11. Vasilisa
Chapter 11
Vasilisa
T he date with Santo last night went better than expected. At lunch, I glance down at the ring on my finger. It’s breathtaking—and heavier than I thought it would be. A constant, unshakable reminder of the responsibility I carry for my family.
Santo’s comment about how I should eat more lingers in my mind throughout the day. I stare at the plate in front of me, barely touched. He’d expect more, but I’ve always been picky when it comes to food. I’m more of a snacker. The salmon linguine yesterday was perfect—one of my favorites—but the beef stroganoff served at Maksim’s penthouse? Not so much. I’d much rather have pelmeni or kasha, but asking for that would earn me one of my mother’s patented looks of disappointment. Embarrassing her in front of Maksim would be a near death sentence.
Not that she’d actually strike me with my wedding so close. But there are other ways she could make me miserable before my nuptials.
I push the food around with my fork, making it look like I’ve eaten something. My mother sits to my left, Mimi to my right, devouring everything on her plate. Across from her, Pietro catches my gaze, his eyes flicking to my barely touched meal before settling back on me with silent curiosity. I offer him a passive smile.
My mother and father’s animated conversation with Maksim pulls me from my thoughts. My cousin has changed his hair color yet again. At the club, his platinum hair had been dyed a cool blue to match his icy eyes, but now it’s dark purple. He smiles at my mother as he speaks, and though Maksim is an intimidating presence—tall, fit, and always looking slightly furious—it could just be the tattoos and piercings he wears that give him that vibe.
To me, though, he’s still my mishka —the affectionate name I gave him when I was little. He was always kind to me. Right up until I became useful.
His gaze locks onto mine, and the corner of his mouth tilts into a smirk.
“Kisa, how are you? I heard about your date with Santo. Did all go well?” Maksim asks smoothly, using the childhood nickname he gave me. His tone is casual, but his gaze is sharp, always reading between the lines.
“It went well,” I say quietly.
The ring catches the light, gleaming like it has a life of its own. My mother lifts my left hand, and for a brief moment, I feel its weight pressing down harder than before—like a shackle I didn’t notice tightening until now.
“She’s being modest,” my mother interjects, turning my hand toward Maksim.
His eyes flick to the ring, lighting up with recognition. He nods, resting his elbows on the table and folding his hands under his chin, studying me with something close to amusement. “His mother’s ring.”
I shift under his gaze. “Yes. He said it was hers,” I answer, even though he never actually asked.
Maksim smiles, reaching for his glass and raising it. “A toast—to your union and our alliance. Thank you, Kisa, for your constant support to the Bratva.”
Glasses clink around me, and I take a sip of the clear liquid, swallowing before I can even think. It burns down my throat, settling uncomfortably in my stomach, sour and unforgiving.
***
Back home, I sit by my bedroom window, watching Mimi and Pietro walk the grounds of our estate. They move side by side, talking, their silhouettes shifting under the dimming light. A sharp pang of jealousy bites at me. Pietro hasn’t spoken to me in a while. He saw the ring this morning and said nothing.
Maybe our friendship really is over. Or maybe it never was a friendship—just duty disguised as something more.
My phone vibrates. I glance down.
Santo.
My heart leaps unexpectedly. I stare at his name, debating whether to answer. A part of me is… nervous, unsure of why he might be calling.
Taking a slow, steady breath, I press the green button and bring the phone to my ear.
“Vasilisa.”
My name rolls off his tongue like a slow pull of velvet, and despite myself, a thrill races down my spine.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything important,” he adds smoothly.
“No, you’re not.” My voice is quiet as I glance out the window again, watching Pietro and Mimi move together like they exist in a world separate from mine.
“Good,” Santo murmurs. “I heard you had lunch with Maksim. Did you enjoy your time with family?”
“I did.” I hesitate for a beat, then add with a bit of honesty, “Well... aside from the beef stroganoff. Not a favorite of mine.”
