10. Santo
Chapter 10
Santo
W alking into the restaurant, I take in the space with a single sweep of my gaze. Immaculate, as it should be. Vincenzo runs a tight ship—spotless floors, polished silverware, crisp white tablecloths. The faint scent of fresh flowers lingers in the air, a soft contrast to the usual aroma of seared steak and aged wine.
He leads me to a perfectly set table—chilled drinks, mouthwatering appetizers, lighting dimmed just enough to cast everything in a warm, intimate glow. A romantic touch. One I hadn’t asked for, but knowing Vincenzo, not an accident. The man deserves a raise.
He greets me with his usual ease, taking my jacket. I stop him, reaching into the pocket and pulling out the box before letting him fold the fabric over his arm. His eyes flick to it, and a smirk tugs at his lips.
“I heard about the arrangement,” he says, amusement laced in his voice. “Didn’t think you’d go so far as to properly ask her.”
“I’m not,” I reply flatly. “I’m giving it to her to formalize the arrangement. Nothing more.”
His smirk falters slightly, but he doesn’t push. Smart man.
“We won’t be long,” I say, shifting the conversation. “I won’t keep you late—I know Arturo and the baby are waiting.”
Vincenzo waves me off. “I called him after you did. He’s fine if I’m late, and the baby’s already asleep.” There’s a quiet pride in his voice, one that softens the usual edge.
Vincenzo and I have known each other since college. He stayed in the closet for longer than I expected, but once he burst through, he went all in. Within a year, he had a husband and most recently, a baby. He is a trusted and loyal friend, though far too invested in my romantic life. I’m sure that if anyone in my circle would take to Vasilisa kindly, it would be Vincenzo.
I take a seat as he leaves to put my jacket away; I place the box on the table and sip my glass of wine.
The setting is perfect, every detail meticulous—yet there’s something unfamiliar clawing at my chest. I realize, for the first time in a long time, I’m nervous.
I push the feeling down. She’s already mine, whether either of us wanted it or not. The contracts are signed. There is no turning down this ring.
My phone buzzes. A text from my driver.
She’s here.
I stand, my gaze locked onto the entrance.
And then I see her.
Vasilisa steps inside, eyes wide as she takes in La Serenata, the candlelight catching in the crisp blue of her irises. Vincenzo greets her, says something that earns him a small smile, but I barely register it. She turns toward me, and in an instant, the fluttering in my chest ceases.
She smiles, and something inside me stutters. A brief, sharp halt—like the world just changed, and I was the last to notice.
The soft flush on her cheeks, the way her lips curve—innocent, unaware of the hold she already has on me. My gaze trails lower, drinking her in. The emerald green dress clings to her like it was made for her, cinching at the waist, the low-cut neckline daring me to imagine how it would look pooled at her feet. It flares at her hips, moving with an effortless grace, teasing with every step. Short. Showcasing legs that deserve to be worshipped. Four-inch heels lengthen them, accentuating every perfect line.
Heels again .
I wonder if it’s an insecurity, if she resents the height difference between us. If she knows she doesn’t need them.
With or without, she carries herself like a queen. And I—despite the contract, despite the arrangement—am nothing more than a man caught in her orbit.
She is breathtaking .
I go to her, extending my hand. Her touch is light, but her grip is steady and firm. She lets me lead her to the table, moving with that same effortless grace that commands attention without trying. When I pull out her chair, she sinks into it with perfect poise, pure class in every movement.
I take my seat across from her, watching as her gaze sweeps over the restaurant in quiet wonder. Then her eyes meet mine again, and she gives me a small, shy smile.
“This place is beautiful,” she says softly, as if hesitant to break the silence between us.
I let a slow smile tug at my lips. La Serenata was the first of many businesses my brother and I built, and while I rarely allow sentimentality, pride settles deep in my chest at her approval.
“I’m glad you like it.” I keep my voice warm, easy, wanting her to stay comfortable.
A soft blush dusts her cheeks before she drops her gaze, scanning the spread of food between us. Then, she giggles—a sound so light, so effortlessly sweet, it sends an unfamiliar thud through my chest.
“You have enough food on this table for four grown men.”
I glance down, confused. Bruschetta, arancini, caponata, and an antipasto platter of olives, meats, and cheeses—just a few of my favorites. Nothing excessive.
“This would barely feed my brother and me,” I smirk.
She giggles again, and my chest tightens. I loosen my tie, clearing my throat before I do something stupid.
She opens her napkin and places it on her lap then takes bruschetta and places it on her plate delicately. “Your brother is the Don?” she asks innocently enough, but her mention of Angelo gives me that unfamiliar tinge again.
