Page 45 of Ruthless Silence
The possessiveness in my signs makes her breath catch. I see her pulse jump in her throat, the same spot I marked with my mouth. The bruise has faded, and I want to put it back. Want everyone to see she belongs to me, especially my brother with his wrong smile and disturbing interest.
"I should hate that," she signs. "Being called yours."
"But?"
She switches to Italian. "But I'm on pain medication and everything feels soft and you're looking at me like…" she trails off, good hand rising to touch my face.
Like I want to devour her. Like I want to wrap her in silk and lock her away where only I can touch her. Like I'd burn the world to keep her safe.
All true.
Her fingers trace my jaw, and I turn to press a kiss to her palm. She tastes like gunpowder residue and the metallic tang of dried blood, like violence and vulnerability. Perfect.
"Sleep," I sign. "I'll watch."
"You always watch," she murmurs, already sinking back into the cushions.
Always.
As she drifts back to sleep, I settle into my chair. On guard. On watch.
Luca's words echo in the silence: "She's going to destroy you."
Maybe. But anyone else who tries to touch her? I'll destroy them first. Brother or not.
21 - Ana
The stairs to the basement feel like descending into my own grave. Each step takes me deeper into a part of the Rosetti mansion I’ve never seen, never wanted to see. The air grows thick with something that isn’t just humidity. It tastes like copper, like all the screams these walls have swallowed.
Like the old wine cellar in Rome where Papa taught me to hide during raids, except this isn't for hiding. This is for something worse.
"You shouldn't be here," Dante signs for the third time, his movements sharp with frustration.
"The attack was on me," I sign back, my own gestures equally aggressive. "I have the right to know why."
My stomach lurches, and I have to swallow bile. Three days ago, when Dante destroyed those men at the restaurant, I thought I'd seen the extent of his violence. But this purposeful descent into a place designed for suffering is different. This is the moment I stop fighting what I've become. Papa's daughter would run. Dante's wife stays.
Behind us, Marco descends with measured steps, his presence filling the narrow stairwell. Nico follows, a notebook in hand, his military bearing making the space feel even more confined. But it's Luca who makes my skin crawl, his footsteps too light, too eager, like we're heading somewhere pleasant instead of hell.
The soundproofing becomes obvious the moment we reach the bottom. The walls are thick, reinforced, designed to containwhatever happens down here. The silence feels alive, pressing against my eardrums.
"Welcome to my workshop," Luca says brightly, gesturing to a heavy metal door. His pale eyes catch the fluorescent lights, making them look almost silver. "I've prepared something special."
The door opens to reveal a sight that makes my stomach lurch. The concrete walls sweat with condensation, or maybe it's old blood that never quite washes away. Each breath fills my lungs with copper and fear-sweat. The room is organized like a surgeon's theater: tools arranged by size, drains in the floor, overhead lights that bleach everything white and merciless. Nothing like the warm shadows of our bedroom where violence is something whispered in the dark.
And in the center, chains securing a man to a metal chair bolted to the concrete. A Detroit soldier I recognize from the restaurant attack.
Blood crusts his face, one eye swollen shut. His breathing comes in wet gasps that suggest broken ribs. But he's alive. Conscious. Watching us enter with his one good eye.
"I saved him as a gift," Luca announces, gesturing to his work like a cat presenting a bird it's tortured but not quite killed. "The others were too damaged to question properly, but this one is perfect for answers."
Dante's hand finds my lower back, not pushing but offering. I can leave. He's giving me the choice. Instead, I step forward into the room.
Marco moves to stand in front of the prisoner, authority radiating from his stillness. "Let's begin simply. Who ordered the attack on the restaurant?"
The man spits, blood and saliva hitting the floor near Marco's shoe. "Fuck you, Rosetti scum."
Nico makes a note, his pen moving across the page with the steady rhythm of someone documenting evidence. Everything recorded in the careful script of a soldier who's seen worse but still keeps track.
