Page 47 of Ruthless Silence
"The tongue," Luca suggests conversationally, pulling a knife from his jacket with the casual air of someone offering a pen. "The mouth has fascinating anatomy. So many nerves, so much sensitivity. But he won't need it anymore."
He offers the blade handle-first to Dante, who takes it without hesitation. The prisoner tries to keep his mouth closed, but Dante's thumb finds a pressure point that makes his jaw drop open.
The cut is quick, efficient. Blood pours from the prisoner's mouth as his tongue hits the floor with a wet sound that makes me glad I skipped breakfast. He can't threaten me anymore. Can't speak those vile promises. Can't say my name with that poisonous hatred.
Dante drops the knife and signs to me with bloody hands: "No one speaks of you that way."
The silent declaration hangs between us, more intimate than any words could be. He's marked himself with blood for me, turned himself into something monstrous to protect what's his.
The prisoner gurgles, drowning in his own blood until Nico efficiently turns his head to the side, letting it drain onto the floor. Professional. Practical. Keeping him alive for more questions he can no longer answer.
"May I?" Luca asks, and the politeness of it makes everything worse.
Dante nods once, stepping back but keeping his position between me and the prisoner. United front. Brothers in violence.
Luca approaches the chair like an artist approaching canvas, tilting his head to study the prisoner's face from different angles. "You know, the ocular nerve is remarkably sensitive. Twenty-six muscles control eye movement. All those delicate connections between sight and memory."
He pulls something from his pocket. Not a knife but something medical and precise. "You looked at her. Pictured things. That requires eyes."
The prisoner tries to thrash, but the chains hold him firm. Luca works steadily, making observations about anatomy as he works. "The wonderful thing about trauma to the optic nerve is itaffects memory formation. Can't picture what you can't see. The brain literally cannot reconstruct the images."
Santo cielo, he's destroying this man for words. Just words about me.
I should be horrified. Should be running from this basement, from these men who destroy so casually. Instead, I feel safe. Protected. The warmth in my chest isn't about the violence. It's about these men doing this for me. About being worth this level of protection.
"Almost done," Luca says, his tone academic. "Fascinating how quickly the mind adapts to sensory loss. There. Now you match your future. Dark and empty."
The prisoner's screams have become something else, a keening sound that barely seems human. Blood runs from empty sockets like crimson tears.
I feel Papa's presence like weight on my shoulders, but for the first time, I shrug it off. His ghost has no place in this basement, in this choice I'm making.
Dante turns to me, and I see the question in his eyes. His hands move: "Too much?"
The truth escapes before I can stop it: "He threatened me. Deserved worse."
Marco raises an eyebrow, something like approval in his expression. Nico nods, making another note. She's family now. But I only have eyes for Dante, blood-covered and beautiful in his violence.
My hands shake as I sign, not from fear but from the effort of not crossing the room to him: "No one touches me."
"No one but me," he signs back, and the possession in it makes my knees weak.
"No one but you," I sign, and the admission burns through me like fire.
It's the first time I've said it, admitted what we both know. I belong to him. Not by force or contract, but by choice. By the way my body sings when he protects me, the way I crave his violence as much as his touch.
The prisoner dies slowly, drowning in his own blood while blind to the world that's leaving him behind. It's not quick. Not merciful. It's a lesson written in suffering.
Papa would be weeping if he could see me here. His daughter standing in a torture chamber, finding comfort in violence done in her name. He raised me to be strong but not this. Not someone who sees love in blood spilled for her protection.
But Papa's dead. Has been for ten years. And the daughter he raised died the moment Dante was inside me, claiming me in ways that can't be undone.
"Dump him at the edge of the city," Marco says finally. "Let Detroit find him like this. Send a message about touching what's ours."
Ours. The word echoes in the blood-soaked space. I'm theirs now. Part of this family that destroys together, protects together, chooses violence together.
As we file out of the basement, Dante's hand finds mine. His fingers are still wet with blood, and I don't care. I lace our fingers together, his violence and my acceptance mixing on our joined hands.
The stairwell is narrow, forcing us close. I stop him halfway up, needing to say this in the space between hell and home.