“Yes, Angelo is now the head of Cosa Nostra,” I say dismissively. Taking a few olives from the platter before I say more, I eat instead.
She nods and lifts the bread to her lips. Taking a bite, her full lips close around it, her tongue darting out to catch any stray crumbs. My eyes follow her tongue and trail over her face, mesmerized by the way she enjoys the food.
A small moan escapes her lips, sending a shiver down my spine and making me crave her even more. I shake my head to clear my thoughts and motion for Vincenzo to come closer.
“That is undoubtedly the best bruschetta I’ve ever tasted,” she says, placing the remaining piece down with a satisfied sigh
“I’ll be sure to let the chef keep his job,” I say jokingly.
Her eyebrows raise, “You own this restaurant?”
Before I can answer Vincenzo approaches, “Mr. Amato, Ms. Popov would you like to have your entrees brought out now?”
“Oh no, there’s more than enough food on this table to last me a lifetime,” Vasilisa says with a small laugh that I instantly hope to hear again.
“Nonsense,” I say to her and her eyes widen as she meets my eyes. “If anything, you should eat more,” The words are light, teasing, meant to coax another smile out of her, but something shifts. She blinks, glancing down at her plate, the laughter gone from her lips.
I turn to Vincenzo, covering the moment with an easy command. “The entrees can come out in fifteen minutes. I called you over to ask if you could bring me the book.”
Vincenzo’s brows rise slightly before understanding clicks into place. He nods and steps away.
I turn back to Vasilisa. She’s still looking at her half-eaten bruschetta, lost in thought.
My fingers tighten around my glass. “Everything alright?”
She looks up at me, her eyes momentarily forlorn. It’s barely there—just a flicker of something fragile—before she masks it with a smile, straightening her shoulders, slipping back into the effortless poise she wears like armor.
“Yes, of course. Everything is so... beautiful here,” she says. But her voice is softer now, and her eyes don’t quite match her words.
Before I can press, Vincenzo returns, holding my mother’s book.
“Vita Nuova,” Vasilisa gasps reaching for the book, but then catches herself and clasps her hands together, returning to her poised state.
“Yes, Vita Nuova,” I say, taking the book from Vincenzo and dismissing him with a nod. I let my fingertips graze the worn cover for a brief moment before extending it to her.
She hesitates, then takes it, running her palm reverently down the aged leather.
“It’s my mother's, and now it’s yours.”
Vasilisa’s beautiful mouth forms a small o , and she flushes, her gorgeous face glowing.
“I couldn’t possibly,” she starts, lifting the book to return it, but I stop her with a raised hand.
“It’s yours.” My voice leaves no room for argument. “You’ll be bringing it to our home soon enough anyway.”
She exhales softly and places the book down, delicate in the way she handles it, as if it’s something sacred.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Usually, I wouldn’t part with anything that belonged to my mother, but Vasilisa likes books, she will treat it well.
I take a sip of wine, my gaze lingering on her. I could get used to this—her presence, the quiet grace that draws me in when I least expect it. She’s warm in a way I hadn’t anticipated.
Her fingers trail absently along the worn edges of the book, her expression softening, eyes filled with a silent appreciation that makes something settle deep in my chest.
“Have you read it before?” I ask her, eager to delve into a conversation that would lay bare more of her personality.
Her lips curve into a smile as she lifts her gaze, “Partially, for one of my literature classes. Dante’s story of love and devotion is... moving...” Her voice drifts off as the smile fades, replaced by a distant look.
I’m tempted to ask what’s hidden behind those soulful eyes. I wonder if it’s the arranged marriage that makes her sad or something else entirely. I doubt she will tell me if I ask forthright. It’s too soon to gamble so instead, I take another sip of wine and lean back into my chair.
“Tell me about the art you make. Should I expect our home to be adorned with your pieces?”
Her expression flickers, something sorrowful flashing in her eyes before she quickly drops her gaze, shaking her head.
“No,” she says quietly. “None of my pieces will be coming with me.”
Before I can question that, the waiters move in to clear the appetizers, and Vincenzo sets down our entrees—linguine with salmon, cooked to perfection.
“This is perfect,” she says, her voice lighter, picking up her fork and twirling it through the pasta.
“Why can’t you bring your pieces?”
She chews, her hand coming up to cover her mouth, blushing slightly as she tries to finish quickly to respond.
“My father didn’t find them suitable for the house,” she finally says with a small shrug. “So he had me leave them in the garage, and they got ruined. I didn’t even get to see them before he tossed them.”
