Page 53 of Ruthless Silence
Mrs.Rosetti. The name hits different. I chose that name on a Chicago street. Claimed it. I AM Mrs.Rosetti.
"Not hungry," I manage, my voice raw from crying.
"Mr. Dante is worried."
He's worried? After everything? After I've tortured him for weeks, planned his death, made him suffer for crimes he didn't commit?
"Tell him I'm… processing."
Maria's footsteps fade. Alone again with truth.
Dawn light creeps under the door. Have I been here all night? The photos blur through my tears, but one keeps drawing me back. Dante holding Papa, both covered in blood, both trying to save what can't be saved. And Papa's hand on his face, that gesture of gratitude that started this avalanche of truth.
My body remembers his touch, how carefully he handled me even when I was trying to destroy him. The patience in his eyes every time I promised murder. His thumb on my pulse, marking the spot.
Who am I without hating him? Ten years I've been the girl seeking revenge. Without that, without him as my enemy, I don't know who I am.
The confusion settles into my bones as I finally stand on shaking legs. My knees crack from being on the floor so long.
I emerge from the bathroom into our bedroom. His leather chair sits empty, patient as always. The bed where he's never slept because he guards me instead. The indent in the leather from his body, night after night of watching over someone who wanted him dead.
Maybe I can give him something back. Maybe freedom from me, from us, from the weight of our marriage.
Maybe that would be the biggest gift of all.
25 - Dante
Three in the morning, and I hear her in the kitchen.
The sound pulls me from the guest room where I've been staring at the ceiling, counting her breaths through the walls. Three days since I showed her the truth. Three days since her world inverted. Three days of giving her space to process what I've hidden for a decade.
My feet find the floor before I can stop them. The need to see her, to confirm she's still here, drives me toward the door. But I freeze with my hand on the handle. She needs time. Distance. Room to grieve the girl who lived for revenge.
I force myself back to the bed, fingers clenching into fists. Every instinct screams to check on her, to make sure she's eating, drinking, existing as more than a ghost. The sound of cabinets opening, water running, the soft clink of a mug. She's making tea. The same jasmine blend she discovered her third night here. Details I've memorized like a stalker, cataloging her habits like intel on a mark.
When her footsteps fade back toward our suite, I wait another twenty minutes before venturing out. The kitchen still smells like jasmine and something uniquely Ana that makes my chest tight and my cock twitch with the memory of tasting that scent on her inner thighs.
By five-thirty, I'm at the coffee maker, preparing her morning ritual. Two sugars, splash of cream, the exact temperature she prefers. The movements are automatic now,muscle memory from weeks of watching her routine. The mug sits perfect on the tray, steam curling up like an offering.
My cock hardens thinking about her lips on that mug, the same lips that screamed my name when I took her virginity on my desk. I grip the counter until my knuckles match the white marble. Fuck. Even her absence makes me ache.
I set it outside her door, knock twice, then retreat before she can open it. Small gestures that say I'm here without demanding anything in return.
An hour later when I check, the coffee's gone. Good. She's accepting something, even if it's just caffeine.
The paper sits on my desk, and my clumsy fingers attempt what should be simple. Fold here, crease there, but the crane comes out lopsided, one wing higher than the other. Nothing like the perfect birds she creates from grief and memory. Still, I place it beside where the coffee was, this pathetic attempt at speaking her language.
When that disappears too, something loosens in my chest. She's taking what I offer, even if she's not ready to face me.
"She's still here."
Luca enters my study silent as death, his observation hanging in the air like smoke. Three days of waiting, and my psychopath brother chooses now to visit.
I nod, not looking up from the contracts I'm not actually reading. For now, she's still here. The leather chair creaks under my weight, the same sound it made when I watched her sleep for two weeks, when I sat hard as steel, fighting not to climb into bed and remind her body who it belongs to.
"You showed her the truth?" His pale blue eyes track across my desk, noting the scattered papers, the full ashtray, evidence of my vigil. The cigarette burns between my fingers, nicotine the only thing keeping me from losing my mind completely.
Another nod.
