Page 33 of Sacred Blood

I opened my bedroom door, and saw the familiar face of Vincent, one of the guards placed there to ensure my safety.

He stood at attention when I cast an impatient glare on him. “Where is Gaetano?” I demanded. “I have things to discuss with him, and my patience is wearing thin.”

“Il perdono, prima donna. He has been called to an emergency, so I cannot say.”

Hmm, figured. “Did you ask him about a phone for me? I’m going crazy here!”

Vincent cast his eyes downward. “Si, and he said to read a book and maybe journal a little more. No technology yet.”

Anger flared, winding me quickly into a temper tantrum. I knew it was wrong, but I was past caring. I stomped past Vincent and ran down the stairs. I was leaving, never mind that I had no shoes, money, or identification. I had rage enough to propel me all the way back to Toronto barefoot and confront my father.

“Miss Calabretta, please stop or I will be forced to—”

“Forced to what?” I spun on my heel, yelling at him. “Forced to shoot me?”

“Non, prima donna. Handcuff you to the bed and report to Gaetano.”

Under my outraged glare, he shifted and ultimately dropped his eyes. Instantly, I made my move, grabbing his gun from his holster and pointing it at him.

“You’ll report to Gaetano, will you?” I scoffed. “Fine, you do that. Tell him to get his ass here, pronto, or he’ll be mopping your brains off the floor, comprende?”

“I think you mean capiche,” he said calmly, too calmly for a man looking down a gun.

I could feel myself blushing, but I lifted my chin anyway. “I mean fucking do it, wise guy.”

A part of me felt bad threatening Vincent, who had been nothing but kind to me, but I was past caring about his feelings, or anyone else’s. Gaetano had ignored me for almost seven days and I would not let him or anyone put me in a box on a shelf to be forgotten.

Vincent held up his phone, showing he’d sent Tano the message. I handed him back his gun. “Thank you, Vincent, and I’m sorry for the extreme measures.” Before he could say anything, I stomped back to my room and slammed the door.

Chapter Eight

Gaetano

I was a man used to hard things. My place in the family was set in stone early on, thanks to my father, who saw me for what I was from an early age, and later to my mother, who carried the torch advocating for me to grow the family’s public image through my position at the hospital after his death.

I’d like to believe that not being a direct participant in the family business gave me a certain level of autonomy, but that was a lie. While caution had never been my defining trait (we unanimously reserved that title for Massimo), I had a unique ability to process information, studying my opponents in much the same way as I studied surgery, knowing just where to cut.

With anything in life, you can present your narrative and drive the outcome in that direction. And any opponent, if you knew what buttons to push, could be led to the conclusion you wished, and that was an area in which I thrived. Had Massimo not been attached to Romeo’s hip from day one, and naturally been next in line, I was certain they would have asked me to be his consigliere.

Thankfully, it never came to that. While I loved my brother, spending that much time with Romeo would be hell. We weren’t oil and water exactly, but we had our own opinions, and mine were always second to his in the dynamic. On the flip side, he carried tremendous weight on his shoulders that came with his role as leader. No matter what, family came first, and taking care of them, nursing them back to health, was my priority.

We were in the war room poring over timelines and geographical locations for the Solntsevskaya Bratva and the Toronto branch of the Siderna empire that belonged to Don Calabretta. There were many moving pieces at play, and part of that was Sonja Knyazev, daughter of Ivan Knyazev, one of its highest-ranking members.

This wasn’t the world I usually took part in. I’d never chosen an active role in the family business, but because of my personal enigma, Gabriella Calabretta, I was dragged straight into the middle of it. Bringing this situation to my family’s door meant I had to participate fully for the first time, helping identify and expose the larger issues at hand.

Six months ago, if someone had told me a nurse from Toronto would drag me into the middle of an international mafia conflict, I would have laughed them out of the room.

My life was structured. Predictable. Hospital. Family. Club. Repeat.

I preferred it that way.

People assumed surgeons thrived on chaos. The truth was exactly the opposite. We spent our lives restoring order. Identifying problems. Eliminating complications. Putting things back together.

Chaos belonged to Romeo. To Giovanni. To the men who spent their days navigating alliances, betrayals, and power struggles.

Not me. Yet somehow one stubborn, infuriating woman had upended all of that.

What started as a misplaced surgical tray had become a tangled web stretching across multiple countries, two organized crime syndicates, and enough secrets to destabilize families that had existed for generations.