She pauses. “He thinks it’s a waste of a hobby anyway.”
A slow, seething heat creeps up my spine.
I set my fork down.
“Your art isn’t a waste.” My voice is low, firm. “You’ll make more. In our home, you’ll make more.”
Her eyes widen slightly, caught off guard. “You... want me to paint in the house?”
“Where else would you paint?”
She hesitates. “I don’t know, my father doesn’t like paint in the house, so I usually painted outside, but one time it rained, and all my supplies got destroyed so I just stopped painting.”
I grip my wine glass a little too tightly.
“That won’t happen again.” The words come out hard, final. “You’ll paint inside. You’ll have a room with natural light. You’ll hang your work wherever you want.”
She stares at me, her fork stilling against her plate.
“Okay,” she says softly, hesitant.
And I wonder if I pushed too far.
As we eat, our conversation drifts between art and literature. Vasilisa is an engaging speaker—intelligent, passionate, effortless. When she talks about The Divine Comedy or a painting she once admired at an exhibition, her eyes glow with something rare, something alive . I find myself drawn to her—not just to her beauty, but to the way she speaks, the way she sees the world.
When we finish our meal, Vasilisa looks up with a thoughtful expression on her face.
“I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone quite like you, Santo.”
Her words, so simple yet unexpected, strike something deep. I chuckle, feeling a strange mix of pride and something heavier, something I can’t name.
“And you, Vasilisa, are not like any woman I’ve known before.”
She tilts her head slightly. “Is that a good thing?” A hint of vulnerability slips into her voice, barely there but unmistakable.
“I believe it’s the best thing.” The words leave me before I can think twice.
I reach for the velvet box, taking a slow breath before flipping it open.
Inside, my mother’s ring gleams under the dim lighting—a piece of history, of blood, of legacy. The same ring that was on her hand.
My throat tightens. For a brief, painful second, I can still see it on her finger, delicate yet firm, a symbol of a love that once held the weight of the world.
I shake the thought away, focusing on the woman in front of me.
I slide the box across the table.
Her eyes widen. “Santo, I—”
“It’s just a formality,” I cut in, too quickly. “To solidify our arrangement.”
The second the words leave my mouth, I regret them.
Her face falls. It’s just a flicker—so quick she almost hides it. But I see it. I feel it.
Then, just as swiftly, she replaces it with a small, practiced smile. A nod. “Thank you.”
She removes the ring from the box, her movements graceful, careful.
Before she can slip it on, I reach out, grasping her hand.
“Allow me.” My voice is softer now, stripped of the cold detachment I had tried to maintain.
She watches as I slide the ring onto her finger. To my surprise, it fits perfectly.
I glance up, searching for her gaze, but she doesn’t meet my eyes. Instead, she stares at our hands, her teeth catching her bottom lip, lost in thought.
The sight stirs something deep, something dangerous. The urge to kiss her—to claim her, to wipe away that sadness lingering in her eyes—claws at me with unbearable intensity.
Instead, I force myself to let go, pulling my hand back as I close the box.
“That looks beautiful on you,” I murmur, the words slipping out unbidden.
Her eyes snap up to mine, startled. For a moment, I expect her to dismiss the compliment, to brush it off the way she did my blunder.
But slowly, carefully a smile spreads across her lips, radiant, breathtaking.
And just for a second, it feels like catching a glimpse of paradise .
“It’s getting late,” I murmur, my voice low, reluctant.
“Yes, it is,” she replies, but there’s hesitation laced in her tone—an unspoken agreement. Neither of us is quite ready to leave this moment behind.
We rise, and Vincenzo appears with my jacket. I shrug it on, then reach for Vasilisa’s hand. My eyes catch on the ring now gracing her slender finger.
My mother’s ring.
It fits her so perfectly, so effortlessly, that the thought settles deep in my chest—as if it was always meant to be hers.
Under a sky full of stars, I walk Vasilisa to my car. The night air is crisp, the twinkling lights above reflecting in her eyes, making them shine even brighter. She looks ethereal.
I open the door for her, guiding her inside. My fingers brush against hers—just a fleeting touch, nothing more—yet it sends something dark and possessive curling low in my gut.
I shut the door before I can dwell on it.
Sliding into the driver’s seat, I take the wheel, the car cutting through the quiet streets toward her family’s estate.
A strange sense of contentment settles over me, unexpected but steady.
For the first time in years, the past doesn’t haunt me.
For the first time, my mind isn’t clouded by old ghosts or unfinished wars.
For the first time...
I find myself looking forward.
To the possibilities. To the unknown. To the future.
And all I can see in that future...
is her .