Page 80 of Ruthless Grace

I tilt my head back, my dark eyes locked onto the frosted window panels.

Through the grimy glass, the dark shadows of the war unfold like a shadow-play of death. Gunpowder haze and vaporized paint billow through the outer corridor, lit by the violent, instantaneous flash of tactical flashbangs.

BOOM.

A flashbang detonates in the main hallway, turning the frosted windows blindingly white for a fraction of a second. Through the glare, I watch the silhouettes of Russo’s remaining outer enforcers. Two men run past the window in full retreat, their shadows frantic, hands flailing as they try to raise their weapons.

They don’t make it three steps.

Two massive figures step into the frosted frame behind them, moving through the smoke with the fluid, synchronized lethality of a single apex predator.

The figure on the left is tall, broad-shouldered, moving with a dark, terrifying, tactical coldness—Luca. The figure on the right is equally tall, leaner, moving with a wild, savage agility. My twin brother, Nico.

They don’t take cover. They don’t hesitate. Through the grimy glass, I watch their shadows move in absolute, terrifying synergy. Luca sweeps low, his sidearm discharging three rapid rounds into the first guard’s torso, while Nico steps over the falling body, his rifle coming up to clear the upper corner, dropping the second guard with a suppressed double-tap before the man can hit the floor.

It is a dance born of shared blood and shared rage. My husband and my twin brother, two men who spent their entire lives being taught that the other was a curse, are clearing a tactical corridor side-by-side like born demons.

Outside the glass, the last screaming Russo guard is cut down, his body slamming heavily against the reinforced doorframe of the vault before sliding silently to the floorboards.

The gunfire in the main bay suddenly dies.

A suffocating silence drops over the warehouse, punctuated only by the sizzle of shorted electrical wires, the drip of leaking radiator fluid, and the deafening, torrential pour of the Gulf storm against the roof.

My breath hitches in my throat. My bound fingers curl tightly behind my back, my left thumb reaching around to press flat against the cool band of my four-carat black diamond ring.

They cleared the perimeter in less than two minutes. My brothers and my husband didn’t come to negotiate an exchange rate for their grace. They came to execute an entire family line.

Inside the holding vault, the silence is far more terrifying than the gunfire.

Davide Russo stands under the harsh glare of the yellow floodlight, his jaw hanging open, his unlit cigar long forgotten in a puddle on the floor. His remaining inner guard, a terrified young enforcer with sweat pouring down his neck, stands glued to the wall beside the heavy vault door, his submachine gun shaking so violently that the barrel vibrates against the steel paneling.

“They’re... they’re all dead,” the guard whimpers, his voice rising into a breathless shriek. “Davide, the whole outer detail is gone! It’s Valentino and your brothers⁠—”

“SHUT UP!” Davide roars, his composure completely disintegrating into animalistic terror.

He spins around, his dark eyes wide and bloodshot as he looks at me sitting in the oak chair. The arrogant heir who boasts about shipping permits and ancient Commission debts vanishes, replaced by a desperate, cornered rat realizing his executioner is standing on the other side of the wall.

“You think you won?” Davide spits, tears of pure rage mixing with the sweat on his face. He lunges forward, his hands reaching down to grab the lapels of my black silk blouse, jerking me upward against the coarse hemp ropes binding my chest. “You think your fucking husband gets to walk out of here with his prize?!”

I don’t scream. I don’t pull back. I let my body absorb the sudden jerk, keeping my spine rigid, my head lifted, and my eyes locked dead-center onto his twitching face.

“Careful, Davide,” I murmur. “Your adrenaline is peaking. Your hands are shaking so badly you’re going to tear your own suit seams.”

“SHUT UP!” he screams, drawing his silver-plated 9mm sidearm from his shoulder holster with a frantic, clattering snatch.

He jacks the slide back, chambering a round, and presses the hard steel of the gun barrel directly against the left side of my jaw, right beneath my ear, pressing hard enough to bruise the skin over my facial artery.

“Let’s see how brave Luca is when I hold his precious wife with a round through her neck!” Davide pants, his breath hot, foul, and smelling of cheap tobacco as he drags my chair three inches across the concrete, positioning my body between himself and the reinforced inner vault door. “I’ll blow your brains across this concrete the second that door opens!”

I feel the cold weight of the steel barrel biting into my skin. I feel the microscopic, frantic tremor in Davide’s trigger finger, an unstable, erratic pressure that could discharge the weapon on a nervous reflex.

I do not flinch. I do not blink.

I tilt my head back by a millimeter, aligning my spine, and look past the silver barrel of his gun toward the reinforced steel vault door three yards away.

Behind my back, my fingers work the coarse hemp rope, turning my black diamond ring against my knuckle. The cool platinum band grounds my pulse, anchoring my soul to the man who gave it to me.

“You don’t understand the man standing outside that door, Davide,” I say, my tone smooth, level, and completely devoid of fear. “You think I’m your human shield. But to Luca, my body is an altar. And you just put your dirty hands on his holy ground.”