Page 67 of Ruthless Silence
"To Ana surviving us," Alessandro adds with his trademark smile that makes women stupid and men wary. "Two months of family dinners and she hasn't run screaming yet."
"Give her time," Luca murmurs, but he's smiling that wrong smile that means he's actually happy. "The screaming comes later."
Sofia reaches over from beside me, her manicured fingers finding mine under the table. The squeeze is brief but fierce. "Sister," she says simply, but the word holds everything. Acceptance. Protection. The promise to hide bodies together if needed.
The tears threaten, and I have to look away, catching Nico's gaze across the table. He nods once, that military-precise acknowledgment that speaks volumes. "You fight well now," he says, and from him, it's practically a declaration of love. "Proud to have you watching our six."
"She bites through fingers," Luca adds conversationally, tilting his head. "Fascinating technique. Most people don't commit to the bite. She does. Interesting." From anyone else, it would be disturbing. From him, it's practically a sonnet.
My throat tightens with emotion. These powerful, dangerous people have become my belonging. After years alone, orphaned and angry, training for revenge that turned to love, I have this. A family that would burn Chicago to ash for me, who celebrate my presence at their table like I've always belonged here.
"Vi amo tutti," I say in Italian, then repeat in English: "I love you all."
Dante's hand finds my thigh under the table, steady and warm and possessive. His thumb strokes once, a silent question. His scarred fingers span my entire thigh, claiming even as he comforts. I turn to meet his eyes, and what I see there gives me the final courage I need.
My heart hammering so hard I know Marco hears it. Nothing escapes the Don's notice. Dante's dark gaze locks onto mine, reading the barely contained secret that's about to change everything.
My hands rise slowly, trembling but sure. The room narrows to just us, just this moment, as my fingers form the signs I've practiced until my joints ached.
"You." I point to him.
"Me." Hand to my chest.
"Baby." The sign that will shatter our world and rebuild it stronger.
The silence stretches like the moment before a kill. Dante freezes, his wine glass halfway to his lips, those dark eyes widening as understanding crashes through him. The glass falls, crystal shattering on Italian marble, blood-red wine spreading like all the blood we've spilled. But he doesn't even notice. He's already moving, dropping to his knees beside me. My husband, the silent devil of Chicago, the man who stayed standing through three days of torture, falls to his knees beside my chair. His hands shake as they find my stomach, palms flat against the silk, spanning my entire midsection like he's already shielding what grows there.
That's when I see them. The tears. Silent streams down his face, the first tears I've ever witnessed from him. His shoulders shake with soundless sobs, the scarred throat convulsing with sounds it can't make. This man who couldn't scream when they carved his voice away breaks completely at the promise of new life.
His forehead presses against my stomach, and I thread my fingers through his hair, my own tears falling freely now. We stay frozen like that as the world shifts into something entirely new.
"Ana's pregnant!" Alex shouts, jumping from his chair with enough force to knock it over. "We're having a baby!"
The room erupts into beautiful chaos.
Sofia's beside me instantly, arms wrapped around me, crying into my shoulder while laughing. "A baby," she keeps repeating in Italian and English. "I'll teach them where to hide weapons in designer bags."
Marco's hand finds Dante's shoulder, gripping tight enough to bruise. When I look at the Don of Chicago, his eyes shine with something I've never seen. "This child secures our legacy," he says quietly, but his voice carries emotion that cracks his usual control. "Well done, brother."
Dante signs with shaking hands: "Mine to protect forever. Our blood, our future."
Nico's grinning wider than I've ever seen, his military composure shattered. "A little warrior," he raises his glass. "Poor kid doesn't stand a chance at normal with this family."
"Will it be huge?" Luca asks with genuine scientific curiosity, tilting his head. "Or tiny? The genetic possibilities are fascinating. I could study…"
"Perfect," I interrupt, my hand covering Dante's where it still spans my stomach possessively. "Our child will be perfect either way. Silent or loud, gentle or violent. Ours."
"I'll teach them where to cut for maximum effect," Luca adds cheerfully. "Family tradition. Also genetics. We should discuss blood types."
"Later," Marco cuts him off, but he's almost smiling.
Dante pulls back enough to sign, his movements sure despite his tears: "Ours. Perfect. Forever. Already planning security."
Then he pulls me from my chair into his lap, arms caging me against his chest while our family erupts around us. His hands haven't left my stomach, fingers spread wide like he's already shielding our child from a world that will want to test them. I know what he's thinking because I'm thinking it too. This baby will be born into blood and beauty both. Will learn to sign 'I love you' and 'where's the exit' with equal fluency. Will carry the Rosetti name like armor and weapon combined.
Maria appears from the kitchen, takes one look at Dante on his knees with tears on his face, and bursts into her own tears. "Un bambino! Madonna mia!" She's crossing herself and crying and trying to hug everyone at once. "I cook everything! Everything you want!"
"To the next generation," Marco raises his glass again, and everyone follows. "To Ana and Dante's child. To new beginnings from old endings. To an empire that will last generations."
