Page 9 of Ruthless Silence
I recognize him from my research: Nico Rosetti, the soldier of the family.
"Miss Moretti." He nods politely, pressing the lobby button though it's already lit. "Congratulations on your engagement, ma'am."
The English comes so fast I barely catch it. "Thank… yes… I am…" The words tangle on my tongue, frustration burning in my throat.
He must see my struggle because he switches to slower, clearer English, each word carefully pronounced. "My brother is a good man."
The laugh escapes before I can stop it, bitter and sharp. "Your brother is killer." The words come out harsh, my accent making them sound even more accusatory.
Nico's face hardens, but not with anger. Something else. Understanding, maybe. Or pity. His hand hovers near his hip. A gun, of course there's a gun. "We're all killers, Miss Moretti. The difference is, Dante is the one who bleeds for it. Question is, will you make him bleed more, or will you stop the bleeding?"
The elevator descends in silence while I try to parse his words. Bleeds for it. What does that mean? My English fails me, the phrase not matching anything in my textbooks. Does he mean Dante regrets? Suffers? Or something else entirely?
"I don't understand," I finally admit, hating how small my voice sounds.
Nico studies me for three more floors before responding. "After the wedding, you'll understand. Or you'll be dead. Either way, the bleeding stops."
The threat lands like ice water, clarifying and terrifying in equal measure. The elevator opens to the lobby, marble and glass and American excess. Nico gestures for me to exit first, ever the gentleman soldier with death on his hip.
"Friday," he says as I pass. "Don't be late."
As if I have a choice. As if any of us have choices anymore.
The taxi driver's face lights up with recognition. "Hey! Wedding girl! I knew it was you. How'd the meeting go?"
I slide into the backseat, my body suddenly too heavy to hold upright. His cologne lingers in my nose. That subtle expensivescent that surrounded me when he stood to shake hands, sandalwood and something darker that clung to the air between us. I want to scrub my skin raw, wash away his scent, but I know it's already under my skin, mixing with my hatred until I can't separate one from the other.
"You okay back there?" The driver watches me in the mirror. "You look a little shell-shocked."
Shell-shocked. I don't know this phrase, but it sounds right. Like something exploded and I'm still waiting for the ringing in my ears to stop.
"He is… different than expected," I manage, the understatement of the century in any language.
The driver laughs, pulling into traffic. "They always are, sweetheart. The ones we build up in our heads, they're never quite what we imagined when we meet them in person."
If only he knew. I built my enemy into a monster for ten years. A silent demon who killed without conscience, who destroyed my family for sport. Instead, I met a man with sad eyes who knew I was armed and let me keep my weapon anyway. A man whose brother says he bleeds for his kills.
Even forty floors down, I swear I can still feel him, like his darkness left fingerprints on my skin.
At the hotel, I barely manage to tip the driver before stumbling through the lobby. The elevator ride feels endless. When my door finally closes behind me, I collapse against it, letting my body slide down until I'm sitting on the floor.
I imagine those hands that signed the new contract wrapping around my throat. Whether to strangle or caress, I'm no longer sure. The uncertainty makes my pussy clench, and I hate myself for it.
I'm terrified of the way my palm still burns from his touch. Terrified of how small I felt standing next to him, but not unsafe. Terrified that when he signed back to me, his handswere beautiful in their fluency, like he'd been waiting years for someone to talk to.
I slam my fist against the mirror. This is not the plan.
The hotel's emergency exit map mocks me from behind cracked plastic. I memorize it anyway—old habits from Uncle Roberto's training.Always know your exits, piccola. Even in places you think are safe.
The stairwell door opens with barely a whisper. Seventeen floors down, but I need to know if it's alarmed, if it locks from inside, if Dante's men watch it. My bare feet make no sound on the concrete as I descend. Floor fifteen: another door, another potential route. Floor fourteen: a service elevator I hadn't noticed before.
By floor twelve, I realize I'm not alone. Someone's following three flights up, matching my pace with professional precision. Not trying to hide—wanting me to know they're there.
I test them, speeding up, then stopping abruptly. They adjust perfectly. When I peer up through the stair railings, a man in a dark suit looks down at me. He actually waves.
The humiliation burns. I'm not exploring escape routes. I'm being given a supervised tour of my limitations. Every exit is covered, every route monitored. This isn't reconnaissance—it's theater.
I return to my room and find a note slipped under the door:The service elevator requires a key. The stairwell locks automatically after 10 PM. The roof access has been welded shut. But please, keep exploring. -—D.R.
