Page 23 of Ruthless Silence
I hear her move closer, probably to the top of the stairs. Listening but not descending, curious but not surrendering. Perfect. Let the music travel up to her, let it whisper what my hands could never sign clearly enough: I see your pain and match it with my own. Try to kill me tomorrow, and I'll still guard your sleep.
The composition builds again but stays gentle, like violence wrapped in silk. This section is for her, the woman who learned sign language to fight me properly. Who came here for revenge but got a guardian instead.
From above, I hear her shift, maybe sitting on the top stair. The distance between us mapped in notes and floorboards, in melody and silence. She's listening to my only voice, the one that lives in ivory keys and careful composition.
I close the piano carefully, gathering the sheet music, her composition, though she doesn't know it yet. The stairs accept my weight silently as I climb, giving her time. I can hear her scrambling back to bed, feet quick on the floor, the whisper of sheets being hastily arranged.
When I open our bedroom door, she's too still. That controlled breathing that tries so hard to mimic sleep but can't quite manage the random rhythms of true unconsciousness. Moonlight catches on the knife pendant at her throat, the one she wears to bed now like armor or a promise.
I cross to my chair, my prison and post, settling into the leather that's starting to mold to my body after seven nights. She shifts slightly, and instead of turning away toward the wall like every other night, she turns toward me. The small movement stops my breath. Progress or positioning for attack? With Ana, it could be either.
My hands move in the darkness, knowing she's watching through barely closed eyes: "Did I wake you?"
A long pause, then her fingers rise from the sheets, signing: "I wasn't sleeping."
"I know."
The truth sits between us, heavy and electric. We're both always aware, always watching, caught in this dance of violence and something else neither of us wants to name.
Her hands move again: "The music…" Her fingers tremble on the last sign, catching mid-air like she's trying to grab words that don't exist in any language she knows.
She stops, fingers suspended like broken wings.
I wait, but she doesn't continue. Finally, I sign: "Sleep, Ana. Tomorrow you try again."
Her response comes quick: "Tomorrow you might let me succeed."
The almost-smile pulls at my lips: "Not tomorrow."
The words feel like a promise I shouldn't make. Like I'm already too invested in keeping her alive when she's invested in my death.
I settle deeper into the chair, and she shifts again. Still facing toward me instead of away. Her breathing gradually slows, becomes real this time, exhaustion finally winning. But she's turned toward me. After seven nights of showing me her back, she's finally facing my direction.
The composition sits on the floor beside my chair, her song written in my hand. Tomorrow I'll play it again, let her hear more of what lives in the silence between us. Tomorrow she'll try to kill me, and I'll correct her form, and we'll pretend this is about hatred when it's becoming something else entirely.
But tonight, she sleeps facing toward me instead of away, and that small turn feels like the world shifting on its axis.
We're both so fucked.
11 - Ana
Eight nights of his piano music drilling into my skull like beautiful torture. Eight nights of pretending to sleep while he watches from that leather chair. Eight nights of this impossible patience that makes me want to tear my skin off just to feel something real.
I can't take it anymore.
The hallway stretches before me, afternoon light cutting through windows I've memorized from pacing. My exhausted brain processes each step like swimming through honey. His study door stands open, an invitation or a trap. Cigarette smoke drifts out, mixing with something darker. Him. Always him, filling every corner of this house until I can't breathe without tasting his presence.
I don't knock. This is supposed to be my home too now, isn't it?
Dante sits behind his mahogany desk, tablet in one hand, cigarette burning in a crystal tray. The same desk where he helped me with Papa's inheritance papers just days ago. Behind him, the wall displays an arsenal. Antique knives, modern guns, all decorative but functional. A reminder of what he is. He doesn't look up when I enter, but I see the subtle shift in his shoulders. He knows I'm here. He always knows.
My hands move sharply, aggressively signing: "The music bothers me."
Finally, those dark eyes lift to mine. One eyebrow rises, a question without words. He sets down the tablet with deliberatecalm, gives me his full attention. The weight of it makes my stomach flip and wetness gather between my thighs.Madonna, why does his attention affect me like this?
"Every night," I continue, my signs getting sharper. "You play that piano like you're trying to drive me insane."
He takes a slow drag of his cigarette, exhales smoke that curls between us. His hands move with that infuriating grace: "Would you prefer silence?"
