Page 46 of Ruthless Silence
"I'll ask again," Marco says, his voice never changing pitch. "Who ordered the hit?"
"Carlo sends his regards," the prisoner gasps, then laughs, the sound wet and wrong. "From hell."
Carlo. The name from dinner before the attack. The men had been discussing him, that hothead whose cousin just got out of prison. The one pushing boundaries in Detroit. But they said he was alive then, making moves. Now he's dead?
I look to Dante, confused by the timeline.
His hands move in explanation: "Detroit prince. Died last year in a territory dispute."
"But at dinner they said…" I start to sign.
"Different Carlo," Marco interrupts, understanding my confusion. "The son died last year. The father took the same name. It's tradition in their family. Carlo Senior is who they discussed at dinner."
"His son's death demands blood," the prisoner continues, eyes focusing on Marco with fevered intensity. "Rosetti blood. Any Rosetti blood. Carlo Senior won't stop until Chicago bleeds."
"Carlo Junior died in his own stupidity," Marco states, like reading a weather report. "Nothing to do with us."
"His father disagrees." The prisoner's one good eye swings to me, and something in his gaze makes my skin crawl. "Especially about her."
Recognition flares in the prisoner's face as he truly sees me for the first time. His split lips curve into something that might be a smile if it wasn't so grotesque.
"The Moretti whore," he says, the words dripping with venom. "We heard about you. The last of your line, spreading your legs for the family that butchered yours."
The temperature in the room drops to something arctic. Every brother goes statue-still, that predator stillness that comes before violence erupts. The fluorescent lights seem to dim despite not flickering. Even Luca stops examining his tools.
"When we take Chicago," the prisoner continues, his voice gaining strength from pure hatred, "you're the prize. Carlo's father promised you to whoever brings him Dante's head."
My stomach turns, but I keep my face neutral. I've heard threats before. Been called worse names. But never this specific, never this planned.
"We know everything about you," he leers, and ice floods my veins. "Carlo's father has been watching, planning exactly how we'll mark that pretty skin. Every detail of your routine, every weakness."
Madonna mia.They've been watching me. My hands shake, not from fear but from the effort of not crossing the room to Dante.
The threats become more graphic, more vile. He describes exactly what they'll do, how they'll break me, use me, destroy me piece by piece. Each word paints pictures I don't want in my head, violence so specific it's clearly been discussed, planned, savored in their sick fantasies.
"Pass you around the warehouse," he continues. "Every soldier who lost someone to the Rosettis gets a turn. Teach you what happens to traitor cunts who forget their blood."
The brothers have gone beyond tense. They're frozen in that moment before everything breaks loose. The room feels like the instant before lightning strikes.
"Then we'll send what's left back to Italy," the prisoner concludes, "so everyone knows what happens to Moretti women who betray their blood for Rosetti cock."
The silence that follows is absolute. No one moves. No one breathes.
Then Dante steps forward.
There's no warning, no telegraphing of intent. One moment he's beside me, the next his hand wraps around the prisoner's smallest finger. The snap echoes off the concrete walls, followed immediately by a scream that doesn't sound human.
But Dante's just beginning.
The second finger snaps with the same slow, deliberate precision. Then the third. Dante works steadily, his movements controlled, almost surgical. Each snap is purposeful, measured, giving the prisoner time to feel each break before the next begins.
This isn't rage. It's something colder, more terrifying. A promise written in broken bones.
The prisoner's screams have dissolved into whimpers, animal sounds of agony. But Dante isn't finished. He moves to the other hand, and the slow destruction begins again. One finger. Two. Each break deliberate, unhurried.
Through it all, his eyes never leave mine. Dark, possessive, asking a question I don't know how to answer. Is this what you want? Is this who you need me to be?
Dio mio, yes. The thought arrives unbidden, unwanted, undeniable. I've seen him violent before, with Giuseppe, at the restaurant, but this calculated destruction for my honor makes my body respond in ways that should shame me.
