Page 11 of Ruthless Silence
I nod. Ten years of perfect control, shattered by a woman who learned sign language to tell me she hates me. The irony burns: she's the first person to truly speak to me in a decade, and she uses that gift to promise murder. It makes me want to fuck the hatred out of her.
Evening shadows stretch across the city when I get home and settle into my plush office chair before my monitors.
Luca slides in uninvited, bringing the copper scent of fresh blood. He moves with that unnatural silence that makes even hardened soldiers nervous. His pale eyes find the screens immediately, cataloging Ana's image with academic interest.
"She's pretty on camera," he observes, tilting his head. "May I meet her before the wedding?"
My hand slams the table, a rare display of temper that makes even Luca pause.
"Possessive already?" Luca's voice remains conversational. "How unlike you, brother. You've never cared about your toys before."
He doesn't step back, just smiles that wrong smile. "I could teach her things. She holds the knife wrong. I could show her the proper angle for maximum damage."
I pull my tablet closer, writing a single word: "No."
The temperature drops as I tower over him. Luca raises his hands in mock surrender, blood still under his fingernails from whatever he was doing before this.
"Your toy, your rules," he murmurs. "Though you used to share everything with me, brother. Remember?"
After he leaves, I immediately text Marco: "Luca doesn't go near her. Ever."
After a few moments, Marco replies: "I'll send him away for a week after the wedding."
One week won't be enough, but it's a start.
The mandatory family dinner fills the formal dining room with familiar chaos and casual violence. Marco enters first, checking his phone for updates on Friday's shipment. Nico's already at the table, cleaning his Glock with military precision.
"Perimeter's secure," he reports. "Two cars on the Moretti girl, like you ordered."
Alessandro breezes in, all six feet of calculated charm wrapped in a designer suit. At twenty-seven, he's inherited our mother's green eyes but weaponized them with a flirtatious smile that makes people forget he speaks four languages and never forgets an insult. His dark hair has that perfect wave that looks effortless but probably takes him twenty minutes toachieve. The gold lighter he spins between his fingers catches the light—he doesn't smoke, just likes having something to occupy his hands while his mind breaks apart everyone's weaknesses. A thin scar cuts through his left eyebrow, and naturally, it only adds to his appeal.
"Family dinner or funeral? You all look thrilled." Alex's charm fills the room, smoothing tension. "The Hadley negotiators finally saw reason. Amazing what a good wine and careful conversation can accomplish."
Sofia arrives last in cream silk that makes her look delicate, like something that might shatter if handled roughly—a carefully crafted lie. At twenty-five and only 5'6", our baby sister appears fragile next to her brothers, but I've seen her kill a man in stilettos without breaking stride. Her blonde waves frame a face that belongs on magazine covers, and those blue eyes, pale like Luca's but warmer, miss nothing.
She sits beside me, the only one I allow that close, and immediately signs: "You look tired. When did you last sleep?"
I sign back: "When did you last kill someone?"
She laughs, the sound musical and sharp. "Tuesday. It was therapeutic."
"So the Moretti girl," Alex says, swirling his wine. "Is she pretty enough for our silent prince?"
"When did you last fuck someone, Dante?" Sofia asks, studying her perfect manicure. "Your hand doesn't count."
My look promises violence, but it's protective warning, not anger. Sofia knows exactly how long it's been: five years since Coco saw my scars and ran screaming.
"Gift for the bride?" Alex asks, changing the subject smoothly.
I pull out the small velvet box, setting it on the table. Inside, a delicate silver chain holds a pendant: a tiny knife, detailed down to the serrated edge. Sofia examines it with interest.
"It's actually beautiful," she says, holding it to the light. "Deadly, though."
"Like his bride," Luca says softly from his corner, that unsettling smile playing at his lips.
My stare promises violence if he goes near Ana.
Nico speaks up. "She's been training. Knife work every morning, 6 AM sharp."
