Page 13 of Ruthless Silence
Sofia circles me slowly, adjusting my veil. "You look beautiful. My brother won't know what hit him."
The words land like ice in my veins. She can't know. It's just an expression. American expressions I still don't understand. But my hand trembles as she smooths the lace, and I see her notice.
"Dante needs someone strong," Sofia continues, stepping back to study her work. "Someone who won't break under the weight of what we are. Be good to him."
Bile rises in my throat. In an hour, she'll be crying over the brother I'm about to take from her. My stomach cramps with the weight of this future grief I'm about to cause.
"I will," I lie, the words ash on my tongue.
Sofia's smile sharpens to something lethal. "Good. Because if you hurt him, I'll make you disappear so thoroughly that even God won't remember you existed."
The threat rolls off her tongue like honey, delivered with the same sweetness as everything else. We understand each other, predator to predator. Then she's gone, leaving only French perfume and guaranteed violence.
The organ music swells and the doors open to reveal an aisle that stretches like a death march. White roses line every pew, funeral flowers, how fitting. The church smells like lilies and incense. I walk alone, no father to give me away, no family to witness this unholy union. My heels catch on my dress, when didI become so clumsy? Each step carries me toward the man who destroyed everything.
Dante waits at the altar in black, looking like death in an expensive suit. The high collar hides his scarred throat, but I know the damage lurks beneath. His dark eyes track my approach, making my skin burn and my pussy clench. Traitor body, responding to enemy eyes. Is he watching his bride or his assassin? Can he smell my intentions through the incense?
Marco stands beside him as best man, authority radiating from his stillness like heat from stone. The other brothers form a wall: Nico with military precision, Alex with casual elegance. And Luca. His smile is wrong for a wedding, too knowing, like he can taste my murderous intent in the air.
The priest speaks but the words blur, Latin mixing with English until nothing makes sense. My exhausted brain catches fragments: "holy union," "blessed by God," "until death." The irony makes me want to laugh. Death is exactly what I'm planning. My white dress whispers against my legs, hiding the leather strap that cuts deeper with each breath.
"Do you, Dante, take this woman…"
He nods while his hands sign "I do" with fluid grace. Those hands that killed my family now promising to honor and protect me. The contradiction makes me dizzy.
"Do you, Ana, take this man…"
The words stick in my throat like broken glass. The priest waits. Everyone waits. Dante's eyes never leave mine, patient as death itself. His cologne mingles with incense, sandalwood and something darker.
"I…" Papa's knife burns against my thigh. The leather strap is cutting off circulation. "I do."
The lie burns my tongue, bitter and choking. I'm lying in God's house, promising love while planning murder.
The rings appear from nowhere. His slides on too easily, like it belongs there. Mine fits perfectly. How did he know? Has he been watching that closely? The metal feels like a shackle.
"You may kiss the bride."
Dante lifts my veil slowly, giving me time to run. His dark eyes hold mine, seeing everything and revealing nothing. The kiss barely exists, a whisper of contact that shouldn't affect me. But his hand cups my neck, thumb pressing against my pulse where it hammers betrayal. The touch burns possessive, claiming, knowing. He feels my racing heart, my body's treacherous response to his proximity. Heat pools between my legs and I hate myself for it.
When he pulls back, that almost-smile plays at his lips. Like he knows exactly what I'm planning and finds it delicious.
The reception line stretches endlessly, a parade of strangers speaking too fast for my exhausted brain to follow. My smile feels painted on, ready to crack.
"Such a beautiful bride," an older woman says, grabbing my face with cold hands. "You'll give him beautiful babies."
The words land hard. Babies. Children. A future that dies today with their father.
"Thank you," I manage, the English thick and wrong on my tongue.
More strangers, more words I don't understand. Something about "happiness" and "blessing" but it all becomes noise. Dante never speaks, of course, but his presence beside me somehow translates my confusion, smooth gestures that communicate what my broken English cannot.
His hand burns on my lower back, steady pressure that feels more like warning than support. Every time I shift toward the blade strapped to my thigh, his fingers press harder. He knows. Of course he knows. Has always known.
Nico approaches, cutting through the crowd. He says something too fast. I catch "car" and "ready" but the rest dissolves into noise. Dante's hand presses harder, he understands my confusion even without words.
Dante signs something I'm too tired to follow, then guides me away from the crowd. His hand never leaves my back as we move through the church toward a door marked 'Sacristy.' Private. Finally.
The room is small, intimate, with stained glass throwing colored shadows like spilled blood across wooden floors. A desk, chairs, a crucifix watching everything.
