Page 48 of Ruthless Grace

“Understood, Don Luca. We’re in position.”

I shove the radio into my pocket, grab my suit coat, and pull my custom gun from the quick-release holster mounted beneath the desk frame.

The drive to the Garden District is a blur of rain-slick asphalt, flashing streetlights, and roaring horsepower.

I push the car to its limit down Tchoupitoulas Street, the heavy rain hammering against the windshield in deafening sheets. The wiper blades sweep frantically back and forth, but they do nothing to clear the violent crimson haze coating my vision. My hands grip the leather steering wheel with enough crushing force that the hide groans under my palms, my knuckles turned chalk-white.

Every red light I blow through feels like a taunt. Every tick of Matteo’s slow watch against my wrist is a rusty blade twisting in my gut.

Pick one of twelve chairs, she told me on our first morning. She looked me in the eyes last night, accepted my location, and smiled her cold, royal Santoro smile before leaving my study. She thinks she understands the cage I built around her. She thinks her contract is an impenetrable wall.

But she forgot one fundamental truth: I don’t track my wife to keep tabs on her. I track her because she is my blood now, and no one survives taking what belongs to a Valentino. If she thinks she can step out of my house and give herself to another man, I will tear this city apart brick by brick until there is nowhere left for either of them to bleed.

I slam the car to a halt in the narrow cobblestone alley behind the historic brownstone, the tires screeching against the wet slate as I block the wrought-iron rear gates. Two black Valentino SUVs tear into the alley behind me, six armed enforcers spilling out into the torrential rain, their suit jackets unbuttoned, hands pressed against concealed leather.

I step out into the downpour. The heavy New Orleans humidity hits me like a wet towel, rain soaking through my white dress shirt, plastering my hair to my forehead.

I pull the slide of my gun back.

Click-clack.

A 9mm round chambers with a crisp, mechanical snap that echoes in the narrow brick alleyway.

“Enforce the rear exit,” I tell Gianni, my voice so low and lethal it barely carries over the rain drumming against the slate roofs. “If anyone tries to run, shoot to kill.”

“Yes, Boss.”

I don’t use the front entrance. I walk straight up the rear slate steps toward the heavy mahogany service doors. The Spanish moss hangs low from the live oaks above, tossing in the wind like frayed ropes. I plant my hand against the brass latch and turn it. It’s locked from the inside.

I don’t waste time picking it. I raise my booted foot and drive it straight into the frame beside the lock mechanism.

CRACK.

The solid oak splinters inward, the brass latch tearing free from the jamb with a screech of bent screws and shattering wood.

I step over the debris into the interior of the brownstone.

The foyer smells of expensive beeswax, crushed orchids, aged leather, and damp velvet, a suffocating scent engineered for discretion and high-priced secrets. Deep crimson wallpaper lines the walls, lit only by dim amber sconces that throw long, twisted shadows across the Persian runner carpets.

A man in a tailored gray suit, the private concierge, comes rushing out of a side office, his face pale with shock.

“Sir! What is the meaning of this—this is a private establishment, you can’t⁠—”

Before he can finish the sentence, I bridge the ten feet between us in two terrifying strides. My left hand shoots out like an iron vise, wrapping around his throat and driving him backward until his spine slams into the flock wallpaper.

The picture frames rattle against the plaster. His breath explodes out of him in a wet gasp, his hands clawing frantically at my wrist, his knees buckling under my full weight.

I bring my face six inches from his, my dark eyes burning into his terrified pupils. I press the cold, square muzzle of my Sig Sauer directly beneath his jawline, forcing his head back against the wall until his throat is fully exposed.

“Listen to me very carefully,” I say, my voice a gravelly rumble that vibrates against his neck. “My name is Luca Valentino. You have three seconds to tell me which room my wife was escorted to, or I will turn this foyer into a crime scene.”

The man’s eyes bulge in pure terror. He stammers, his pulse hammering wildly against my palm like a trapped bird. “S-Suite... Suite 102! Down the main hall, to the right! Please—she just came in⁠—”

“Is there anyone in there with her?” I demand, tightening my fingers until his air cuts off entirely and his face turns purple.

“I—I don’t know! It’s a private booking! Cash... off the books...”

I shove him sideways. He crashes into a mahogany side table, sending an antique ceramic vase shattering across the hardwood floor, groaning as he clutches his bruised throat on his hands and knees.