3. Santo
Chapter 3
Santo
I n my home office, plans to take over NovaRael are already in motion. The wedding is still weeks away, but the contract? That can be signed now.
I call Maksim to set up a meeting with Miroslav Popov, ready to push the deal through. He doesn’t hesitate.
“Popov can be at your estate within the hour,” he says.
Good.
As I hang up, the door swings open without a knock—like it always does.
Mrs. Keen, my housekeeper, steps in, a pitcher of iced tea in her hands, the same way she has for the last fifteen years. I barely glance at her before making a mental note to install the Athena lock system once the surveillance data finishes uploading.
She moves through the room like she owns it. Maybe, in her own way, she does. There’s something grounding about her presence—soft, familiar, like she’s always been a part of this house. A part of my life.
The tea is homemade, just like my mother used to make when Angelo and I were boys.
She hesitates. Just for a second. But I don’t miss it.
I lean back in my chair, raising an eyebrow, waiting.
She sets the pitcher down at the office bar, pours me a glass, then finally meets my gaze.
I exhale, already knowing.
“Who told you?”
She lowers her head slightly, carefully choosing her words.
“Luca,” she admits. “But don’t be upset with him. I overheard him… something about ordering a tail on your—”
She pauses, and I see it—the care she’s taking not to overstep.
It doesn’t matter.
I already know exactly who she’s talking about.
I nod, unfazed. “I’m not upset. You’d have found out soon enough. I’m getting married in two weeks. She’ll be living here.”
Mrs. Keen’s entire face lights up, her joy so genuine that it almost catches me off guard.
“Oh, Santo, this is wonderful!” she exclaims, hands clasping together. “I can’t wait to meet her.”
She starts pacing, rattling off ideas—changes to the house, dinner menus, accommodations—already planning for a bride she’s never met. Her excitement is relentless, spilling into every word until, mid-sentence, she freezes, brows knitting together.
“I leave for vacation next week,” she says, disappointment heavy in her tone. “I won’t be here for the ceremony, and I won’t meet your wife until after... I can reschedule—”
I raise a hand, cutting her off. “You deserve your break. Lila can assist my wife with anything while you’re away.”
The word wife lingers on my tongue, feeling foreign in a way I hadn’t expected.
Mrs. Keen nods but hesitates, her fingers twitching like she’s debating whether to say more. “But I can’t miss your wedding,” she says softly.
“It’s supposed to be a small ceremony.” I keep my voice even, neutral. “Nothing extravagant.”
She sighs, but the excitement in her eyes doesn’t dim. “Very well,” she relents, but I can already see her mind spinning, filing away ways to make this wedding feel like something, small or not. “Do you have a photo of her? What’s her name?”
Something tugs at the corner of my mouth—a rare, fleeting smile trying to break free. I push past it, pulling the folder from my desk and handing her the photo inside.
“Her name is Vasilisa.”
Mrs. Keen gasps the second she sees the picture. “A beautiful name for a beautiful woman,” she beams. “She’ll fit in perfectly here.”
I say nothing.
Because for the first time, I wonder if she’s right.
I shake my head, pushing the thought away.
Mrs. Keen disappears from the room, only to return minutes later—this time, with the photo framed. Without asking, she sets it on my desk like it belongs there.
“You should always have a photo of your wife in your office,” she says with a satisfied nod before shutting the door softly behind her.
I exhale through my nose, leaning back in my chair.
The framed photo sits there, unassuming, yet impossible to ignore.
Vasilisa’s bright smile stares back at me— unfamiliar yet… strangely settling. I let the image sit with me, fingers absently tracing the rim of my glass before I take a slow sip.
The moment doesn’t last.
The rare calm shatters as my phone rings.
Miroslav Popov has arrived.
I answer briskly, instructing the front gate to let him through.
Moments later, a knock sounds at the door. Romeo, our newest recruit, steps in, leading Miroslav into the office.
Popov steps inside—a short, unassuming man with neatly combed white hair and a stern expression. His dark suit is crisp, a sleek black briefcase hanging at his side. His handshake is firm, stronger than expected.
“The Pakhan says you’re eager to start your ownership of my company,” he says, voice edged with quiet disdain.
I remain composed, offering a nod. “That’s the stipulation your Pakhan set for our alliance, is it not?”
His eyes narrow slightly, the corners of his mouth tugging downward. “Not everyone is fortunate enough to walk into power so easily.”
I meet his gaze evenly, letting the weight of silence stretch between us. “If you have an issue with the arrangement, take it up with Korsakov. I can call him right now if you’d prefer.”
I reach for my phone.
Popov’s hand snaps up, stopping me. A flicker of irritation tightens his features as he sets the briefcase on my desk and pulls out the paperwork.
He slides the documents toward me, his annoyance barely concealed. “I’ve signed my part. We just need yours. My office has already been informed of your potential arrival weeks ago, as per the Pakhan’s instructions.”
I absorb this new information in silence.
Korsakov and my father expected a yes . Assumed I’d fall in line.
As if I ever had a choice.
My jaw tightens, but I push it aside.
A twinge of anger prickles through me, settling deep.
Doesn’t matter.
I pick up the pen.
I skim the contract, eyes catching on a particular clause.
“I can’t change the name?” I ask, glancing up.
Popov straightens, his expression unwavering. “NovaRael is named after my daughters. Vasilisa’s middle name is Nova. I ask that it not be erased.”
I consider this.
