Page 19 of Ruthless Silence
His breathing continues its steady rhythm. My enemy's lullaby in the darkness. Each exhale reminds me he's there. Watching. Waiting. As trapped in this arrangement as I am, maybe. Or maybe that's what he wants me to think.
My eyes grow heavy, the exhaustion winning. Tomorrow I'll be stronger. Tomorrow I'll try again. Tomorrow I'll understand his game.
But tonight, I fall asleep to the sound of Dante Rosetti breathing in the darkness, my mind on Papa's blade, both of us suspended in this strange dance between violence and restraint. Between what we're supposed to be and what we are.
9 - Ana
The grandfather clock in the hallway chimes once. Seven thirty.
I pull the silk robe tighter around my nightgown. Where did this even come from? Probably Maria, quietly adding it to my things like everything else that appears in this prison. The fabric whispers against my sensitive skin, too soft, too expensive, too much like being wrapped in Dante's wealth. Each step down the marble stairs is deliberate, measured. The cold floor bites at my bare feet, grounding me in my small rebellion. Let him wait. Let him wonder if his new wife will grace him with her presence at his precious breakfast hour.
Seven thirty-five. My exhausted brain struggles to remember why this matters.
Seven forty. I'm late to breakfast, and the satisfaction of this small rebellion is the only warmth I have.
The dining room doorway frames him perfectly. Dante at the head of the mahogany table, tablet in hand, looking every inch the lord of his domain. Morning light cuts across his profile, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the elegant fingers that scroll across the screen. The same fingers that corrected my knife grip yesterday, that signed "Next time, mean it" while my blade kissed his throat. He doesn't look up, doesn't acknowledge my arrival, but I see the slight tilt of his head. He knows I'm here. He's been waiting.
My nipples tighten against the thin nightgown, and I want to claw my traitorous skin off.
"Mrs.Rosetti!" Maria bustles from the kitchen, her round face lighting up with genuine warmth that makes my chest tighten. "Finally! I worry you no eat. Sit, sit. I make you eggs, yes? Nice soft eggs, the way you like?"
The way I like? How could she possibly know?
My eyes snap to Dante. Still reading, still ignoring me, but there's something in the set of his shoulders that says he's listening to every word, noting every breath. The possessive attention makes heat pool inside me, and I hate myself for it.
"I'm not hungry," I say, the English words careful and cold. My stomach chooses that moment to growl, loud enough that Maria's face crumples with concern.
I sink into the chair across from him, as far away as the table allows. The distance isn't enough. I can smell his cologne from here, expensive and dark, mixing with cigarette smoke. My fingers move in sharp, aggressive signs: "Do you watch me eat too? Add that to your collection?"
Finally, he looks up. Those dark eyes hold mine for a heartbeat, and my pulse races like prey spotting its predator. His hand moves in a casual, one-handed response: "Eat or don't. But Maria worries."
As if summoned by his signs, Maria hovers at my shoulder, wringing her dishcloth. "Please, Mrs.Rosetti. Just little bit? You too thin. Mr.Dante, he say you like crispy bacon, soft eggs, wheat toast with just little butter."
The words land like stones in my stomach. He knows. He's been watching long enough to know how I take my breakfast. The intimacy of it, the presumption, makes bile rise in my throat. What game is he playing?
Before I can respond, Dante slides something across the polished wood. A plate. Already prepared, still steaming. Soft eggs with the yolk perfectly runny. Bacon crisp enough toshatter. Toast golden brown with just a whisper of butter melting into the surface.
Exactly how I like it. Exactly how Papa used to make it on Sunday mornings in Rome, when the world was smaller and enemies were just shadows in other people's stories.
The fury rises like a tide. But it's not really about breakfast. It's about Papa's Sunday mornings that I'll never have again. It's about this man knowing me, studying me, when he took away the one who knew me first. My hand moves before my brain catches up, grabbing the plate and hurling it against the wall with all the strength my exhausted body can manage.
The china shatters into a constellation of white shards. Egg yolk drips down the wallpaper like yellow tears. Bacon crumbles on impact. The crash echoes through the morning silence, violent and satisfying.
Maria gasps, her hand flying to her chest. "Madonna mia!"
But Dante… Dante doesn't even flinch. His eyes never leave his tablet screen. As if wives throw breakfast at walls every morning in the Rosetti house. As if my rage is nothing more than weather, observable but not worth commenting on. His calmness is crueler than violence. At least I'd know how to fight violence.
My hands shake as I sign: "There. Now what? Do you punish me? Show me what kind of monster you really are?"
He sets down his tablet with deliberate calm, his signs slow and measured: "Clean it up or don't. It's your wall now too."
'Your' and 'too', claiming me even in my destruction.
Then he stands, straightens his cuffs, and walks out. Just like that. Leaving me with the destruction I've created, the mess I've made of what could have been a simple breakfast. His cologne lingers in the air, and I breathe it in despite myself.
Maria kneels beside the wreckage, already gathering the larger pieces. "Is okay, Mrs.Rosetti," she murmurs, her voicegentle despite the extra work I've created. "Marriage is… adjustment. Mr.Dante, he understand."
I drop to my knees beside her, suddenly ashamed. This woman has shown me nothing but kindness, and I'm breaking her dishes, staining her walls. "I'm sorry," I whisper in Italian, hoping she understands.
