2. Santo
Chapter 2
Santo
Present Day
W hen my father’s call comes through, I’m elbow-deep in wiring Athena, my latest surveillance system, into every inch of my estate. The last perimeter is nearly secured when his name slashes across my screen, cutting through the silence like a blade.
Tension tightens down my spine. My teeth clench.
I hate being interrupted.
But when the Don calls, you answer. No excuses.
I exhale, swallowing the irritation burning beneath my skin. It’s not just the interruption—it’s the disruption of control. Athena isn’t just a project; it’s a fortress, a statement, proof of my strength. My legacy. Built with my own hands. Leaving it unfinished feels like leaving my doors wide open, inviting enemies inside.
The weight of it undone sits heavy in my ribs as I pull up to my father’s estate. The place looms, all excess and power, a monument to the life carved out for me before I even had a say in it.
I park at the front, already mapping out my exit.
In and out. A quick check-in to keep the old man satisfied so I can get back to things that actually matter.
Then I see it.
Angelo’s Ferrari. Gleaming beneath the afternoon sun like a coiled serpent, waiting.
That changes everything.
This isn’t a routine check-in. This is business. And in our world, business means blood.
One of the guards steps forward to open the heavy oak doors, barely glancing in my direction.
He’s new.
I don’t bother acknowledging him. He won’t last long enough for it to matter.
My steps echo against the cold stone, each click deliberate, each movement weighted with purpose. The house feels darker than usual. Colder.
The kind of cold that doesn’t leave. The kind that seeps into your bones and stays there.
This house raised us in shadows, molding us into what we are. My brother and I grew up here, our childhood etched into these walls. Then our mother left, and with her went the only light we’d ever known. Summers at her estate were the closest thing we had to warmth.
But in this family, light never lasts long.
Our father shapes us with iron and fire, carving away every soft edge until only sharpness remains. Reverence. Fear.
He demands both, and he takes them by any means necessary.
I approach his study, every step a reminder of the man he made me. A man forged in his image, yet one who still—despite everything—walks willingly into the lion’s den.
I knock, bracing for the usual grunt of acknowledgment.
Instead—
“Come in.”
Not his usual bark. Too light . Too damn cheerful.
I push open the door, and the thick stench of cigar smoke wraps around me, suffocating and dense. It clings to everything, settling in the air like a warning. Familiar, yes—but today, it feels heavier.
At his desk, my father grins. Too wide. Too satisfied.
Like he’s already won a game I haven’t even realized we’re playing.
“Santo, my boy!” My father’s voice booms through the room, arms outstretched in mock warmth. He gestures to the seat next to Angelo.
Angelo sits stiffly, legs spread, hands folded in his lap. The black-on-black suit only makes him look more severe against the rich mahogany furniture. His eyes meet mine briefly before flicking downward.
Angelo never looks away.
Unless he’s hiding something.
The rare display of unease sets off warning bells in my head. The energy in the room shifts, settling into my bones like a weight.
This is not a check-in.
I move toward the empty chair, slow and measured, lowering myself into it without breaking eye contact with my father.
“What’s this about?” My voice is neutral, but the tightness in my gut says I won’t like the answer.
My father leans back, exhaling a thick stream of smoke as he taps his cigar against the edge of a crystal ashtray. “It’s a celebration,” he says, smugness curling at the edges of his mouth.
I don’t blink. My gaze flickers to Angelo, but his expression remains stoic, his focus locked on our father.
“And what exactly are we celebrating?”
“Your impending marriage,” my father announces, that same smug grin widening.
The words slam into me.
I don’t move.
Silence stretches, too thin, too heavy, broken only by the slow tick of the clock.
Finally, I let out a slow breath. “I must have misheard. Did you just say marriage?”
“I did.” His eyes gleam with satisfaction. “Your marriage will solidify our alliance with the Russians.”
I drag a hand over my jaw, biting back the surge of heat threatening to rise. It’s no secret that Angelo and Maksim Korsakov, the Pakhan of the Bratva, have been close since childhood. A decade ago, Maksim’s father stepped down, passing the reins to his son—something our father should have done years ago.
