Page 68 of Ruthless Silence
"To tiny humans who'll probably be scarier than all of us combined," Alex laughs.
"To teaching them proper knife technique from birth," Luca adds with disturbing sincerity.
"To having someone new to protect," Nico says, already planning defensive strategies.
"To my nephew or niece who'll have the best shopping trips," Sofia grins through tears. "And perfect aim."
The toasts continue, overlapping, chaotic, perfect. This is my family. Not the one I lost but the one I chose. The one that chose me back. These people who accept that joy comes edged with violence, that love means being willing to destroy for each other.
Dante's scarred hands frame my face, and he mouths words his throat can't speak but I understand anyway: "Thank you."
Our child will never know the loneliness I knew. Will never question if they're loved, wanted, protected. They'll grow up in this chaos, this intensity, surrounded by family who kills together and celebrates together with equal passion. They'll know that Uncle Luca's disturbing stories mean love, that Aunt Sofia's weapons lessons are affection, that Uncle Marco's silence means approval.
"We're having a baby," I whisper against Dante's scarred throat, tasting salt from his tears. "Our baby."
His arms tighten around me, possessive and protective and perfect. His heartbeat against my chest speaks what his voice cannot: steady, strong, eternal. We're complete now. Whole. A family forged in blood and revenge, transformed into something beautiful and lasting and ours.
Forever.
Epilogue–Ana
It’s six months since I discovered the miracle growing inside me, the life we created from all our death and violence.
The nausea still hits some mornings, though gentler now that I'm showing. My hand curves over my swollen belly as I stand before our bedroom mirror, marveling at how my body has transformed. The silk dress Marco gifted me last week flows over my new curves, designed to accommodate my growing stomach while still allowing access to the knife strapped to my thigh. Because even pregnant, especially pregnant, I stay armed in this world that would test us.
"Madonna mia," I whisper, feeling our child shift inside me. Active already, this little warrior. Dante says they're practicing their combat moves, preparing for a world that will require both tenderness and teeth. My fingers trace patterns on my belly, and I swear the baby responds, pressing against my palm like they already know my touch.
Tonight is family dinner. Marco demands attendance regardless of what territories burn or which enemies need burying. All the siblings will be there, gathered around that massive table where we've celebrated victories and planned vengeance in equal measure. These dinners have become my favorite tradition, proof that I belong here, that this family claimed me completely.
Papa would understand this, choosing to create life in a world that takes it so easily. He'd be proud that his daughter found love where she sought revenge, built family from ashes.
The dining room glows with candlelight and barely contained chaos. Marco sits at the head of the table, surveying his siblings with that measured authority. Sofia passes the wine, her laugh bright as she teases Alex about his latest romantic disaster. Nico cleans his gun at the table, a habit Marco's given up trying to break, while Luca scrolls through his phone with unusual focus. Guards check windows even during our family meal, a reminder that joy here always exists alongside danger.
"To family," Marco raises his glass, the crystal catching light. "To another week survived in this city that wants us dead."
"To Ana not poisoning the pasta," Alex adds with that devastating smile. "Though after six months of practice, she's actually getting decent. Almost edible now."
"It wasn't that bad last week," I protest, but I'm smiling. These dinners have become my altar, these people my religion. Every scar on these walls tells our story.
Dante's hand finds my belly under the table, palm warm and possessive over where our child grows. He's been unable to stop touching me since we found out, his hands constantly seeking proof of the miracle we created. His fingers span my entire stomach now, protective even in this simple touch.
"How's my nephew doing?" Sofia asks, practically glowing with excitement. She's been buying baby clothes since the day we told everyone, designer onesies mixed with tiny bulletproof vests.
"Niece," Nico corrects, not looking up from his Glock. "It's definitely a girl. I can tell by how Ana carries."
"Blood type probabilities suggest either is equally likely," Luca murmurs, but he's distracted, checking his phone again with that wrong smile playing at his lips. "Though the bone structure development at this stage is fascinating."
"Hot date?" Alex jokes, noticing Luca's focus on his phone. "Someone finally crazy enough to match you?"
"Something like that," Luca says softly, and for just a moment, he turns the phone toward us. A young woman in a church, blonde hair catching stained glass light, completely unaware she's being photographed.
"Pretty," Sofia says, though something in her voice suggests discomfort. "Who is she?"
"Faith Winters." Luca says her name like he's tasting it. "The judge's daughter. She prays for her father's safety every Sunday. Such a devoted daughter." His smile widens in that way that makes sane people reach for weapons. "I wonder what she'll pray for when she's mine."
Marco's voice cuts like a blade. "The judge is the problem. Leave his daughter alone."
"Define 'alone,'" Luca murmurs, pulling up another photo. This one shows her inside her apartment, unaware. "I haven't touched her. But she has such interesting habits. Did you know she sleeps with a knife under her pillow? Just like Ana used to."
