Page 60 of Ruthless Silence
"My perfect storm," I sign back.
After a few minutes, I'm ready to go again. We move together, slower this time, savoring every sensation. Her fingers trace my scars while I map her body with my hands, both of us rewriting our history with each touch. What started in violence has transformed to this: perfect, consuming, complete.
When she comes again, it's gentle, a rolling wave rather than a crash. I follow her over, my release less desperate but somehow deeper. We've moved beyond hunger to something more dangerous, true intimacy.
"Stay inside me," she murmurs as exhaustion claims her. "Need to feel you."
I arrange us carefully, still joined, her head on my chest where she can feel my heartbeat, the only voice I have left that speaks constantly. My fingers trace lazy patterns on her back as she drifts toward sleep.
This is what I was protecting during all those nights in the leather chair. Not just her life but this possibility. This future where we choose each other completely, where our darkness becomes light through proximity, where silence doesn't mean absence but presence too profound for words.
Her breathing evens out, and just before she falls completely asleep, she lets out a contented hum that fills my chest with warmth.
28 - Dante
The territory map bleeds red ink across my desk as Detroit pushes into our southern districts. Marco’s voice carries that measured authority as he outlines response strategies, but something cold settles in my gut. A premonition maybe, or just the memory of Ana’s sleepy smile this morning when I left her tangled in our sheets, her fingers signing “I love you” against my chest before I forced myself to leave.
"The southern route needs restructuring," Marco continues, pointing to shipping lanes. "Detroit's getting bold."
I nod, forcing focus, but my hand finds the paper crane in my pocket. One of Ana's, folded last night while we talked about children, about the future, about everything we almost lost. The jasmine scent of her still clings to my shirt from when she pulled me back for one more kiss.
My phone sits dark on the desk. No messages. She usually sends something by now, even just a photo of her morning coffee or a sign language video that makes me smile. The silence feels wrong.
"Dante?" Marco's voice cuts through. "The Hadley situation?"
"Double the security on those shipments," I sign, but my attention splits. That cold feeling spreads, ice through my veins. Something's wrong. Something's happening.
Then Nico crashes through the door, and his face tells me everything.
"Ana." His signs are frantic, violent. "Taken. Detroit."
The world stops.
Then explodes.
The desk flips before I realize I'm moving. Papers scatter, the territory map ripping as everything crashes to the floor. A coffee cup shatters against the wall, ceramic shards flying. A sound tears from my damaged throat. Not words, just pure rage that makes Marco and Nico step back. The noise that escapes is inhuman, the scarred tissue burning as it tries to form her name. My throat feels like it's tearing open again, desperate to scream what it never can.
My hands find the wall, punch through drywall, needing to destroy something, anything, everything. Blood runs from my knuckles but I can't feel it. Can't feel anything but the absence of her.
The contracts on my desk, the ones I helped her understand last week, my handwriting in the margins explaining the complex English, I tear them to pieces. Worthless. Everything is worthless without her. My fist connects with the window, spider-webbing the glass. In the fractured reflection, I see what my brothers see: not the controlled enforcer they know, but something feral. Something they've never witnessed, not even when I came back from three days of torture.
Marco grabs me, his grip iron on my shoulders. "Dante. Brother. Focus. We'll get her back."
But I can't breathe. My scarred throat convulses, trying to scream, trying to call for her, but only managing that horrible, damaged sound. Can't think past the image of their hands on her. Ana alone, frightened, maybe hurt. Maybe… no. She's alive. Has to be. They'd want me to know if they'd… if she was…
Her taste is still on my lips from this morning's goodbye kiss. Her fingernail marks still sting on my shoulders from last night when she rode me, signing my name as she came. Three hoursago she was beneath me, around me, choosing me. Now they have her. Detroit has what's mine.
"Brother." It's Luca, and for once his voice carries no amusement. "You're scaring Nico."
I look up to find Nico pressed against the door, hand on his weapon. Not to use, just instinct when faced with something dangerous. They're afraid. My own brothers are afraid of what I'm becoming. Good. They should be. Everyone should be.
My hands shake too violently to sign properly. The movements come out broken, desperate: "How? When? The security?"
"She went shopping," Nico reports, military efficient despite the crisis. "Three guards dead. Professional execution. They knew exactly when and how."
Professional. Planned. They've been watching, waiting for the perfect moment when I'd be distracted, trapped in a meeting, unable to protect what matters most.
Another sound escapes my throat, this one pure animal fury. The scar tissue pulls, threatens to tear, but I don't care. Let it rip open. Let me bleed. Nothing matters without her.
