Page 66 of Ruthless Silence
"Could feel you coming," she explains. "No words needed. We speak without speaking."
The truth hits like lightning. Not cursed, blessed. Our language no one else knows. Perfect understanding in silence. She knew I was coming because we don't need words. Never have. My silence isn't weakness, it's our strength.
"The pain led here," she whispers, kissing my scarred throat. The warmth of her lips on damaged tissue sends heat through my whole body. "I love your silence. It's our secret language."
For the first time, I believe it. I'm not broken, just different. Perfect for her.
In our bed, I hold her like she might disappear. Her head on my chest, feeling my heartbeat, the rhythm that speaks when my voice can't. The silk sheets are cool against our skin, but her warmth pressed against me burns away everything else.
"Never leaving you alone again," I sign against her skin.
She laughs softly, breath tickling my chest. "Possessive."
"Yes. Always."
"Good."
For the first time in my life, I'm at peace. Not trapped in silence, free in it. She understands every gesture, every look, every touch.
31 - Ana
The second pink line appears, and my legs give out.
I sink to the bathroom floor, the cold marble biting against my bare thighs as my world tilts on its axis. Three tests spread across the tile like evidence at a crime scene, all screaming the same impossible truth. Positive. Positive. Positive.
It's been over a month since Detroit tried to sell me to the highest bidder. Since Dante painted the city red to get me back. And two weeks of morning sickness I'd blamed on stress, on trauma, on anything but this miracle growing inside me.
My trembling fingers find my still-flat stomach, pressing against the silk nightgown. Somewhere beneath my palm, life grows. Our child. Dante's and mine. Created from love and violence both, conceived on sheets that probably still carry traces of our enemies' blood.
"Madonna mia," I whisper to the empty bathroom, tasting copper from where I bit my lip. The tears come then, hot and overwhelming, but they taste like joy instead of grief for once.
A silent warrior, maybe. Like their father, speaking through touch and presence rather than words. Or maybe loud like I used to be before I learned the beauty of silence. Either way, perfect. Either way, ours. Either way, they'll know both tenderness and how to survive in this world that takes as much as it gives.
I've been learning more signs these past weeks, expanding beyond what I studied before coming to Chicago. New vocabulary for things my year of preparation couldn't anticipate:signs for 'eternal' and 'blessed' and 'grateful.' But none compare to what I'll need to sign tonight. Three simple movements that will shatter his world and rebuild it stronger.
The tests blur through fresh tears as I gather them. After everything, the blood, the betrayals, the near-death, we've created life. Papa would see poetry in that, would quote something about phoenixes rising. From ashes, rebirth. From endings, beginnings. From a marriage that started with attempted murder, a love that could create miracles.
The mirror reflects a stranger as I practice the signs for the hundredth time. My fingers move through the simple gestures: You. Me. Baby. Three signs that will destroy Dante's careful control in the best possible way.
"You. Me. Baby," I whisper aloud in Italian, then English, watching my hands shape our future.
Tonight is a family dinner, the weekly gathering Marco commands regardless of what territories need defending or which enemies need burying. All siblings, no exceptions, no excuses. Even Luca attends, though he usually spends the time describing his work in disturbing detail while we eat.
My hands shake as I choose my dress, soft blue fabric that whispers against my skin, loose enough to hide what doesn't show yet but soon will. The same shade as Dante's favorite tie, the one he wore when he taught me to fight at close range. Maybe he'll notice. Maybe he'll read the message in every choice I make tonight.
"Coraggio," I tell my reflection, Papa's voice echoing in memory. "E forza." Courage and strength. What every Moretti woman needs. What every Rosetti woman oozes.
This child will know their mother can protect them. I'll continue my training, careful now, lighter, but never stopping. This baby will learn strength alongside love.
The door opens behind me, and Dante appears in the mirror's reflection. My body responds instantly. My nipples tighten against the dress, pulse racing, wetness gathering between my thighs. Even now, weeks into our real marriage, he affects me like electricity under my skin.
"Beautiful," he signs, then crosses to press his lips to my shoulder where the dress leaves it bare. His cologne wraps around me, sandalwood and cigarette smoke, and I lean back into his solid warmth.
Tonight. I'll tell him tonight. When our family surrounds us with their violent love.
The dining room thrums with that particular energy only Rosetti family dinners create. Marco sits at the head like the Don he is, commanding the room with stillness while everyone else moves around him. His dark eyes notice everything: the new bruise on Luca's knuckles, the way Sofia's hand rests near her purse where she keeps her gun, how I keep touching my stomach without meaning to.
"To family," Marco raises his wine glass, voice carrying that measured authority. "To surviving another week in this city. To the territories held and enemies buried."
