Page 2 of Ruthless Silence
Another sharp gesture from me. Conversation ended. This time, he takes the hint. I move back to my desk, needing distance from his copper-blood scent.
"She'll try to kill you," Luca says from the doorway, not quite ready to leave. "First night, probably. Maybe second if she wants to build trust first." His smile turns wrong, the kind that makes people cross streets to avoid him. "It's what I'd do. Want me to search her for weapons when she arrives?"
I meet his gaze steadily, my look saying everything:She's mine to handle.
"The silent devil and his vengeful bride," he murmurs, that soft laugh escaping. "How absolutely poetic. The family must be so proud of this diplomatic solution." He pauses, studying me with those pale eyes. "You know she's not coming here to play house, right? This isn't some romance novel where the enemy's daughter falls for her captor."
I don't need him to tell me what Ana Moretti wants. I've seen it in every surveillance photo, in the way she visits her father's grave, in the words she practices in sign language. She's coming here for blood. Mine, specifically.
Let her come.
"Just remember," Luca says, finally stepping back into the hallway, "when she does make her move, I offered simpler solutions. But you always did prefer things complicated."
The door closes behind him with a soft click, leaving me alone with my bride's photos and the weight of what's coming.
My hand trembles slightly as I ash the cigarette. Fuck. When did I start losing control over a photograph? Ten years of perfect discipline, and this Moretti woman threatens it with just her image.
The locked drawer in my desk calls to me, and I give in to the urge. The key turns silently, revealing contents I rarely examine anymore. Old photos from before that night. My father with Roberto Moretti, actually laughing at some long-forgotten joke. Another of all us kids at a summer party, Ana just a child in her uncle's arms while I stood sullen and teenage-angry in the background. We were supposed to be family once, all of us.
I close the drawer quickly, locking those ghosts away where they belong.
Ana's surveillance photos draw me back. My fingers linger on the one where she's signing, her hands graceful even in frozen motion. She's been studying for a year, the lawyer said. A year of preparation to speak to the man who destroyed her family. That kind of dedication deserves respect, even if it's motivated by revenge.
The photo of her at the shooting range makes my blood heat. The controlled violence in her stance, the focus in her eyes. Fuck, I want to see that intensity when she's under me, when I'm inside her, when she's fighting between hating me and coming apart in my hands.
The St.Christopher medal around my neck catches the light as I lean forward, studying her face. My mother gave it to me before she died, told me it would protect me on dangerous journeys. I wonder what she'd think of this particular journey.Marrying the niece of a dead enemy, bringing a viper into our nest.
Because that's what this comes down to. Ana Moretti is walking into my world thinking she knows what kind of monster she's marrying. She's prepared for the silent killer, the mute devil who haunts Chicago's underworld. She's probably even prepared to die for her revenge.
What she's not prepared for is the truth. That I've been waiting for her too. That in all these years of silence, she's the first person who bothered to learn how to speak to me properly. Enemy or not, she's about to become mine.
And I protect what's mine.
Even from herself.
2 - Ana
The bathroom stall at O’Hare smells like industrial cleaner and desperation. I trace Dante Rosetti’s signature on the marriage contract—bold strokes, confident loops. The same hands that created these letters killed my family. In three days, those hands will touch me as my husband.
Somewhere in this sprawling city, the silent devil waits for me.
Someone rattles the stall door. "Anyone in there?"
"Occupied!" The English word comes out sharp, one of the few I can say without my accent betraying me.
I fold the contract carefully, sliding it back into Papa's leather portfolio. The initials worn smooth under my thumb, R.M., Romeo Moretti, remind me why I'm here. Not for peace. For blood.
The airport corridor stretches endless before me, my oversized suitcase catching on every crack in the worn linoleum. Around me, Americans move with purpose I can't match, their voices blending into an incomprehensible wall of sound. The bathroom was sanctuary. Out here, I'm drowning.
"Excuse me, hon, you lost?" A woman with kind eyes and too-bright lipstick touches my elbow.
The English words swim in my exhausted brain. Lost. Yes, that one I know.
"I… I need to find…" What's the word? My textbook English crumbles under pressure. "The cars? For leaving?"
She smiles, points toward a sign. "Ground transportation, sweetie. Down that way, follow the signs."
Ground transportation. The words feel clumsy in my mouth as I repeat them, trying to match her accent. The portfolio burns against my side, Dante's signature seared into my memory. This is why I'm here. This piece of paper that will bind me to a monster.
