Page 48 of Ruthless Silence
"I want to belong to you," I whisper, the words barely audible.
He turns, presses me against the wall with his body. Not aggressive, just desperate to be close. His forehead touches mine, and I breathe him in. Blood and sandalwood and dark promise. His whole body shudders with need barely contained.
"You already do," he signs with his free hand against my hip. "Have since the moment you walked into that conference room with a knife meant for me."
Maybe he's right. Maybe I've been his since that first day, fighting it, denying it, but always circling back to this truth. I'm not the girl Papa raised. I'm not the woman who came here for revenge.
I'm Ana Rosetti. Wife to a monster who kills for me, bleeds for me, turns himself into nightmare for anyone who threatens me. And God help me, there's nowhere else I'd rather be.
Behind us, Luca's footsteps echo too light, too pleased. "Young love," he observes with that wrong smile in his voice. "So beautifully violent."
I squeeze Dante's bloody hand and lead him up into the light, leaving the dying prisoner and my father's expectations behind in the basement where they belong.
Tonight, I'll dream of violence and wake up warm with the memory of being protected so thoroughly. Tomorrow, I'll have to reconcile who I've become with who I was supposed to be.
But right now, climbing these stairs with my monster's blood on my hands, I've never felt more myself. Ana Rosetti. His.
And anyone who threatens that will learn what happens when you touch what belongs to the silent devil of Chicago.
Papà mi perdoni.Papa, forgive me.
But I no longer need his forgiveness. I've chosen my monster, and he's chosen me.
22 - Ana
Papa’s knife slides into the lock of Dante’s desk drawer, the same blade I once pressed to his throat. My hands shake from the weight of violating the only trust he’s ever asked of me.
The mechanism clicks softly. Too loud in the silence of three AM, but Dante doesn't stir from his leather chair. Actually asleep for once. In two weeks of marriage, I've never seen him truly rest. He's always alert, always watching, even when pretending to sleep. But now his chest rises and falls in deep, even breaths. His face looks younger in sleep, the harsh lines softened, the weight of violence temporarily lifted.
Moonlight cuts across his features, highlighting the scar at his throat. The damaged tissue that stole his voice. Someone did that to him. Deliberately. Cruelly. The same night Papa died.
The basement violence from hours ago still clings to my skin like smoke, like blood that won't wash off no matter how hard I scrub. Every time I close my eyes, I see that prisoner's empty sockets, hear Luca's casual humming as he worked. Feel the twisted arousal that flooded me watching them destroy for me.
But it's the questions that drove me from bed, that put Papa's blade in my hand for a different purpose than murder. What secrets does my husband keep locked away? What truths has he hidden while taking my hatred like penance?
My fingers ease the drawer open, terrified of what I'll find. Evidence of more murders? Plans to eliminate me once I've served my purpose?
But what spills out makes my blood freeze.
A manila folder labeled "Moretti - 2015."
That's the year. The year everything ended. The year Papa died.
My trembling fingers open the folder, and photographs cascade onto the desk like accusations. But not accusations against him. Against everything I've believed.
Security footage printouts, time-stamped and dated. The night of the massacre. But the timestamps… they don't match what I was told. What I've believed for ten years.
9:48 PM - Armed men entering the warehouse. I lean closer, my heart hammering. The tattoos on their necks aren't Rosetti marks. The ink is different. Cyrillic letters. Russian? But we were told…
9:52 PM - Gunfire erupting. The timestamp burns into my retinas. The killing had already started. Already started when…
9:58 PM - Dante arriving with backup. Not leading the attack. Arriving after it began. The photo shows him and his brothers fighting the attackers, not joining them. Fighting to get through. Fighting toward…
"No no no no no. This can't be right."
But the evidence continues, each photo more damning than the last. Dante fighting through waves of the real attackers. Dante reaching the conference room where Papa was. And then the photo that breaks me completely:
Dante cradling my father's body, Papa's blood soaking his clothes. But it's Papa's hand that destroys me. Resting on Dante's face not in accusation but in something that looks like… gratitude? A blessing? Like he's thanking the man trying to save him.
