Chapter 13 An Invisible String
An Invisible String
Vasilisa is curled into my side, legs tucked under a blanket she insists is “festive,” even though it looks like a knitted sugar cookie.
She’s wearing the matching pajamas she forced us into.
Blue with ridiculous little embroidered stars.
She keeps giggling every time I roll up the ill fitted sleeves like I’m some domesticated animal.
I don’t mind.
Not tonight.
Not with her ring back on and that smile on her face.
The fire crackles. A plate of gingerbread cookies sits half-eaten on the coffee table.
And in my hands is my mother’s journal.
One of many Vasilisa found shelved in the back of our home library, my mother’s old library.
She left us so many journals, inside glimpses into her life.
Vasilisa has another open, reading slowly, reverently. Her fingers trace the handwriting like she’s memorizing it.
I flip the page.
And my heart stops.
“Dea,” I breathe.
Nothing else comes out. My chest is too tight.
She immediately curls closer, her head lifting from my shoulder. “What? What did you find?”
I swallow hard and look back at the line, making sure I’m not imagining it.
“I… Dea, she knew you.”
Her brows knit in confusion, then she gasps out a surprised little laugh. “Your mother? Santo, what do you mean she knew me?”
I turn the book toward her, tapping the name with my thumb.
“Look. That’s your mother. She names her. Vera Popov.’”
Her breath hitches.
I keep reading, scanning the page. “They were at a meeting. I know this meeting. My father tried for years to form an alliance with the Bratva. Maksim’s father never budged. But your mother was there that day. And you were with her.”
Vasilisa takes the book from my hands, eyes wide and bright as she reads.
“Oh!” she gasps, her fingers flying to her lips. “My mother was afraid? Nervous, to go to the bathroom?” Her brows knit tighter. “I know my father wasn’t kind, but why…”
Her voice trails off.
And then she sees it.
Her eyes soften. Her lips part.
“She offered to hold me while my mother stepped away.”
I nod, my throat thick.
“She held you, Dea.”
Vasilisa looks up at me, those ocean-blue eyes blinking fast, breath trembling.
“She held me,” she whispers, almost laughing from the shock of it. “Your mama met me.”
I wrap my arm around her and pull her into my chest, pressing a kiss to her hair. My voice is rough, quieter than I intend.
“She knew you,” I murmur. “Before I ever did. She touched you. Protected you for a minute.”
Vasilisa melts into me, hugging the journal to her chest like it’s something holy. “That’s so beautiful,” she whispers. “Santo… why are you—” She pulls back enough to see my face. “What’s wrong?”
I take a sharp breath, unable to hide the emotion thick in my throat.
“When my mother died I thought…” I pause. “When I met you, I thought she would never get to meet the woman I love.”
I swallow. “But she did. She held you. She saw you. She touched the one person who would save me.”
Vasilisa’s face breaks; soft, overwhelmed, glowing with the kind of love that destroys men like me.
“Oh Santo, it’s our invisible string.”
I tilt my head. “What?”
“The string the universe uses to tie us together, we were always meant to be together, nothing could have taken what fate meant for us. It’s a perfect fairytale.”
I chuckle at that. “Yes I’m sure married to the underboss of Cosa Nostra is a fairytale Dea.”
“It’s my fairy tale,” she says firmly, touching my face. “You’re exactly what I wanted.”
“You wanted a dangerous man in organized crime?” I raise an eyebrow.
“Hey! I was born into this life and I wanted you.” She leans up and presses a soft kiss to my jaw. “Just you, Santo Amato.”
Something in my chest expands, that same feeling I get every time she looks at me like I’m something good instead of something to fear.
I pull her closer against me, inhaling the scent of cinnamon and vanilla that clings to her hair.
“Read me more,” she whispers, settling her head against my shoulder. “What else did your mother write about that day?”
I take the journal back, flipping the page carefully. My mother’s handwriting flows across the page, elegant and precise, just like her.
“She says you had the biggest blue eyes she’d ever seen,” I murmur, scanning the lines. “And that you didn’t cry, even though you were so small. You just stared up at her, she wanted to take you home.”
I chuckle, shaking my head.
My mother, the bleeding heart.
Vasilisa makes a soft sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “Could you imagine if she did?”
“No thank you, you’d be an adopted sibling Dea,” I shake my head cringing.
She shrugs casually. “Maksim’s parents are step-siblings, you know.”
I pause mid-page turn, brows arching. “That... explains a lot.”
Her eyes widen in horror. “Oh no. I wasn’t supposed to spill that to anyone. That’s a Bratva-level secret.”
I smirk, setting the journal aside. “I’m not ‘anyone,’ Vasilisa. I’m your husband.”
She groans, burying her face in my shoulder. “Maksim would kill me.”
The shift is instant. Scythe rises like a shadow behind my ribs. My hand clamps protectively around her hip, voice dropping.
“No one will ever touch you, Vasilisa. Not even him.”
She softens immediately, curling deeper into my side.
“You know,” she murmurs, tone quieter now, “it’s not that complicated.
My mother was adopted as a teen after my aunt was.
Then grandma married grandpa and grandpa already had a son, Uncle Nikolai.
Then aunt Valeria and Uncle Nikolai fell in love. ”
I let that settle, watching the way her fingers tangle into each other like a memory. “Fell in love,” I echo, a little dryly.
She grins, catching my expression.
