, neck exposed, bait for a monster. Let him think I'm prey.
In the mirror, my trembling fingers move through familiar signs: "For Papa."
The door opens without warning. I spin, hand already reaching for steel, but freeze. A woman enters, blonde waves framing a face stolen from magazines, but her pale blue eyes hold something sharper. Like looking at a beautiful knife. She moves with liquid grace, each step deliberate. Predator recognizing predator.
"You must be Ana." Her voice drips honey with razors underneath. "I'm Sofia. Dante's sister."
My chest constricts. This is the sister from my research, the one they all protect. She's smaller than her surveillance photos suggested, delicate in cream silk. But I know what hides beneath designer clothes. We're the same species, she and I. Killers dressed as ladies.