I had planned to merge ZUES and NovaRael under one brand, a single entity under my control. But sentimentality isn’t worth interfering with. Not now.
Not when the goal is ownership .
It’s not worth the time.
I’ll have NovaRael. That’s what matters. If keeping the name is the price, then so be it.
“Fine,” I say, signing the papers. “I’ll have copies sent to you later in the week.”
Popov rises, smoothing his jacket. At the door, he pauses.
“Will you be visiting Vasilisa soon?”
“There’s no need.”
He lifts a brow but says nothing. Just offers a brief nod before exiting, leaving the room steeped in quiet once more—save for the faint ticking of the clock.
And the framed photo now occupying my desk.
Vasilisa Nova.
***
NovaRael is a masterpiece.
The sleek, modern building stands tall, cutting into the restless city skyline like it was built to rule over it. Its glass panels reflect the chaos of the streets below, untouched by it. Unbothered.
I step inside, firing off a quick text to Luca.
‘Keep me updated on Vasilisa’s whereabouts.’
The office hums with quiet luxury —polished marble, glass accents, meticulously curated décor that doesn’t just whisper wealth, it demands acknowledgment.
Employees move through the space, but I don’t miss the way heads subtly turn as I pass. They know exactly who I am.
Or at least, they think they do.
Miroslav Popov’s name is still etched into the glass of his corner office, but not for long. My fingers twitch at the thought, already anticipating the sight of my own name in its place.
Stepping inside, I take my time.
The panoramic windows stretch wide, framing the city like a painting. A reminder of what’s mine.
My city.
The office is expansive. Every detail deliberate. Artifacts, records, relics of Popov’s reign clutter the space. Most of it will go.
A large wooden desk anchors the room—grand, but outdated.
I already see the replacement. Glass. Sleek. Modern. A desk that belongs to a man who doesn’t just run a company—he controls an empire.
My eyes drift to the plush chairs circling the space. Comfortable, but not too comfortable.
Inviting, but not welcoming.
I settle behind the desk, leaning back in the chair as if it’s already mine.
It fits.
The knock at the door comes sooner than expected.
Popov steps inside, wearing a calm, polite smile. His eyes flick briefly to me, seated in his chair.
“Powerful feeling, isn’t it?” he asks, gesturing toward the office with an easy familiarity.
“It is,” I reply, watching him carefully.
He lowers himself into the chair across from me, sliding a thick folder across the desk.
“Everything you need is here.” His tone remains even. “Passwords, protocols, schedules—I’ve sent copies to your email. I have no doubt you’ll lead NovaRael well.”
Not a flicker of regret. No sadness in passing over his empire. No reluctance.
Only calm resignation .
Odd.
“I look forward to it.”
“I’m sure.” His smile is tight-lipped, unreadable. “Sandra will serve as your secretary until you hire a replacement.”
I lift an eyebrow. “You didn’t have one before?”
“I did. He left recently. Maksim requested my retirement before I could hire someone new.” A flicker of something—irritation, maybe—edges his voice, but he smooths it out as quickly as it appears. “This is all yours now. I’ll clear out my personal belongings, but you’re welcome to keep anything else.”
My gaze sweeps over the artifacts again. The remnants of his reign.
“I won’t need them.”
Popov’s eyes narrow, studying me. Then, he nods. “It will all be out by noon. Congratulations again, Mr. Amato.”
I stand as he does, shaking his hand. His grip is firm, his demeanor polite, but there’s no warmth in it. Just a transaction. A man handing over the keys to something he no longer owns.
At the door, he hesitates.
“My retirement party is coming up. You’re welcome to join.”
I offer a nod. “I’ll be here.”
A lie.
His celebration is irrelevant to me.
Once he’s gone, I sink back into the chair, letting my gaze sweep over the office again.
Mine.
The thought of reshaping NovaRael into something distinctly mine fuels me. Since the name must remain, ZUES will fall under it as a subsidiary. Salvatore, my managing partner, can oversee day-to-day operations. He’ll appreciate the promotion—especially with his wife about to give birth.
I press the call button.
Sandra steps in almost immediately.
Her hair is neatly braided, glasses perfectly positioned on the bridge of her nose, but I don’t miss the faint tremble in her hands as she stands before me.
“Popov said you’ll be filling in temporarily,” I note, studying her closely.
“Yes. I’m in product management on the fourteenth floor, but I can coordinate interviews for your secretary position,” she replies, voice soft but professional.
“The fourteenth floor,” I muse, filing the detail away. “There’s plenty I need to learn about this place.”
“That’s true, Mr. Amato,” Sandra agrees, her gaze flicking subtly toward the desk. “Would you like me to arrange for the moving company?”
I shake my head. “They’ll be here.”
She hesitates.
Her fingers twitch at the edge of her glasses, something weighing on her. I wait, silent, watching as she debates whether to speak.
Finally, she does.
“I know Mr. Popov had… other business interests outside of this company,” she says carefully, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “Do you share those… interests?”
I smirk, leaning forward just slightly.
“Why do you ask?”
She exhales, lowering her gaze. “There’s a separate list of candidates for… men in your specific line of work.”
A quiet chuckle escapes me.
“Yes, Sandra. I’ll need that list.”
Her eyes widen briefly, but she recovers quickly, giving a small nod before excusing herself.
I lean back, the smirk still lingering as my gaze drifts to the city skyline.
NovaRael is my kingdom now.