But he didn’t.
And now, this is the leash he’s tightening around my neck.
“Why not Angelo?” My voice is low, sharp. “He’s next in line to lead.”
My father’s expression doesn’t shift, but his eyes cool several degrees. “I have other plans for Angelo.”
The vagueness doesn’t sit right.
He reaches into his desk, pulls out a thick manila folder, and slides it toward me. It stops just short of the edge.
I don’t touch it.
Instead, I inhale slowly, forcing the tension from my neck and shoulders before snatching the folder off the desk in one sharp, deliberate motion. The rough edge scrapes against my fingertips as I flip it open.
The first thing I see is a photograph.
A young woman stares back at me—golden hair cascading in soft waves, framing a face too light for the weight of the world she comes from. Crystal blue eyes shine with an untouched brightness, out of place in the darkness we swim in.
Delicate features soften her presence, making her look almost ethereal.
She’s smiling. Genuinely smiling.
It’s disarming.
She wears a fitted black turtleneck tucked into a dark plaid skirt that falls mid-thigh, the bare stretch of skin between the hem and her ankle boots adding an edge of playfulness to an otherwise composed appearance. The juxtaposition feels intentional—elegance laced with subtle rebellion.
Her full lips curve into that same soft smile.
Like she doesn’t know anything about the world she lives in.
She looks kind . Fragile. Breakable .
“Your bride,” my father announces, his voice slicing through my thoughts. He gestures toward the photo with that same smug satisfaction. “The cousin of the Pakhan.”
I lift an eyebrow, letting the folder drift shut under my fingers as I lean back in the chair. “She looks young.” The words fall flat, emotionless, but the implication is clear.
My father barely acknowledges it. “She’s twenty,” he replies, casual as ever.
I set the folder down, sliding it across the desk without breaking eye contact. “She’s too young. I’m not marrying her.”
The leather of my chair creaks faintly as I straighten, a deliberate move—one that should signal the end of the conversation.
It doesn’t.
“Nonsense.” His tone hardens, any feigned warmth draining from his expression. “Your mother and I had more years between us than that.”
I hold his gaze, letting the silence stretch between us, thickening the air, making it heavier than the smoke curling between us.
Finally, I say it—cold, sharp. “That’s exactly my point.”
Beside me, Angelo cracks open the folder, his interest obvious as his gaze lingers on the photo. His lips quirk in amusement.
“I’ll marry her.”
He leans back, a lazy chuckle escaping—just enough bite in the suggestion to rile me .
Our father shakes his head, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “No, she’s for Santo,” he says, gesturing toward me without missing a beat. His eyes flick to Angelo. “Besides, once he marries her, you get what you want.”
My attention snaps to Angelo.
His grin falters. Something unreadable flashes behind his eyes. I catch the slight dip of his head—shame, maybe regret—but it’s gone as quickly as it came.
“And what exactly do you get, Angelo?” My voice is sharp, cutting through the smoke and tension.
Angelo flushes, his easygoing facade cracking. He sits forward abruptly, hands slicing through the air as he fires off rapid Italian, reminding our father that he was supposed to wait before telling me.
They launch into their usual argument, voices rising and falling, colliding in a tangle of frustration and unspoken resentment. I don’t bother stepping in. Let them argue. Let them exhaust themselves in their back-and-forth.
Their voices fade into the background as I refocus on the folder in front of me. I flip through the details, every line meticulously typed out like a résumé—like a fucking sales pitch—for a girl who doesn’t yet realize the weight of the life she’s being sold into.
Vasilisa Popov.
Twenty years old.
One younger sister.
Likes dogs, lilies, music, and baking.
I skim over the trivial list. None of it matters. She could collect stamps for all I care.
But as my eyes drift lower, the next paragraph pulls me up short.
Her father owns NovaRael—the largest tech and surveillance company in the city.
“There it is.”
My father’s voice slices through the noise, shushing Angelo with a raised hand. His grin stretches wider as he gestures toward the page in my grip.
