Page 49 of Ruthless Silence
The sob tears from my throat before I can stop it.
"Oh God. Oh God, what have I done?"
The photo blurs through my tears, but I can't look away. Papa's fingers on Dante's cheek, the same gesture he used tocomfort me as a child. And Dante's face. Younger, unscarred at the throat, but his eyes…Madonna, his eyes hold such anguish. Such desperation. The face of a man watching someone die that he's trying desperately to save.
My mind races back to our wedding day. The sacristy. My knife at his throat. The way he caught my wrist, not rough but absolute. How he adjusted my grip with patient hands, teaching me to kill him properly. "Next time, mean it," he'd signed.
He knew I was wrong about him. Knew I was aiming my hatred at an innocent man. And he helped me anyway. Taught me anyway. Because he felt guilt from that night, but not in the way I thought. Because he thought I needed it.
More documents. Medical reports dated three days after the massacre. Dante Rosetti, admitted with severe injuries. Vocal cords severed. Evidence of systematic torture. Burns, cuts, wounds that match the scars I've traced with my fingers. They tortured him. After he tried to save my family, someone tortured him for three days.
My fingers find the worst of it. A close-up photo of his throat injury. Fresh. Raw. The surgical precision of it makes my stomach turn. This wasn't rage. This was deliberate silencing. Someone wanted to make sure Dante Rosetti could never speak about what he saw that night.
A single page in Dante's precise handwriting. A timeline:
Received intel about pending attack at 9:45 PM. Assembled team immediately. Arrived to find massacre in progress. Roberto Moretti (brother of Romeo) dead. Romeo Moretti dying. Ana Moretti, whereabouts unknown, presumed dead. Attackers' identity: Unknown. Russian connections suspected.
My legs give out. I sink to the floor, photos scattering around me like broken wings. Each image is another nail in the coffin of who I thought I was.
"He didn't… he never… oh God, what have I done?"
I tried to kill him. Multiple times. On our wedding day, I held a knife to the throat they'd already destroyed. I called him a monster, a killer, my family's destroyer. And he just… let me. Took my hatred like penance for a crime he didn't commit.
The memory crashes through me. That first night in his bed, me clutching Papa's knife, him watching from his chair. "I hate you," I'd signed, the movements violent enough to hurt my wrists. And his response, patient as always: "I know."
He knew. He knew I hated him for something he didn't do, and he signed "I know" anyway. Let me hate him. Let me plan his death. Let me sleep with a weapon meant for him. Night after night, sitting in that chair, protecting someone who wanted him dead.
Why?
My mind reels back to that night in his study when I'd thrown his ring at him, demanded he act like the monster I needed him to be. The way his control had cracked, how he'd caged me against the desk. "You want a monster?" he'd signed, and I'd said yes, God help me, I'd said yes. And even then, even when I was begging him to be cruel, he'd been gentle. Careful. Making sure not to actually hurt me even as I demanded violence.
The photos blur through my tears. How many times did I sign "I hate you" while he signed back "I know"? How many nights did he sit in that chair, guarding my sleep, while I plotted his death? He made love to me knowing I planned to kill him after. Loved me despite my hatred. Protected me even from the truth.
"I'm the villain," I whisper to the evidence surrounding me. "I've always been the villain."
Ten years. Ten years of shaping myself into a weapon aimed at an innocent man. Ten years of Papa's ghost demanding vengeance against the wrong person. Ten years of Dante carrying the weight of my family's death and my hatred both.
The medical report details more injuries. Defensive wounds on his hands from trying to protect my father. A bullet graze on his shoulder from taking fire meant for Uncle Roberto Moretti. He bled for my family before they made him bleed for trying.
I remember touching those scars, tracing them with my fingers while he stood still as stone, letting me explore his damage. "Who did this?" I'd asked, hoping and dreading it was my father. He'd shrugged, but his eyes had held murder. Not for my family. For whoever actually destroyed us both that night.
My body remembers his touch, how carefully he handled me even when I was trying to destroy him. The memory of his cock inside me burns through my grief. How he claimed me on his desk, made me his completely, knowing I still planned his death. "Mine to protect," he'd signed with bloody hands in that basement, and I'd finally understood. Not possessive. Protective. He'd been trying to keep me safe even from my own misguided vengeance. How can someone love that deeply, that selflessly? How did I not see it?
Another photo catches my eye. Dante being dragged away by the attackers. His face is turned toward the camera, and even through the blood, I can see him looking back. Looking toward where Papa died. Still trying to get back. Still trying to save a man who was already gone.
"You let me hate you," I whisper to the photo, my tears dropping onto the glossy surface. "You let me call you a monster. Let me try to kill you. Because you thought I needed someone to blame. And because you blamed yourself for their deaths, in a way, because you couldn't save them."
Who am I without my revenge? Without my hatred? Without the purpose that brought me here?
Just a woman who's been torturing the one person who tried to save everyone I loved.
I remember the restaurant attack, how he'd moved to cover me without hesitation. His body over mine, taking glass meant for me. And after, when those Detroit soldiers had threatened me with such vile promises, how he'd destroyed them. Not for territory or power. For me. Always for me. "No one touches what's mine," he'd signed, and I'd thought it was possession. It was protection. It's always been protection.
Every sign he's ever made takes on new meaning. Every patient look when I promised murder. Every gentle touch when I expected violence. The way he played piano at two in the morning. Not just expression but confession. Playing out the truth he couldn't sign, wouldn't sign, because he thought my hatred was keeping me alive.
My fingers find another document, this one in Nico's military-precise handwriting:Subject refuses to identify attackers despite extensive interrogation. Claims memory loss from trauma. Medical evaluation confirms severe psychological distress but suggests selective amnesia. Recommendation: Do not pursue. D's protecting something or someone.
Protecting me. Even then, even under interrogation, he was protecting me from a truth he thought would destroy me. Let everyone think the Rosettis were responsible rather than leave me with no one to blame, no way to channel my grief.
