Page 52 of Ruthless Grace

“Listen to me very carefully, doctor,” I say, my voice dropping into a dark, terrifying register that makes the air in the small nook freeze solid. “Ask me to step away from my wife one more time, and I will buy this entire brownstone and terminate your medical license before you pick up that syringe. Do your work. I stay.”

Dr. Vance stares at me for three long seconds. He sees the absolute lethality in my eyes. The posture of a Don who would tear the walls down before allowing anyone to isolate his wife.

The doctor doesn’t argue. He recognizes an immovable wall when he sees one. He gives a single, curt nod, turning back to his tray. “Keep your hands away from the brown betadine field, Don Valentino. Do not touch the sterile drapes.”

“I know how a field works,” I rasp.

I reach down to the side of the table, below the sterile blue barrier draped across her ribs. I take Gia’s left hand—her cold, surgeon’s hand—and wrap both of my warm palms around her fingers.

Gia doesn’t pull away. She looks up at me from the table, her dark eyes wide, her lower lip tight between her teeth. She doesn’t offer a sarcastic remark. Her icy fingers close around my palm, her knuckles digging into my skin with a sudden, desperate strength that betrays the sheer terror raging behind her eyes.

“I’m right here, cara,” I whisper, leaning over her until the dark scent of my cedarwood and rain-slick wool cuts through the isopropyl alcohol in her nose. “Look at me. Don’t look at the tray.”

“Infiltrating local anesthesia now, Dr. Santoro,” Vance says softly, picking up the loaded glass syringe. “First a small sting, then a burning sensation.”

Gia keeps her eyes locked onto mine. She doesn’t look down as Dr. Vance slides the long needle into her, two inches above the brown-stained skin.

Her breath hitches: a sharp, ragged gasp that catches in her throat. Her fingers crush mine so hard I feel the hard metal of her black diamond band digging deep into my palm. I absorb the pressure without flinching. I squeeze back, firm and grounding, using my thumb to stroke steady, rhythmic circles over the racing pulse point on her wrist.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

As the biopsy needle hovers and drives into her flesh, my fear of losing Gia to cancer overlaps with the raw, jagged trauma of losing Matteo on the floorboards of our past. The helplessness of watching my brother bleed out merges with the absolute powerlessness of standing over her table, linking my past failure to protect the person I loved with my present, savage refusal to let her face this alone.

“Lidocaine is active,” Vance reports after sixty agonizing seconds. He touches the skin with the tip of a steel instrument. “Feel any sharpness, Dr. Santoro?”

“No,” Gia whispers. Her voice is tight, thin as a thread, her eyes never leaving my face. “It’s numb.”

“Proceeding with tissue core harvest under ultrasound guidance.”

Dr. Vance picks up the heavy, spring-loaded device. He presses a smooth white wand over her left breast with his left hand, watching the black shadow on the monitor, while his right hand lines the thick steel needle up against the small cut in her skin.

“First sample firing in three, two, one...” Vance warns.

SNAP-CLACK!

The mechanical sound detonates in the quiet room like a gunshot. The spring drives the needle into the center of the shadow and snaps back.

Gia’s jaw locks hard, her grip crushing mine, but her body holds perfectly still against the table.

She doesn’t scream—Santoro women don’t scream—but a sharp, agonized groan escapes her teeth. Her knuckles turn chalk-white as she squeezes my hand with enough bone-crushing force to break a weaker man’s fingers. Her breath catches against the thin pillow, her throat working, tears of pure somatic shock welling in the corners of her dark eyes.

“Got you, vita mia,” I growl, leaning down until my mouth is an inch from her ear, my left arm reaching over the top of her pillow to frame her head, keeping her anchored. “I’ve got you. Breathe. Squeeze me as hard as you need. Break my hand if it helps.”

“Sample one secured,” Vance says calmly, dropping a pale, worm-like thread into a small glass jar. “Re-positioning probe for sample two. Hold steady, Dr. Santoro.”

“I’m... steady,” Gia rasps through gritted teeth, her chest heaving beneath the paper gown, cold sweat breaking out across her forehead.

“Firing sample two,” Vance says.

SNAP-CLACK!

Again her crushing grip digs into my hand, her pulse hammering wildly against my wrist, and again she does not move an inch. I lean closer, pressing my wet temple flat against hers, tangling my fingers in her dark hair, letting her feel every ounce of my weight, my warmth, my presence.

SNAP-CLACK!

“Sample three secured,” Vance announces, dropping the final tissue core into the glass jar. “Needle out. Applying direct manual pressure now.”

Gia lets out a long, shuddering exhale that trembles through her entire frame. Her grip on my hand doesn’t loosen. She stays frozen on the table, her forehead pressed against mine, her ragged breathing slowly synchronizing with the heavy, steady rise and fall of my chest.