He chuckles, a rich, low sound that does something strange to my chest. “No stroganoff for our wedding then,” he notes, his amusement evident.
The casual mention of our wedding makes heat rise up my neck. It still feels unreal, this impending future of ours. And yet, the thought of it—of him—sends an unbidden flutter through my stomach.
“Can I steal you away for the rest of the day?” he asks, his tone deceptively light, but there’s something underneath it. Something intent.
“Steal me away?” I echo, unable to keep the smile from my lips.
“You’re right,” he concedes smoothly. “It wouldn’t be stealing, considering you’re set to be mine soon enough.”
His words send a shiver through me. Mine .
“Alright,” I whisper, my voice softer than I intended. “When?”
“I’ll send a car again. See you soon,” he says, a quiet triumph lacing his tone before the line clicks dead.
I exhale slowly, staring at my reflection in the mirror. I’m still in my sundress from lunch, the same one from the photo on Santo’s desk. My fingers brush over the fabric as I consider changing—but I don’t.
He likes this dress.
And a part of me, one I don’t want to name yet, wants to see his reaction.
***
Santo meets me in the lobby of NovaRael, and despite a flicker of worry that he might be here to work, my heart betrays me—racing at the sight of him.
His eyes light up when his gaze lands on me and he strides forward, a broad grin lighting his features, and those gorgeous gray eyes look lighter today.
“Vasilisa,” he says, my name rich and warm. He takes my hand, pressing a chaste kiss to my knuckles, lingering just a second too long. “Thank you for coming.”
“Of course,” I murmur, involuntarily squeezing his hand in return. His thumb strokes along my knuckles in a slow, unhurried caress before he leads me toward the elevator.
We ascend in silence, hand in hand, but it’s not the awkward kind. It’s easy, natural—something unspoken settling between us.
The elevator doors glide open, and Santo guides me through a maze of corridors until we reach an open-plan office. The space is alive with movement—groups huddled around screens, whiteboards filled with sketches, design concepts, algorithms. The pulse of innovation is tangible, the same energy I grew up around.
But it’s Santo who commands my attention.
He glitters here .
There’s something seamless in the way he moves, his confidence effortless as he introduces me to his colleagues. Some of them have known me since I was a child, but now they look at him not just as their new boss, but as someone they admire. A visionary.
And it fills me with something close to pride.
NovaRael was always my escape. As a child, I spent summers in these halls when my mother had grown tired of me and Mimi. I loved the noise, the ideas constantly in motion. I loved curling up in my father’s office, eavesdropping on meetings, soaking in the thrill of creation.
Now, I watch Santo in it. A place that had always felt like mine.
And strangely, it doesn’t feel like he’s taken it from me.
It feels like he belongs here too.
Santo leads me toward his office, bypassing a beautiful blonde seated at the desk near Sandra. The woman’s gaze flicks to me, her perfectly sculpted brow arching just slightly before she shifts her attention to Santo, her smile polite—but assessing.
“Hello, Mr. Amato. I don’t see anyone listed for an appointment today,” she says smoothly, her eyes drifting over me like she’s trying to place me—or size me up.
“That’s his wife,” Sandra cuts in sharply before Santo can answer. Her voice carries the kind of familiarity that makes warmth bloom in my chest. Sandra has known me for years, even before she transferred floors. When I was little, she used to sneak me cookies from the bakery near her house.
“ And the former boss’s daughter,” she adds, winking at me.
I can’t hold back my smirk.
The blonde’s eyes widen slightly, her posture stiffening. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Amato, I didn’t know—I just—” She gestures hesitantly toward Santo’s hand. “I didn’t see a ring.”
Santo’s response is immediate, effortless in its sharpness. “If you learned to keep your tongue before speaking, you wouldn’t embarrass yourself.”
A chill settles over the room.
His tone isn’t cruel, but it’s firm, final.
