Page 38 of Ruthless Silence
I clutch the fork handle, then his wrist again, torn between violence and surrender. Three days ago, I lost my virginity to this man. Now I'm sitting at dinner with his hand between my thighs, my body betraying me with every breath. Papa didn't just die that night. I'm killing his memory every moment I don't slide this fork between Dante's ribs.
The moment to choose arrives with shattering glass.
The windows explode inward in a shower of crystal and chaos.
"For Carlo!" The shout comes with gunfire, bullets tearing through the air where our heads were seconds ago.
Dante moves faster than thought, his body covering mine as we hit the floor. Glass rains down on his back, his shoulders taking the impact meant for me. I should grab my knife now, should slide it between his ribs while he's pressed against me, protective and vulnerable.
Instead, my hands clutch his jacket, pulling him closer as bullets destroy the room above us. Some instinct deeper than revenge makes me seek his protection, and the betrayal of it burns worse than the glass cutting my shoulder.
"Stay down," he signs against my ribs, his body a shield between me and whatever hell just arrived.
"Like hell," I say his chest, even as I press closer.
"Detroit soldiers," someone screams. "It's Detroit!"
More windows shatter. The crystal chandelier crashes down, sending diamonds of glass across the floor. I count muzzle flashes: ten, twelve, more pushing through the destroyed windows. These aren't random thugs. These are soldiers, trained and coordinated, here for blood.
"For Carlo!" they shout again, and now I understand. This is revenge for whatever rumors we just heard, Detroit making their move, that hothead Carlo they mentioned finally pushing too far.
A bullet splits the table above us, sending splinters into my exposed shoulder. Dante shifts, covering me more completely, his hand finding mine in the chaos. Not romantic, practical. If we get separated in this hell, if one of us dies…
But I'm already holding on, having grabbed his hand without thinking, my body seeking him before my mind could stop it. Even now, even in this chaos, I'm turning to my enemy for safety.
Gunfire erupts from our side now, security responding. The air fills with smoke and screaming and the copper scent of blood. Someone crashes into the overturned table, blood spreading beneath them, and I can't tell if they're ours or theirs.
Dante's body is a cage of protection around me, taking whatever comes, and I hate him for it. Hate him for protecting me. Hate myself more for clutching him closer, for the traitor thought that whispers:Not him. Don't let them take him.
Because if anyone's going to kill Dante Rosetti, it should be me.
Not Detroit.
Me.
18 - Dante
Glass explodes inward like deadly rain, a thousand shards catching the light as they fall. I move without thought, pure instinct taking over as I throw myself over Ana, covering her body with mine. The weight of her beneath me, jasmine perfume mixing with gunpowder and fear registers in a heartbeat as chaos erupts around us.
Her body coils with tension beneath me, ready for violence even pinned under my weight. Three days since we've been dancing around what happened on my desk, and she still moves like she belongs to me, responding to my touch even when she's fighting my protection.
"Stay down," I sign against her ribs, my body a shield between her and whatever hell just arrived.
Through the destroyed windows, I count them: eight, ten, twelve. Detroit soldiers pouring in like roaches, tactical gear and automatic weapons. Not street thugs. Trained killers. The way they move, covering each other's angles shows professional training.
"For Carlo!" The battle cry tears through the restaurant. "The Rosetti bitch dies tonight!"
The Rosetti bitch. Not me. Her.
My blood turns to ice, then fire. They're here for Ana. My Ana. Possessive rage floods my system, making my vision sharpen to crystal clarity. Every exit, every angle, every target cataloged in an instant.
Ana's elbow catches my ribs as she twists beneath me, fighting for freedom. Her breathing changes. She recognizes that name. Carlo. The knowledge hangs copper-thick in the air between us.
I flip our table with one hand, heavy oak crashing down to create cover. Plates shatter, wine spreads across white linen. Temporary barrier, but something.
"Gun," I sign against her ribs. "Right ankle."
She doesn't question, just reaches, her hand finding my backup piece easily. When did she learn to move like this? Who taught her? Jealousy flares hot before I crush it down. Focus now, possess later.