“I didn’t say it wasn’t weird.” She swats my arm.
“Just that our family is all tangled and connected. The main focus is that our baby’s grandmother held me when I was tiny.
” Her hand drifts to her stomach, that unconscious, protective gesture she’s been doing since she found out.
“It’s like she knew, somehow that I'd be part of her family.”
I close the journal, setting it aside to pull her fully into my lap. She comes willingly, settling against me with a contented sigh.
“She would have adored you,” I tell her, my voice roughening. “She was a lot like you. Kind. Strong. She would have immediately approved.”
“You think so?”
“I know it.” I press a kiss to her temple. “She would have seen what I see.”
“What do you see?” she asks, tilting her face up to mine.
I look at her; really look at her. The soft curve of her cheek. The way her eyelashes cast shadows in the firelight. The slight upturn at the corners of her mouth when she’s waiting for me to say something that will make her blush.
“Everything,” I say simply. “I see everything I never thought I’d have.”
Her eyes shine with unshed tears. “Santo...”
“And now you’re giving me more.” My hand drifts to her stomach, flat beneath her ridiculous Christmas pajamas. “A family. A future.”
She covers my hand with hers, her fingers small and warm against mine.
“Our baby is going to be so loved,” she whispers. “So protected.”
I nod, throat tight. “Nothing will ever touch them. Nothing.”
“I know.” She smiles, soft and sure. “You’re going to be the best father, Santo.”
I don’t answer. Can’t. The weight of those words, of her certainty, presses into my chest like a stone.
The best father.
How can I be what I never had? My own father was cold, distant, brutal. A man who saw his sons as tools, not children. A man who taught me that power was the only thing worth having.
Until her.
Until Vasilisa showed me there was more.
“Thank you, Dea,” I capture her hand, bringing it to my lips. “I’ll do my best.”
She melts against me, her eyes drifting to the Christmas tree. The lights reflect in her eyes, turning them to kaleidoscopes of blue and gold.
“It’s perfect,” she whispers. “Everything. The tree. The proposal. The ring.” She flexes her fingers, watching the silver band catch the light. “I can’t believe you had it all along.”
“I can’t believe you thought you lost it,” I counter. “As if I’d ever let you lose something that important.”
She huffs a laugh against my neck. “You’re impossible.”
“You love it.”
“I do.” She sighs, settling deeper into my arms. “Have you heard from Lila?”
My body tenses before I can stop it. I’ve been avoiding this topic since I got Enzo’s text earlier not wanting to ruin her perfect Christmas eve. But Vasilisa notices everything.
Her eyes search mine, sharp and gentle at the same time.
She always feels it first; any shift in me, any fracture beneath the surface.
Like she’s wired into my pulse.
“Santo… what aren’t you telling me?”
My breath stalls.
And in the space between her question and my answer, my mind fractures in two.
Tell her.
Don’t tell her.
She’s pregnant.
She deserves the truth.
She deserves peace.
She cannot be stressed.
She cannot be left in the dark.
She trusts me.
I swore I’d never lie to her.
But if I tell her everything…
The blood
The shattered glass.
The clothes missing.
The overturned table, she’ll spiral.
I can’t risk that.
Not today.
Not ever.
But I can’t lie.
Not to her.
Not once.
Not now.
My jaw locks. My pulse spikes.
I hold her tighter without meaning to.
I inhale slowly, an attempt to steady myself. It doesn’t work.
“Lila is missing,” I finally say, my voice lower than I intend. Rough. Controlled.
Vasilisa’s entire body goes still.
“Missing?” she whispers.
I choose every word with surgical precision, forcing my voice into something even, calm, steady; when inside, everything is twisting tight.
“Enzo checked in on her yesterday,” I say. “She wasn’t at home when she should’ve been. She’s… missing.”
The word tastes cold on my tongue.
Her fingers tighten onto my shirt. “Santo, I need more then just missing. What does that even mean?”
It means her apartment was torn apart.
It means there was blood.
It means someone took her.
But that truth sits behind my teeth like a blade.
“It means,” I say, pulling her closer, “she wasn’t where she was supposed to be. Enzo is handling it. Angelo already has a team out searching.”
She’s trembling, trying to keep her voice steady, but the fear slips through.
“Does Romeo know?”
I don’t even hesitate.
“No. He doesn’t need more on his plate.”
Her breath shakes.
That hits me like a punch to the sternum.
She’s scared.
I made her scared.
“Do you think it’s the Armenians?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper.
I can’t cushion this.
Not this part.
Not when lies could cost her safety.
“Maybe,” I admit softly. “But it could be rivals from Chicago. We don’t know yet.”
Her eyes widen. Fear flaring bright. I feel it like fire against my ribs.
“What if they—”
“Dea.”
I cut her off immediately, cupping her face with both hands before the thought can finish its shape.
“No one will ever touch you again,” I say, voice low, steady, absolute. “Not while I’m alive. You’re with me. Always.”
Her breath comes out shaky, shoulders loosening.
She nods, small and trembling, but trusting—trusting me.
And that trust crushes me with its softness.
She curls into my chest, legs tucked against mine, her face pressed over my heart like she’s trying to memorize its rhythm.
I hold her tighter than I should, burying my face in her hair, inhaling cinnamon and vanilla and something purely her.
“I’ve got you,” I whisper. “I’ve got both of you.”
Her hand settles over her stomach.
And I swear something inside me vows itself all over again.