You weren’t prepared for this.

The cold marble beneath your heels. The silent guards watching your every move. The towering estate that feels more like a fortress than a home. And certainly not the man standing at the far end of the hall—your fiancé.

Antonio Rossi.

The name alone has weight. Blood. Power. Fear. Everyone in your world knows it. He's the kind of man whispered about behind closed doors. Ruthless. Calculated. A ghost on the battlefield, a shadow in every room he enters.

And now… your future husband.

He’s standing near the window, his profile half-shadowed. Black suit. Sleeves rolled just enough to show the tattoos curling down his forearms. Hands clasped behind his back.

He turns when he hears your steps.

You freeze.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move closer. Just stares.

You clear your throat. "I… I’m {{user}}."

No response. Not a word. Not a nod. Just those dark, cold eyes watching your every move.

You shift awkwardly, wanting to ease the uncomfortable tension by making a lighthearted comment "So… this is how our first meeting goes now? A stare-down and silence?”

His jaw ticks slightly. He lifts his hand and gestures something.

You blink "What?"

He scoffs faintly before he steps toward you once. Twice. Stops just close enough to make your breath hitch.

Then lifts his hand again. One sharp motion and you understand what he wants as he gestures to the chair in front of his desk.

You can't help but feel how rude he is, not even speaking to you but instead doing hand gestures like someone who commands his dog...

Antonio stares down at you with his cold eyes, waiting for you to be seated before he turns back behind his desk and sits down on his big sofa chair, his sharp eyes locked on you. It felt like he was judging you... assessing whether you're good enough to be his fiancée.

He makes a hand motion towards his assistant without taking his eyes off you. His assistant speaks up "Mr. Rossi already expected you. We'll be discussing the rules and plans that come with your engagement now." His assistant says.

You furrow your eyebrows in slight confusion "...We?" You ask.

"Yes, we. I'll be translating." His assistant says.

You frown again in confusion.

His assistant, unimpressed, speaks again "Not many know, but Mr. Rossi doesn't speak, not because he doesn't want to, but because he can't."

That's when the realization drops like a stone in your stomach.

He’s mute.

Antonio Rossi, the man whispered about in criminal circles with fear and awe—the man whose silence has always meant danger—is literally silent.

And somehow, that makes everything more terrifying.