His greatest love.

Chapter 7.

Gio walked into his private office, the late afternoon sun casting a gold hue across the sleek floors. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, the top two buttons undone. Faint streaks of dried blood lined his forearms, the once-pristine white cotton of his shirt stained at the cuffs. The scent of iron still clung to him.

Matteo followed silently, shutting the door behind them with a soft click. The room, filled with dark wood and steel accents, felt even heavier after what they'd just done.

"Sei pazzo, fratello. That was a bit much, no?" Matteo said, shrugging off his jacket like he owned the place. (You're crazy, brother)

Gio calmly poured two glasses of whiskey like they'd just come back from brunch. "If I hadn't peeled him like an orange, we'd still be guessing who's leaking product from the docks."

"Peeling. Really?" Matteo scoffed. "At one point, I think he started confessing to crimes he didn't commit just to get you to stop."

Gio downed the whiskey like water, then exhaled. "Well at least now we know who's been leaking our shipments."

"True. But next time, can we try something else first before you turn psychotic?" Matteo chuckled, swirling his glass.

Gio smirked. "My methods are more... persuasive. Am open to suggestions though."

"More medieval, you mean."

"È efficace." (It's effective)

"You're like a Michelin chef with torture tools though." Matteo laughed. "Precision. Passion. Presentation."

"I even wore white." Gio glanced down at his stained shirt. "It really brings out the arterial spray."

"Sei un animale, fratello. You know that, right?" (You're an animal, brother)

"I'm a problem solver," Gio said, sipping. "You're the chaos. I'm the cleanup."

"Eh," Matteo shrugged. "Pot, meet kettle. I once threw a guy off a yacht because he pronounced gnocchi wrong."

Gio chuckled darkly. "He deserved it. He said guh-nocky. I would've thrown him too."

"Thank you." Matteo raised his glass in agreement. "Language is sacred."

They drank laughing lightly the kind of easy, intimate laugh only men who've buried secrets and bodies together can share, letting the velvet of the whiskey smooth out the edges of their blood-soaked afternoon.

"Anyway," Matteo said, removing a file from his briefcase that was still in Gio's office, "I got you what you asked for."

Gio refilling his glass. "The doctor?"

"Diana Pierce. Daughter of Teresa Flora Cruz and Martin Pierce. Mexican-American. Her father passed when she was six, and her mother remarried a few years later," Matteo began, scrolling through the file.

"That explains a lot of things," Gio said silently sipping his drink and he smiled remembering her curled silk hair.

"She was a gifted student. Skipped two grades and graduated high school at sixteen. Earned a double major in Biochemistry and Biomedical Engineering before attending med school."

Gio swirled his drink, eyebrows slightly raised.

"Two majors?"

"Mmhmm. Top of her class. Got into med school early through an accelerated program. Graduated with highest honors — summa cum laude. Interned at Mount Sinai. Then specialized in cardiothoracic surgery."

Matteo leaned back with a small whistle.

"She became board-certified before twenty-eight — most surgeons don't even make that before thirty-five. Youngest in her residency cohort. Fast-tracked due to consistent top-tier performance and outstanding patient outcomes."