Page 29 of Ruthless Silence
Her eyes widen and she springs back, nearly falling in her haste to put distance between us. The loss of her warmth makes me want to growl.
I let her go, though every muscle protests. She stands quickly, the cotton swishing around her legs, blood spotting the dress like promises of more violence to come.
The bedroom door opens without warning. Marco enters like he owns the place, which technically he does, his presence filling the room with the weight of authority.
"Giuseppe Moretti is in the hospital," he says, voice measured. "He's asking for sanctuary."
My response is immediate, absolute. I sign sharply, aggressively enough that Marco takes notice: "No."
"He was her father's man," Marco starts.
The look I give him could strip paint. He stops mid-sentence, understanding perfectly. Giuseppe pointed a gun at Ana. There's no sanctuary from that. No forgiveness. No mercy.
What surprises me is that Marco even brings this to me at all. Normally he'd make the decision without consulting anyone. He's the Don, his word is absolute. But this is about Ana, my wife, and perhaps that's why he's here. "Understood," Marco says, then his eyes shift to Ana. "He was your father's man. You should know we're denying him sanctuary."
She straightens, chin lifting with that defiance I'm starting to crave like cigarettes. "Was," she says in careful English. "Not any more. He made his choice when he attacked me."
Pride surges through my chest, hot and possessive. She's choosing us. Choosing me. She said "Rosetti" in front of thirty witnesses, claimed my name when it mattered. Mine. The word pounds through my blood like a drum. The word 'was' carries the weight of severed loyalty, of bridges burned.
Marco nods once, decision made. "Then he gets nothing." His eyes find mine, and the message there is clear: You're compromised, brother.
I don't care. She said Rosetti on that street, claimed my family as hers. She's mine now, and Marco sees it written across my face. The dangerous satisfaction of a man whose wife just chose him publicly.
After he leaves, I sign, fingers aching and knuckles splitting open again: "You understand what you just did? The message you sent?"
"That I'm untouchable?" she signs back, her movements sharp but not aggressive.
"Because you're mine," I type, the truth slipping out too raw, too honest.
She doesn't argue. Just looks at me with those green eyes that promise violence and something else I'm not ready to name.Progress. We're making progress, even if it's measured in blood and broken bones.
She locks the bathroom door. The click echoes like a gunshot, reminding me she still doesn't trust me. Not fully. I know the knife she brandished on our wedding day is hidden somewhere in this room. Of course it is. She's a survivor first, my wife second.
The shower starts, and I sink onto the bed, head in hands. Through the door, I hear everything. Water hitting tile, her soft gasps that could be sobs or could be something else. The sound of her washing blood away, scrubbing at skin that still trembles from shock. Is she crying? The not knowing is its own kind of torture.
When Giuseppe pointed that gun at her… I haven't felt rage like this in years. Not since the massacre, since that night when…
No.Focus on now. On Ana, safe behind a locked door.
At dinner, she can't eat. Maria's perfect pasta sits untouched on her plate while Ana pushes a piece of bread around like a child avoiding vegetables. Her hands shake slightly. Aftershock setting in. The adrenaline crash makes her eyes glassy, unfocused.
Without thinking, I slide my plate across to her. Simple cacio e pepe, nothing that requires thought or decision. The ceramic scrapes against wood, drawing her attention.
She looks at it, then at me, something shifting in her expression. Confusion, maybe. Or recognition that I'm trying to care for her.
She takes a small bite. The pepper makes her cough slightly, and I push my water glass toward her too. Another bite follows. Not because she's hungry, but for Maria's sake. For the woman who keeps trying to mother her. Good girl. Let me take care of you, even in small ways.
Maria beams from the doorway, and I catch Ana almost smiling before she remembers she's supposed to hate me. Her walls are cracking. I see it in the way she looked for me during the attack, body moving toward me instead of away. Trust building despite her best efforts to resist. The way her eyes sought mine when the guns appeared. Not looking for escape, but for me.
Back in our suite, she changes into her nightgown while I settle into my chair. The leather creaks under my weight, familiar now after nine days of this torture.
She turns to face me, backlit by moonlight, and her hands move in the silver darkness. Gentle, almost hesitant: "I was scared today."
The admission stops my breath. First time she's admitted weakness to me.
"Not of them," she continues, fingers trembling slightly. "Of you."
My chest tightens. She still fears me? After I…
