Page 69 of Ruthless Silence

The table goes silent. That's too much detail, too much observation. He's been watching her. Studying her.

"Leave the family alone," Marco warns, his voice carrying the weight of absolute command. "The judge is the only thing we need to handle, not the civilians."

"I won't touch her," Luca murmurs, that wrong smile never wavering. "But watching isn't touching, is it?"

An uncomfortable tension settles over the table. Even in our world of necessary violence, Luca's particular interest feels different. Darker. More personal than business.

Sofia shifts the conversation desperately. "We should discuss baby names. I vote for something strong. Nothing Russian though." She says it firmly, almost aggressively. "No Russian names."

Luca laughs, soft and knowing. "Still having nightmares about Mikhail?"

Sofia's wine glass slips from her hand, shattering on the marble floor. Red wine spreads across the white marble, and her face drains of color. For a moment, she looks exactly like the frightened girl she must have been that night ten years ago.

"What did you say?" Her voice is barely a whisper.

"Nothing important," Luca says, tilting his head with false innocence. "Just remembering that Russian kid I killed. Years ago. During the unpleasantness. What was his name? Mikhail? Yes, Mikhail. He screamed so much at the end. Kept calling for his sister. In Russian. Fascinating language structure when someone's in pain."

Sofia stands abruptly, her chair scraping against marble. "Excuse me. I need air."

She's gone before anyone can respond, practically running from the dining room. I start to follow, but Dante catches my wrist, signing quickly: "Give her space first."

But I can't. Something about the way she looked, the terror in her eyes, pulls me after her. I find her on the terrace, crying into her hands, mumbling in what sounds like Russian.

"Sofia?" I approach carefully, the way you'd approach a wounded animal.

She spins, mascara streaming down her perfect face. "It's my fault," she whispers, the words tumbling out like they've been trapped for a decade. "That boy, Mikhail. He died because of me. They all died because of me."

"What do you mean?"

But she's already pulling herself together, that Rosetti control slamming back into place. "Nothing. Pregnancy hormones are affecting me too. Sympathy symptoms." She forces a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "We should go back before they worry."

When we return, Luca's chair is empty.

"Where did he go?" I ask, something cold settling in my stomach.

Marco sighs, suddenly looking older. "To handle the Winters situation. He insisted."

My hand finds my belly protectively, our child shifting as if sensing my unease. Whatever Luca's about to do, whatever that girl in the church means to him, it feels like the start of something. Something that will ripple through our family the way my arrival did.

"Sofia knows something," I tell Dante, his hands still mapping my belly. "About that night. About the Russians. About what really happened to our families."

He nods slowly, unsurprised. Has suspected, maybe always known. My husband keeps his siblings' secrets as carefully as he kept mine.

"And Luca's about to do something terrible," I continue, remembering that blonde girl's innocent face, the way she knelt in prayer, unaware of the monster watching from shadows.

"Luca always does something terrible," Dante signs, but even he looks concerned.

Later, as the family celebrates around us, I catch Luca watching from the doorway. Not looking at me or Dante, but at something on his phone. That wrong smile plays at his lips as his fingers trace across the screen.

"What are you looking at?" Sofia asks, approaching him carefully.

"The future," he says softly. "Dante got his happy ending. Maybe it's time I found mine."

The look in his pale eyes makes my blood run cold despite the warmth of Dante's arms around me. Because Luca's version of a happy ending won't look anything like ours.

He shows the screen to Sofia, whose face drains of color. "You can't be serious."

"When have I ever not been serious about something I want?" He pockets the phone and leaves, humming something that sounds like a hymn.

Sofia's eyes lock with mine across the room, and she crosses toward me and grabs my hand, squeezing hard enough to hurt. "That girl," she whispers. "Faith Winters. Someone needs to warn her."

"Warn her about what?"

Sofia's eyes follow Luca's retreating form. "That the devil doesn't always come with horns. Sometimes he comes with pale blue eyes and knows exactly which prayers to answer."