Page 21 of Ruthless Silence
But I'm frozen by the sight of him on his knees, tending to a wound I caused myself in my fury. The possessive way he holds my ankle, like even my injuries belong to him. When he stands, his hand lingers on my calf for a heartbeat too long, and wetness pools between my thighs.
He leaves a note on the counter: "Destroy what you need to. But wear shoes."
His gentleness is crueler than violence. At least I'd know how to fight violence.
By day seven, I'm coming apart at the seams.
He's always there but never intrusive. Watching but not staring. Present but not pressing. The weight of his attention follows me through the house like hands on my skin. This patience of his is a weapon more devastating than any blade, wearing me down hour by hour until I don't know what's real anymore. I'm starting to forget what I'm fighting for.
My fingers find the knife pendant at my throat. When did touching it become a habit? The small blade is warm from myskin, a constant reminder of his mockery, or is it understanding? I can't tell anymore. Everything about him defies what I expected, what I prepared for.
I'm sitting at the dining table, struggling with legal documents about my inheritance. Papa's properties, accounts I never knew existed. The English is dense, full of terms that swim before my exhausted eyes. Tears of frustration blur my vision. Not grief, just pure rage at my own inadequacy. Why does his patience hurt more than violence would?
A shadow falls across the papers. Dante sits beside me, close enough that I catch his scent, cigarettes and that cologne that's becoming too familiar. Close enough that I feel the heat radiating from his body. My nipples tighten, and I cross my arms to hide my body's betrayal. Without asking, he takes my pen and begins writing in the margins, translating the complex legal language into simple English and Italian both.
I want to snatch the papers away, to refuse his help, but I need to understand what I'm signing. His handwriting is precise, patient, explaining not just words but context. He points to a clause that makes my breath catch. I've inherited everything. All of Papa's European properties, accounts in Switzerland, investments I never knew existed.
"Why?" I sign, forgetting my anger in confusion. "Why show me this?"
"It's yours," he signs back. "You should know what you have."
The gentleness of it cracks something in me. "You killed him for this?" The accusation slips out in Italian before I can stop it.
His jaw tightens, the first real reaction I've gotten from him in days. He stands to leave, but my hand shoots out, catching his wrist. The contact jolts through me. His skin is warm, pulse steady under my fingers. It's the first time I've touched him voluntarily since our wedding, since he taught me proper knife technique while I tried to kill him.
He looks down at where I'm holding him, and I snatch my hand back like I've been burned. The skin tingles where we touched, and I know he sees my sharp intake of breath. But he doesn't leave. Instead, he writes on the paper: "I take many things. But not your inheritance. That's yours alone."
That night, I find myself actually laughing at another of his notes, this one about my tendency to leave origami cranes everywhere like "paper breadcrumbs." The sound of my laugh escapes before I can stop it, and I immediately hate myself for it. When did his dry humor start landing? When did I start looking forward to finding his messages?
This patience of his isn't kindness, it's strategy. He's wearing me down with gentleness instead of violence, making me comfortable in my cage until I forget it has bars. Making me notice the way he moves, the way he watches me like I'm something precious and dangerous at once.
Two in the morning, and I'm drowning in dreams of Papa when something pulls me toward consciousness. Not a sound exactly, more like a feeling, a vibration through the walls that makes my skin prickle with awareness.
Then I hear it clearly. Piano music.
The melody is haunting, complex, filled with such raw emotion that my chest tightens. It's classical but not quite, like someone took Chopin and filtered it through darkness and longing. The notes rise and fall like breathing, like confession, like all the words that can't be said finding voice through keys.
I slip from bed, drawn by the sound. The silk robe whispers against my skin as I move. Who's playing? The house is too quiet for it to be anyone but…
That leaves… no. It can't be.
I crack my door open to listen better, and the music floods in clearer. It's coming from somewhere downstairs, probably a room I haven't been shown yet. The melody builds, passionateand aching, and I picture hands moving across keys. The same hands that corrected my knife grip, that bandaged my feet, that sign death threats and apologies with equal grace.
Silent Dante who cannot speak has found another voice.
I stand frozen in my doorway, one hand on the frame, letting the music wash over me. This is him, I realize. The real him, beneath the silence and the watching. This pain and beauty pouring through the notes, this is what he can't sign, can't write, can't show any other way. The thought makes heat flood my cheeks. This dangerous man creating such beauty in darkness.
The music stops abruptly. Did he hear my door?
Footsteps on the stairs, measured but quick. I scramble back to bed, diving under covers, forcing my breathing to slow. The door opens slightly, a sliver of hallway light cutting through darkness.
I pretend to sleep, keeping my breaths deep and even while my heart pounds. He watches from my doorway like a predator deciding if his prey is worth devouring tonight. The weight of his gaze makes my skin burn, and I press my thighs together under the covers, hating my body's response. I can feel him cataloging my position, my breathing, claiming even my sleep as something to monitor. Then the door closes with a soft click.
The leather chair creaks as he settles into his post. My guardian returns, and I lie awake thinking about the music, about the man who creates such beauty in darkness. About how someone who speaks through violence can craft something so achingly tender. The leather creaks with each subtle shift of his weight, and I'm hyperaware of his breathing in the darkness, steady and controlled.
Seven days married, and I'm further from understanding him than ever. The monster I came to kill plays Chopin at two in the morning, and I pretend to sleep while my world tilts off its axis.
10 - Dante
