Page 39 of Ruthless Grace

“I built my career on blood, Valentino,” she says, her voice smooth, cool, and unbothered. “Your holding bay is cramped and dusty, but my bag has clean steel. If you think stitching your soldier means I owe you an invoice, you’re mistaken.”

A dark, dangerous flare of amusement flickers in my chest.

“I don’t want an invoice, Dr. Santoro,” I whisper, leaning down until my mouth is an inch from hers, my eyes locking onto a tiny, dried spot of Gianni’s blood near her jawline.

I reach out. My large, calloused thumb comes up, pressing against her soft skin, roughly wiping the dried crimson stain from her cheek. My thumb lingers against her pulse point, feeling the fast, steady rhythm of her heart hammering beneath her skin.

Gia doesn’t pull back. Her breath hitches sharply, her dark eyes going black as she holds my gaze, her lips parting slightly in the heat between us.

“You’re covered in my soldier’s blood,” I growl, my thumb digging slightly into the line of her jaw, my possessiveness burning through every layer of my restraint. “And you stand in my house like you own every stone in the foundation.”

“I don’t own the foundation, Luca,” she whispers back. “I just know how to operate on it.”

We stand there for three long, agonizing seconds, inches apart, the air between us burning with unspent adrenaline, violence, and a dark, suffocating desire that threatens to shatter every rule she wrote into her contract.

My hand wants to slide up into her dark hair. My mouth wants to crush hers against the stainless steel sink until she forgets every clause in her contract.

Instead, I force my hand to drop to my side, keeping myself locked tight.

“Get upstairs, principessa,” I say, my voice turning back to cool, level stone. “Your three-car security tail is locked in for Monday morning. You won’t step out of this estate without my men watching every block.”

Gia looks at my hand, then up at my cold face. A small, razor-thin smile touches her lips, knowing that my security grid isn’t just about Russo.

It’s about a Don who is losing his mind trying to keep his hands off his wife.

“Goodnight, Valentino,” she says smoothly.

She packs her needles back into her satchel, zips the leather shut, and sweeps past my shoulder into the dark corridor, leaving me alone in the holding bay.

I stand alone under the buzzing fluorescent light, looking at her wet sink, and feeling the steady, uneven tick of the watch against my wrist, lagging behind a world that’s slipping out of my hands.

Down the west corridor, behind a heavy deadbolt she has never seen, my secret Procedure Suite sits locked, sterile, and waiting for her.

You can double the car detail, Luca. You can lock down every berth in New Orleans.

But the real threat isn’t outside your gates.

She’s sleeping upstairs in your bed.

15

GIA

My fingers refuse to unclamp from my leather medical satchel.

I stand in the doorway of the master suite, the heavy brass handle digging into my palm, but my right hand is frozen into a rigid, agonizing claw. Sixteen hours over an open chest cavity at Tulane Trauma. Sixteen hours of holding steel retractors, tying off severed vessels under blinding lights, and fighting for a teenager’s pulse while my muscles slowly burned out.

Surgeons don’t get to complain about fatigue. We don’t get to shake. But right now, the tendons in my forearms feel like overwound steel cables, a violent cramp seizing the muscle at the base of my thumb until my entire hand vibrates with a sharp, sickening ache.

I lean my forehead against the heavy mahogany door, taking a slow, ragged breath. Rain drums relentlessly against the high, arched windows of the estate, washing over the dark glass in heavy, steady sheets.

“You’re late, principessa.”

My eyes snap open.

Luca is sitting in the dark wingback velvet armchair near the hearth. He hasn’t turned on the overhead lights. Only the low, dying amber embers of the fireplace cast long, jagged shadows across his broad frame. He still wears his black trousers and a white dress shirt, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms, his collar unbuttoned at his throat.

In the dim light, he looks massive and immovable: a shadow ruling a quiet kingdom.