Page 15 of Ruthless Silence
7 - Dante
The black town car waits at the church’s side entrance like a hearse, engine purring. I slide in first, claiming the driver’s side, watching Ana hesitate at the door. Her white dress catches on the frame. The fabric tears from our struggle in the sacristy, a rip near her ribs where my hand redirected her blade. She jerks it free with barely controlled violence, making the tear worse.
She settles into the far corner, as far from me as the backseat allows. The dress spreads between us like a barrier, all that virginal white lace hiding the warrior beneath. Through the tear, I catch glimpses of skin that make my cock stir. Her hand disappears into the slit at her thigh, fingers checking what I already know is there.
I pull out my phone, type quickly, hold it where she can read: "It's still there."
Her eyes flash green fire, but she doesn't remove her hand from the blade. Good. Stay armed. Stay dangerous. The leather strap must be cutting into her skin by now, marking her thigh with red lines I want to trace with my tongue.
"Congratulations, Mr.Dante." Tommy's voice from the driver's seat breaks the silence. He's driven for our family twenty years, since before I lost my voice. "Beautiful ceremony."
Ana startles like she'd forgotten anyone else existed beyond us. Her hand emerges from the dress slit, empty but trembling slightly. The reality of witnesses, of a world beyond her failed assassination, settles on her shoulders. I imagine pinning her against the window, making Tommy drive while I show herexactly what being my wife means. The thought makes me adjust myself, cock hardening at the idea of her struggling while I claim what's mine.
I type again, angle the screen toward her: "You have blood on your wrist."
She looks down, finds the thin line of red where my grip redirected her blade in the sacristy. Just a scratch, but it marks her as mine more surely than the ring on her finger. I pull out my handkerchief, pure white linen with my initials embroidered in black, and offer it across the expanse of her dress.
Ana stares at the cloth like it might bite. Her chin lifts in defiance, but exhaustion makes the gesture less effective than she intends. The movement exposes her throat, that knife pendant catching light, and fuck if I don't want to bite the spot where her pulse hammers.
Another message on my phone: "You're my wife now. I take care of what's mine."
"I'm not yours," she signs aggressively, her movements sharp enough to cut.
I don't sign back. Instead, I look deliberately at her left hand where my ring sits heavy on her finger. The proof catches light from the passing streetlamps. The metal I placed there moments ago in the ceremony, binding us in front of God and witnesses.
She follows my gaze, sees her own hand like it belongs to a stranger. The ring is elegant but substantial, impossible to ignore. She tries to twist it, perhaps to remove it, but her fingers are slightly swollen from the day's tension. It won't budge. The futile struggle makes my blood heat. She can't remove my mark any more than she can escape what's coming.
Chicago passes outside the windows, my city welcoming my bride. She watches the skyline with the intensity of someone memorizing escape routes, cataloging street signs she can barely read in English. Her breath fogs the glass slightly, and I catchher scent. Fear-sweat under fading perfume, the copper tang of dried blood. Let her plan. Let her plot. Every scheme she makes just confirms what I already know. She's mine to contain, to control, to keep.
The Rosetti estate gates open before we reach them, guards recognizing the car from a distance. Ana's breathing changes as we enter the compound, shallow and quick like prey sensing the trap. The long driveway curves through manicured grounds, revealing the mansion in stages. Each view more imposing than the last.
Her eyes widen despite her attempt at control. The house is old Chicago wealth mixed with new power, three stories of limestone and ambition. Guards patrol the grounds, subtle but visible to anyone looking. Ana counts them, I see her fingers twitch with each one spotted. Eight exits visible from here, though she'll only find three on her own.
She signs quickly, almost involuntarily: "Prison?"
I sign back with deliberate calm: "Home."
Her laugh escapes, bitter and sharp. Fuck. The sound goes straight to my cock. Even her mockery makes me want to bend her over the leather seat and show her what those sounds could become when she's screaming my name.
The car stops at the main entrance where Marco already waits, his presence commanding even in stillness. His eyes find mine through the window, reading everything in my face. He knows. Of course he knows. The attempted murder, the redirected blade, the fact that I'm not angry but rock-hard with want.
Tommy opens Ana's door first, proper protocol for the new bride. She emerges carefully, fighting her exhaustion and the weight of the dress. The tear in the fabric gapes wider as she moves, flashing pale skin. Marco extends his hand to help her, ever the gentleman Don.
"Welcome to the family, Ana," he says, his voice carrying that particular tone that makes grown men reconsider their life choices.
Ana's mouth opens, closes. The English escapes her tired mind. She manages only a nod, her free hand finding the knife pendant at her throat like an anchor. The gesture makes her breasts rise, and I have to clench my fist to keep from grabbing her right here.
Marco switches to subtle Italian, meant for my ears alone: "So it happened as expected?"
I give him the slightest nod. Yes, she tried. In a church, in front of God, dressed in white lace. Perfect. My cock throbs at the memory.
Marco's mouth twitches, almost a smile. "Good. You needed someone interesting."
Interesting. That's one word for the woman who makes me harder than I've been in years just by promising to kill me.
The front doors open and Maria rushes forward, tears already forming. Our housekeeper since before our mother died, she's waited years for one of us to bring home a bride.
"Finally! Mr.Dante takes a wife!" She doesn't wait for permission, just wraps Ana in a fierce embrace. "Bellissima! So beautiful!"
