Page 42 of Ruthless Grace

I lead her down the dark, wood-paneled west corridor of the ground floor. The storm outside has turned vicious, heavy rain hammering against the high arched windows, casting long, liquid shadows across the dark floorboards. Beside me, my wife walks in silence, the soft click of her dark silk heels echoing in the quiet corridor.

On my wrist, the second hand of Matteo’s watch sweeps around the dial with its steady click, lagging behind a world trying to bleed me dry. Stolen time I spend watching the quiet, guarded way she steps beside me, her chin tilted high, her spine straight as a blade.

We stop in front of the heavy mahogany double doors at the far end of the hallway.

“Where are we going, Luca?” she asks, her voice cool, smooth, and laced with that scalpel edge. “It’s past midnight. If this is another lecture about my chase-car detail, save it for breakfast.”

“In this house, principessa,” I say, “I don’t give lectures.”

I fit the heavy brass key into the lock. The tumbler turns with a deep, metallic clack.

I push the mahogany doors open and step aside, sweeping my hand out to invite her in.

Gia steps across the threshold. I reach out and flip the wall switch.

Dual overhead surgical lights flicker to life, flooding the room in blinding, sterile white radiance. The harsh light reflects off pristine white tile, custom stainless steel instrument trays, an adjustable surgical boom, and a heavy, central examination table made of polished chrome and dark leather.

Gia stops dead in her tracks.

Her amber-flecked eyes go wide, sweeping over the room in quiet, stunned disbelief. She takes three slow steps inside, her fingers trailing over the cold stainless steel counter, taking in the medical-grade air filtration vents, the sterile wash basins, and the floor-to-ceiling glass cabinets lining the far wall.

“What is this?” she whispers, her voice losing its defensive sharp edge for a fraction of a second.

“A fully equipped procedure suite,” I say, stepping into the room behind her and letting the heavy doors swing shut. “Reinforced soundproofing. Independent generator power. A room she could operate in.”

Gia walks over to the glass cabinets. She slides open a heavy drawer.

She pulls out a box of sterile surgical gloves, turning it over in her hand. Her thumb brushes the side of the box, reading the label.

Size 6.5.

She opens the second drawer. Inside sit neatly organized rows of suture packs, arranged in elastic loops. She reaches down, lifting a green foil packet into the bright light.

4-0 Monocryl.

Beside it sits a tray of sealed vials, folded surgical drapes, and stainless steel tools.

Gia turns around slowly. She sets the suture packet on the counter with a soft clack, her amber eyes locking onto mine with a dangerous, white-hot flare of realization.

“Size 6.5 sterile gloves,” she says. “4-0 Monocryl sutures. Two percent lidocaine. These aren’t standard trauma supplies for a mafia safehouse, Valentino. These are my exact preferences at Tulane Trauma.”

I don’t deny it. I stand three feet away, my hands resting in my trousers pockets, my broad frame blocking her path to the door.

“How long have you been auditing my hospital manifests, Luca?” she demands, stepping directly into my space. “How long were you digging through my supply orders before you forced my brother to sign that trade?”

“I don’t stalk, principessa,” I say smoothly, leaning down until my face is inches from hers. “I prepare. When I buy an asset, I learn every specification. I know what coffee you drink, what shoes you wear, and what steel you put in your hands when you cut a man open.”

“I am not your asset,” she snarls, her chest heaving against her dark silk blouse. “And stocking a room with my glove size doesn’t mean you own the woman wearing them.”

“No?” I whisper, my voice dropping an octave into a low, velvet threat. “Then why did your pulse jump the moment I unlocked this door?”

Gia lets out a harsh, mocking chuckle. “My pulse jumps because I’m standing in a room built by an unhinged Don who thinks custom sutures give him control over my life. You built a cage, Luca. But you forgot one thing.”

“And what’s that, wife?”

“You signed a contract that says you can’t touch what’s inside it.”

A dark, dangerous fire explodes behind my ribs.