Page 27 of Ruthless Grace

10

LUCA

She didn’t tremble once.

Not when Dante surrendered his right at the arbor gate. Not when her twin brother stepped back and left her standing alone on the stone path. And certainly not when she walked herself past her parents’ slate markers, her dark ivory lace dragging over the white gravel like an armored train.

Most people in New Orleans learn to sweat before they ever reach my shadow. Giada Santoro walked into it like she was stepping up to an operating table.

I pull back my left suit cuff and glance down at the worn silver casing of Matteo’s watch.

Beside me in the dark, leather-scented cabin of the armored Maybach, my wife sits with her spine perfectly straight, staring out the tinted glass at the passing streetlights of Uptown.

She hasn’t spoken a word since we cleared the Santoro gates. Her dark hair, held up by silver pins, catches the amber glow of the gas lanterns as we turn onto the avenue. Around her throat, cream-white pearls rest against her collarbone, fastened with a gold clasp carved into a rose. On her left hand, my black diamond ring glitters in the dim interior.

She doesn’t look like a hostage. She looks like an occupying force waiting for her orders.

“You’re quiet, Dr. Santoro,” I say, my voice a low, gravelly rumble against the hum of the V12 engine.

Gia doesn’t turn her head. She rolls her left wrist, that small pre-scrub circle she makes unconsciously whenever her mind is running calculations, and keeps her eyes on the road.

“I’m conserving energy,” she replies, her voice flat, cool, and sharp as a scalpel. “I find that arguing with men who buy human beings is a poor allocation of my time.”

A faint, dark curl of heat flares in my chest. “I didn’t buy a human being. I cleared a debt your brother couldn’t pay. There’s a difference.”

“A distinction without a difference, Valentino.” She finally turns her head, her dark, amber-flecked eyes locking onto mine with absolute hostility. “You wanted leverage over my family’s bloodline. You got it. Now drive the car.”

I stare at her for three long seconds, watching the steady, unhurried rise and fall of her chest.

God help me, it’s driving me insane.

The iron gates of the Valentino estate swing inward without a sound, locking out the New Orleans night behind us.

The estate isn’t warm like the Santoro compound. There are no copper pots clattering in the kitchen, no scent of Nonna’s marinara drifting through the halls. It is built of dark slate, granite, and centuries-old live oaks: cold, efficient, and guarded by six armed sentries who bow their heads in absolute silence as the sedan pulls beneath the portico.

I step out first, turning to extend my hand to her.

Gia ignores my palm entirely. She gathers the heavy ivory lace of her skirt in one hand, steps out onto the flagstone driveway on her own power, and reaches back into the rear seat to grab her luggage.

She picks up her small silk weekend bag with her left hand, and with her right, she heaves out her heavy black leather surgical satchel.

I reach down and strip the medical bag from her grip before she can step toward the doors.

“Give it back, Luca,” she snaps, her chin coming up.

“Welcome to our house, principessa. I carry the bags here,” I say, wrapping my calloused fingers around the heavy leather handle.

Her jaw tightens at the weaponized pet name, but she doesn’t fight me for it. She turns and walks up the grand marble steps into the foyer.

Signora Matilde is waiting in the high-ceilinged hall. Head of household, dressed in her immaculate black wool dress, her iron-gray hair pulled into a tight coil at the nape of her neck. She bows slightly to Gia, her expression sharp, observant, and devoid of false pleasantries.

“Welcome to the estate, Donna,” Matilde says, her Cajun-tinted Italian formal and clipped. “The master suite has been prepared according to Don Valentino’s instructions. Late dinner is laid out in the dining room if you require it.”

“I don’t require dinner, Signora,” Gia replies smoothly, stepping past her toward the curving staircase. “I only require a door with a working lock.”

Matilde glances at me with a microscopic lift of her eyebrow. I give her a single, sharp nod of dismissal, then follow my wife up the stairs.

The master suite occupies the entire east wing of the second floor. High ceilings, dark mahogany floorboards, and a massive king-sized bed framed in black iron, draped in crisp, dark silk sheets. Across the room, a set of heavy double doors leads to the adjoining private quarter, my private office and bedroom.