Page 8 of Ruthless Silence
I nod once. I'm counting on it. The memory of that electric handshake still burns through my palm.
"Try not to kill each other before the wedding," he says, moving toward the door. "Mama's dress needs to be worn by someone, and Ana's the right size."
After he leaves, I remain at the conference table, staring at the contract with our signatures side by side. Ana Moretti and Dante Rosetti, bound in ink if not in truth.
Mine soon. The thought makes my cock hard. She'll come to my bed planning murder and leave it screaming my name. The contradiction of her, exhausted but fierce, small but deadly. Fuck, she's going to ruin me. Or I'll ruin her. Either way, we'll burn.
The hunt has begun, and my prey thinks she's the predator. Perfect. The best kills come from overconfident marks. Except I don't want to kill Ana Moretti. I want to own her. Every furious inch. Every exhausted sigh. Every perfectly signed death threat. Soon she becomes mine by law. How long before she becomes mine by choice? The challenge makes my blood sing in ways violence never could.
I stand and walk to the window, looking out over Chicago spread below. My city. My empire. And soon, my wife who wants me dead.
My reflection in the glass shows that almost-smile still playing at my lips. For the first time in years, something truly excites me. Not just the danger of her, but the challenge. The hunt. The possibility of something I haven't dared want.
Let her come with her studying and her fury and her perfectly practiced signs.
I'll be waiting.
4 - Ana
The conference room door closes behind me with a soft click that echoes in my chest. My palm still burns from his handshake, and I hate that the heat spreads lower, pooling between my legs. The phantom weight of his fingers wrapped around mine makes my skin tingle with something that isn’t fear. Should be fear. Must be fear.
I need to get out. Out of this building, out of this maze of identical hallways, out of the sphere where Dante Rosetti's presence still presses against me.
The corridor stretches endlessly in both directions, fluorescent lights humming overhead. Which way did I come from? Everything looks the same: beige walls, dark carpet, numbered doors that mean nothing to me. I turn left, hoping muscle memory will guide me back to the elevators.
My heels click against the floor, too loud in the silence. Then I hear it: footsteps behind me, matching my pace. Not trying to hide. Following. My fingers find Papa's knife through the lining of my purse, the familiar weight steadying me. Ten years of training, and my body knows exactly where to strike: between the third and fourth rib, angled up. Quick thrust, twist, withdraw.
I don't turn around. In my world, you never let them know you've noticed. Instead, I catalog the sound: heavy tread, confident stride. One of Rosetti's men, making sure I leave the building. Or making sure I don't get lost and wander into something I shouldn't see.
Three turns and I'm lost. The footsteps behind me multiply. Not one man following, but two. They're herding me, I realize, away from the elevators, deeper into Rosetti territory. My hand tightens on the knife's outline. Even forty floors up, even outnumbered, the weapon's presence steadies my breathing.
My mouth tastes like copper. Fear or arousal, maybe both. Because underneath the very real danger, my traitorous body remembers the size of him, how he could pin me against any surface. And instead of fear, heat floods my pussy. This is not the plan.
"You alright, miss?" The voice behind me is professionally concerned. American accent, neutral tone. When I turn, the man is standing exactly ten feet away. Close enough to help, far enough not to threaten. Professional. His jacket hangs wrong on the left side. Armed.
"I am… looking for elevators," I manage, the English words thick on my tongue.
He gestures back the way we came. "You went the wrong direction. This way."
Of course I did. In this maze of American efficiency, even my escape attempts fail.
Three more turns following my shadows, and I find myself at a dead-end, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Chicago's sprawl. The city stretches out below, all glass and steel and foreign ambition. Nothing like Rome's ancient stones that know how to keep secrets.
I press my forehead against the cool glass, trying to steady my breathing. In the window's reflection, I see what Dante saw: a warrior in a dress that doesn't quite fit, exhaustion making me sloppy. He saw my weakness and let me keep my weapon anyway. Arrogance or strategy?
The truth sits heavy in my chest. He knew. His note said he knew I was armed. Did he see it when I adjusted my purse? Feelit when we shook hands? Or have his men been close enough to search my room? The thought of Rosetti hands touching my things, my clothes, makes me want to scrub my skin raw.
He could have had me searched, could have demanded I disarm before entering his presence. Instead, he let me keep it. Let me sit across from him with a weapon that could have ended this before it began.
Why?
Respect for a fellow warrior? Amusement at my pathetic attempt at being dangerous? Or something else. Confidence that even armed, I pose no threat to him? The arrogance of it makes me wet, and I want to tear my skin off for responding to such presumption.
Behind me, my shadow clears his throat. "Elevators are this way, Miss Moretti."
Even he knows my name. In this city of strangers, I'm already marked as belonging to them.
The elevator doors are closing when a hand shoots out, stopping them. My shadow steps aside as another man enters. He's younger than Dante, maybe twenty-nine, with the kind of military bearing that never fully leaves a soldier—6'1" of disciplined muscle that even his expensive suit can't quite civilize. His dark hair is cut buzz short, and when he turns to press the button, I catch sight of black ink on his wrist where his sleeve pulls back. Military tattoos. His hazel eyes assess me in one quick sweep. Even standing still, he looks ready for combat, his left hand hanging in a way that suggests easy access to a weapon.
