Page 50 of Ruthless Grace

The outer door goes in with a sound like a gunshot. Down the short hallway, a voice roars, raw, feral, and thick with a bloodthirsty rage that shakes the antique glass in the sconces.

“Get your fucking hands off my wife!”

My heart slams against my sternum like a trapped bird. Panic, hot, sharp, and humiliating, floods my mouth with the taste of copper.

Not now. God, please, not now. Heavy, rain-drenched boots pound down the runner carpet. Before Dr. Vance can lower his hands, the crimson velvet drape shielding the clinical nook is yanked back with a violent metallic screech of bronze rings sliding along the rod.

Luca charges into the doorway.

He is soaked to the bone from the torrential downpour outside. Rain drips from his dark hair, his jawline, and the heavy shoulders of his suit jacket, his white dress shirt wet and clinging to his broad chest. In his right hand, raised to eye level, is his gun, his thumb riding the hammer, his dark eyes burning with a lethal, terrifying inferno.

He stands there, weapon locked on center mass, ready to murder whichever man he expected to find in a private Garden District suite with his wife.

Then his eyes land on me.

The violent momentum in his body halts so fast it’s like he hit an invisible concrete wall. His chest heaves under his wet shirt, his masseter muscle flexing violently in his jaw, his dark eyes wide and wild as they sweep over the room.

He sees me lying exposed on an examination table. He sees the open paper gown, the translucent gel dripping down my ribs, and my pale, trembling face.

My pride, the fierce, unyielding Santoro pride I’ve worn like armor since the day my father died, strikes out in sheer agony. I am Donna Giada Valentino, the chief surgeon who dictates her own terms, and I am sitting half-naked on a paper sheet, slick with gel, frozen in pure terror.

Dr. Vance doesn’t drop to the floor. He doesn’t look at the gun. He simply lowers the transducer probe, adjusts his glasses, and steps directly into the line of fire between Luca’s barrel and my table.

“Lower the weapon, Don Valentino,” Dr. Vance says. “You are contaminating a private diagnostic field, and your wife is in the middle of a medical screening.”

Luca doesn’t answer him. He doesn’t even seem to look at the doctor.

His gaze drifts past Dr. Vance’s shoulder, shifting from my face to the nineteen-inch ultrasound monitor glowing beside my head.

He stares at the screen. He stares at the grayscale cross-section of my breast, and the jet-black, irregular eighteen-millimeter mass sitting in the center of the display.

I watch his face. I watch the color drain out of his harsh, granite features, leaving him ash-gray under the amber sconce light. The rainwater dripping from his hair lands on his dark tie in quiet, heavy drops. The dark, possessive rage that drove him through that door evaporates, leaving behind a hollow, stunned quiet.

His thumb moves against the frame of his pistol. The safety engages with a dull click. His right hand drops to his side, the gun hanging useless against his thigh.

“Gianni,” Luca rasps. His voice isn’t the Don’s voice anymore. It’s a low, gravelly whisper that barely clears his throat. He doesn’t look back toward the hall. “Clear the building. Stand guard at the gate.”

“Yes, Boss,” Gianni’s quiet voice replies from the hallway. Footsteps recede down the corridor, and the outer door swings shut, leaving the room dead silent except for the high-frequency hum of the ultrasound machine.

Luca slides his weapon back into his shoulder holster. He doesn’t look at Dr. Vance. He steps past the doctor’s desk, his wet leather boots making a squelching sound against the floorboards, until he is standing right beside my table.

Then his knees give out.

The Don drops to the floor. The rain-soaked wool of his trousers hits the hard oak with a heavy, solid thud.

He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t wait for permission. He reaches up with both hands—his scar-seamed, rain-drenched hands—and wraps his fingers around my right hand, my icy fingers disappearing into his grip.

He pulls my hand down to his face, pressing my gel-smudged knuckles flat against his jawline, burying his cheek into my palm. The scent of him, rainwater, river silt, gun oil, and cedarwood, floods my senses, cutting through the sterile isopropyl smell of the room.

He doesn’t say principessa. Not once. Not here, with my chart in his hand.

He looks up at me, his dark eyes raw, unarmored, and completely undone. There is no Don standing over me. There is no enemy who bought my family’s debt.

“Breathe, vita mia,” he whispers, his voice rough and cracking at the edges, his Italian bleeding through his lips. “Breathe. I’ve got you.”

A sharp, ragged breath hitches in my throat. Cold gel drips down my ribs, the paper gown crinkling beneath my back, but the heat radiating from his hands against my knuckles is blinding.

I hate him, I think, my chest aching so hard I can barely draw air into my lungs. I hate him because he is giving me the one thing I was never allowed to have: a place to lay it down.