Page 37 of Ruthless Grace

I reach over, click off the bedside lamp, and let the darkness take the room.

14

LUCA

The river smells of brackish Mississippi silt, heavy diesel exhaust, and spent gunpowder.

I stand under the harsh sodium floodlights of Berth 11, my boots planted on the wet asphalt, watching a trail of fresh blood pool around the rear tires of an overturned shipping crate. Forty feet away, the dark waters of the river lap rhythmically against the pylons, dragging the oily sheen of spilled Cabernet and diesel out toward the Gulf.

The gunsmoke is still settling. Eight Russo enforcers rolled up on the lower berth perimeter in two unmarked black SUVs, opening fire on our wine import transport before my night shift could latch the container doors.

They didn’t come to steal the cargo. They came to mark their territory: a pathetic, desperate probe from Davide Russo to test whether my Santoro marriage made my borders soft.

On my left wrist, Matteo’s watch sits heavy, its worn silver casing catching the light. I do the math in my head, calculating the exact price of every bullet fired on my docks.

Silvano Moretti pulled that heavy steel watch off Matteo’s blistered wrist and pressed it into my palm before the sun went down on the same day. Steel that still smelled of scorched metal and melted rubber, the only piece of my golden brother the fire couldn’t entirely consume.

“Don Luca,” a voice speaks from the shadow of the container stack.

Fausto Carbone steps into the yellow sodium light. My logistics and route specialist holds a bloody rag against his grazed cheekbone, his tailored jacket torn at the shoulder, his iPad tucked beneath his arm. Fausto has managed the manifest schedules for the Valentino shipping lines since before the truce. He knows every berth number, every customs clerk, and every deep-water tide in the Gulf.

“Report, Fausto,” I say.

“Three Russo shooters dead on the dock, two in the river,” Fausto says, his tone trembling slightly beneath his usual professional composure. “Our men returned fire immediately. But the manifest for Berth 11 was locked in our encrypted server. Only internal logistics had the route.”

My dark eyes narrow as I look at the shattered container lock. Internal logistics. A leak in my own house.

“Find the line, Fausto,” I say, stepping closer to him, my shadow swallowing his frame. “I don’t care if you have to audit every terminal in New Orleans. If someone sold Russo the berth numbers for tonight’s delivery, I want their name before sunrise.”

“Understood, Don Luca,” Fausto says quickly, nodding. “What about the retaliation?”

“Send twelve men to the Russo warehouse on upper Tchoupitoulas,” I command. “Burn the entire container yard. Leave nobody standing. Let Davide Russo learn what happens when he touches a Valentino shipment.”

“And Donna Giada?” Fausto asks carefully. “She’s at the estate tonight.”

A possessive knot tightens in my chest at the mention of her. Ever since Sunday’s dinner at her family’s table, my mind has been a pressure cooker of unspent rage and suffocating frustration. I can’t touch her in our bedroom. I can’t break her rules without becoming the liar she accused me of being. So I channel every drop of that dark energy into the war on my docks.

“Double her tailing detail,” I order, turning my back on the docks and walking toward my waiting car. “Starting tonight, I want three armored chase cars shadowing her transport wherever she goes. If she steps foot out of Tulane Trauma or my estate, I want a full perimeter locked onto her. Nobody approaches her. Nobody speaks to her.”

“Understood, Don Luca.”

I climb into the dark leather cabin of the car, slamming the heavy armored door shut. “Take us back across the river,” I tell the driver. “Fast.”

As the engine purrs to life and the car rockets away from the riverfront, my phone vibrates against my hip. I pull it out, seeing Signora Matilde’s private line flashing on the screen.

I swipe the screen. “Luca.”

“Don Luca,” Matilde’s voice comes through, sharp and hurried. “The motorcade from the docks just pulled through the rear gates. One of your guards—Gianni—was shot in the arm during the berth skirmish. He’s bleeding heavily.”

My jaw clenches. “Did you call the house physician?”

“I tried,” Matilde says, taking a ragged breath. “Dr. Moreau is twenty minutes away across town. But... your wife heard the tires on the driveway. She came downstairs with her medical bag.”

I go rigidly still in the dark leather seat. “What did she do, Matilde?”

“She didn’t wait for Moreau,” Matilde whispers, a mixture of awe and terror in her voice. “She ordered my staff to carry Gianni into the ground-floor holding bay beside the security office. She opened her black leather satchel and took control of the room.”

The Valentino estate is ablaze with floodlights when the car sweeps beneath the portico.