“You see that, Santo? Her father only has daughters. He’s stepping down, and when he does, Vasilisa will inherit the company—one she knows nothing about. She’ll need someone to handle things for her.”
His eyes gleam with satisfaction as he leans back, steepling his fingers. “And who better than her husband?”
I let the weight of the proposition sink in.
NovaRael. A tech empire. Access to every cutting-edge surveillance system that could rival—or dismantle—my own.
ZUES.
I built ZUES from nothing. It’s more than a company; it’s the foundation of my power within Cosa Nostra. But merging NovaRael with ZUES? That would shift everything.
The possibilities spread before me like a map of untapped territory.
And all I have to do is marry the girl.
A spoiled tech heiress—sheltered, na?ve. Easy to manipulate.
I could throw money her way, keep her comfortable, while building something far greater for myself.
I snap the folder shut, setting it carefully on the desk. The click of my ring against the wood is the only sound as Angelo and my father turn their attention to me.
“I’ll do it,” I say finally, my voice steady, cool. “No lavish ceremony. Just papers signed.”
My father’s expression softens at my agreement, but I can already see the stipulation forming in his mind. He doesn’t waste time voicing it.
“We need a ceremony and reception to bring the families together,” he says, measured but firm. “It can be small.”
I nod once. A public display is necessary. Our world runs on perception—alliances must be seen to hold weight.
Beside me, Angelo’s shoulders relax slightly, but I catch the flicker of tension he hides behind his mask of composure.
Our father offers a quick smile, sensing the shift in the room.
“Under one condition,” I add, letting the words settle in the space between us.
Angelo stiffens. My father chuckles, low and knowing.
“Tell me,” I continue, gaze locked on my father’s, “what Angelo gets in return for my favor to the family.”
A slow, satisfied smile spreads across his face, like he’s been waiting for me to ask.
“He gets to be the Don.”
The words hang in the air.
I turn to Angelo, reading the flicker of restraint in his eyes. He’s braced for a fight that isn’t coming.
Instead, I grin.
I rise, pulling Angelo into a tight embrace. There’s a brief hesitation in his stance, tension in his muscles, before he claps me hard on the back.
“Good,” I say, meaning it. “It’s about time.”
Angelo steps back, watching me like he’s still trying to figure out if I’m fucking with him.
Our father moves to the bar, retrieving three glasses. The quiet clink of crystal echoes through the room as he pours whiskey, amber liquid swirling in each glass.
“We celebrate,” he declares, passing one to each of us.
We raise them. The soft chime of glass striking glass fills the air, a toast to a future neither of us truly chose.
The whiskey burns down my throat, settling warm in my chest, but it doesn’t wash away the truth.
A strange sense of victory lingers. Bittersweet. Inevitable.
Angelo will take the throne he’s spent years preparing for. I will marry Vasilisa—a girl I haven’t met, whose name I only learned minutes ago.
Not exactly a fair trade.
But fairness doesn’t interest me. Opportunity does.
NovaRael isn’t just a dowry—it’s a crown jewel wrapped in ignorance. Vasilisa knows nothing about the empire she’s meant to inherit, and if I move fast, play this right, I’ll have control long before she even realizes what’s slipping through her fingers.
I take another sip, already calculating.
Merging NovaRael with ZUES would transform our operations overnight. Angelo at the helm, my hand on the technology—we could outpace every rival. Expand our reach into territories no one else has dared to touch.
Still, a thin thread of unease coils beneath the surface.
What will Vasilisa think?
The thought flickers—unwelcome, irrelevant.
It doesn’t matter.
She won’t have a say. None of us did.
And if I were a better man, maybe I’d pity her.
But I’m not.
I tip back the rest of my whiskey, swallowing the lingering doubt along with it.
Maksim is reckless to let this slip through his fingers. The alliance feels too simple, almost careless on his part. The thought nags at me, but I push it aside.
His loss. My advantage.
Before I leave, I fire off a quick text to one of my men.
‘Tail her.’
I want eyes on my future wife long before she realizes I exist.