Page 83 of Ruthless Grace

My fingers track her jawline, checking the soft tissue beneath her left ear where Russo’s gun barrel pressed, confirming there is only a faint, reddish bruise, no puncture, no torn skin. I drag my thumbs across her lips, her temples, her hairline, searching for hidden injuries, needing to feel the warm, vibrant heat of her skin beneath my cold palms.

“Are you okay, vita mia?” I choke out, my dark eyes roving frantically over her features, my breathing coming in ragged, shallow gasps. “Jesus, Gia... look at me. Are you hurt? Did that bastard do anything else to you?”

“I’m okay, Luca,” Gia says softly, her voice smooth, warm, and rich with deep relief that cuts straight through my panic.

She reaches out, her small, unarmored hands coming up to cover mine, her fingers pressing into the backs of my hands, anchoring my trembling palms flat against her cheeks. “I’m okay. I’m not hurt.”

I don’t stop checking her. My hands slide down her neck to her left forearm, my thumbs catching the torn cuff of her black blouse where the dried, matted blood coats her skin. I look at the cut from the car glass. It is shallow, already dried, and it has stopped bleeding.

I reach up to her blouse, my fingers quickly unbuttoning the top three buttons, pulling the silk back to expose her left chest.

There, sitting clean and unbroken against her skin, is the thin, pale line of her scar. I press my broad palm flat against the center of her chest, right over her heart. Beneath my hand, her pulse beats with a steady, powerful thrum. Whole, healed, and vibrant.

The last thread of my control snaps.

A ragged, choking sound tears from my throat. I lower my head, burying my face in the lap of her black skirt, pressing my forehead against her knees as I drop my full weight against her chair. I wrap my arms around her waist, locking her flush against my chest, trembling violently as the sheer, terrifying reality of how close I came to losing her crashes over me like an ocean wave.

“I’ve got you,” I whisper against her silk skirt, my voice thick with a raw, reverent grief. “I’ve got you, cara. I’ve got you.”

Gia doesn’t pull away. She leans forward, her arms wrapping securely around my neck, her fingers tangling into my damp hair, holding my head against her body. She presses her lips softly against the top of my head, inhaling the rain and gunpowder clinging to my skin.

“I know, Luca,” she whispers softly into my hair, her tone rich with a quiet, unshakeable devotion that heals every open wound in my soul. “I knew you were coming for me.”

Heavy, tactical bootfalls approach the vault threshold.

Dante, Renzo, and Marco step through the blown-out iron doorframe, their weapons held low as they secure the perimeter. Nico stands two paces back, looking down at Davide Russo’s body on the concrete floor, then turning his dark twin eyes onto me and Gia holding each other under the floodlight.

Dante steps up to the side of the chair. The eldest Santoro brother looks at Davide’s body, then down at me kneeling before his sister.

“The outer bay is cleared,” Dante states, his voice low, steady, and carrying the heavy authority of a Don acknowledging a completed campaign. “Silvano and Detail Four have the perimeter locked. The Russo regime is finished in New Orleans.”

Renzo steps up beside him, his scarred face calm as he looks at the scene. “Fausto Carbone’s line is dead, Luca. His comms went dark three minutes ago. Matteo’s debt is paid.”

I slowly lift my head from Gia’s lap, keeping one arm wrapped firmly around her waist as I stand up from the damp concrete.

Matteo’s watch ticks quiet and steady against my wrist. For years, that watch was a monument to unavenged blood and poisoned feuds. Now, as I look at the dead men on the floor and at the four Santoro brothers standing beside me as blood-allied family, the weight of the past finally settles into peace.

I touch the glass face of the watch with my thumb, offering a silent, final farewell to my dead brother, before letting my cuff fall back over my wrist.

I don’t wait for Gia to stand or ask if she wants to walk. Before she can even shift in the chair, I reach down, sliding my right arm behind her knees and my left arm around her back, hoisting her off the oak chair and scooping her up into my arms in one unbroken, effortless surge.

Gia lets out a soft, breathless gasp, her arms instinctively wrapping around my neck, her dark eyes locking onto mine with a fierce, possessive fire. She holds her tongue, resting her forehead against my shoulder instead.

“I’ve got you, vita mia,” I whisper against her hairline, holding her tight against my chest as I turn toward the doorway.

Dante, Renzo, Nico, and Marco fall into formation around us. Five men walking side-by-side through the smoke and ruins of Berth 14, stepping out into the pouring Gulf rain as a single, unbreakable empire.

The rain hammers down against the river, washing the cordite from my vest and the blood from my jaw, but as I carry my Queen toward the warmth of my car, I know that whatever storms face New Orleans tomorrow, we hold the keys to our own kingdom.

35

GIA

The heavy, soundproofed wood of the master suite door clicks shut behind us with a sharp, final click, sealing out the low murmur of perimeter guards and the relentless, driving fury of the Gulf storm battering the slate roof of the estate.

Luca doesn’t set me down in the foyer. He carries me straight past the threshold, his broad chest rising and falling against my ribs in a heavy, rhythmic cadence that tells me his system is still flooded with combat adrenaline.

I am still wrapped in the physical wreckage of my abduction. My black silk blouse torn down the left shoulder, gray mortar dust flaking off my skirt like ash, and the dark, stiff mottle of dried blood crusted over my skin where the car’s shattered window caught my forearm. Luca is worse. He is coated in the toxic, metallic film of active underworld warfare: black gunpowder soot smeared across his throat, dry crimson splattered over his tactical vest, and rain plastered hard against his dark hair.