“This is Vasilisa,” he continues, his voice smooth but leaving no room for argument. “Don’t forget her face. Don’t forget her name. Or you won’t have a job.”
The woman—Evie, her nameplate reads—nods quickly, dropping her gaze. “Yes, Mr. Amato.”
Santo doesn’t spare her another glance. “Make sure no one disturbs us, Sandra,” he says before leading me inside his office, closing the door behind us.
Something unsettles in my stomach. Not fear—just an odd, nervous energy at how effortlessly he commands a room, how his protectiveness is so instinctual it feels almost possessive.
He releases my hand and strides behind his desk, his movements fluid, precise. “We had to meet here since I have a meeting, then we can head out,” he explains, his tone shifting to something softer—less sharp than it had been moments ago. “It came up after I asked you, and I didn’t want to postpone your visit. I hope you don’t mind.”
There’s something about the way he says it, like my presence matters more than his schedule. Like he wouldn’t have let work come before me.
I swallow, my fingers brushing absentmindedly over my palm where his hand had been moments ago.
“I don’t mind,” I say softly.
I watch as he takes a seat behind the desk, his fingers moving effortlessly over the keyboard. For a moment, he’s absorbed in his work, but then his gaze lifts—darkening as it trails over my body.
The air between us shifts. Thickens.
He inhales, slow and measured, before gesturing for me to come behind the desk. My heart pounds as I step forward, anticipation curling through me.
Two large screens glow in front of us, displaying what looks like surveillance footage. I furrow my brows as he pulls up more feeds, clicking through them with ease until he stops.
“This is my home. Our home.”
He turns slightly in his chair, his eyes locking onto mine, and pats his leg—beckoning me to sit.
I hesitate, my breath catching as I realize his intent. Before I can form a protest, his hand, warm and firm, presses gently against my lower back, guiding me forward. My legs slip between his, and I perch on his muscular thigh, my skin heating at our sudden closeness.
The scent of his cologne—warm, dark, laced with spicy vanilla—wraps around me, intoxicating. My pulse flutters, unsteady, as his arms move to cage me in, pressing against the desk on either side of me.
I’m trapped.
Yet, I don’t want to escape.
His fingers dance over the keyboard, the glow of the screens casting soft shadows across his sharp features. “I want you to choose a room to paint in,” he murmurs, his breath teasing the sensitive skin near my ear.
I blink, momentarily thrown.
I turn my head slightly, my gaze colliding with his. His eyes flicker down to my lips, and my heart stutters.
“A room to paint in?” I repeat, my voice barely above a whisper.
A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, but his focus remains fixed on my lips. “Yes.”
I force myself to look away, trying to steady my thoughts. “You brought me in here to pick a studio for my art?” I muse aloud.
“I also expected you to join my meeting, so you wouldn’t be cooped up in here alone,” he replies, his voice deceptively casual, though there’s an underlying tension beneath it. “Unless you’d rather help yourself to some books,” he adds with a slight chuckle.
I try to focus on the various rooms displayed on the screen, but it’s nearly impossible with his warmth pressed against me, his scent clouding my thoughts. My fingers twitch at my sides, restless, but after a few moments, something catches my eye—a large room bathed in natural light, the windows stretching wide and tall.
“Can I see that one bigger?” I ask, pointing.
He clicks on the image, expanding it, and my breath catches at the sight.
A library.
“That’s my library,” he states nonchalantly, as if it isn’t one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.
His hand leaves the mouse, settling on my lower back, fingers pressing lightly.
I lean in, captivated by the endless rows of shelves, the dark mahogany desks, the cozy lounge chairs nestled in corners. It’s everything I could dream of—warm, inviting, perfect.
“It’s beautiful,” I breathe.
Turning toward him in excitement, I barely register how close we are until I realize our faces are mere inches apart.
The tension snaps tight.
I almost ask my question casually, but the weight of his gaze, the way his hand moves from my back to the nape of my neck, makes my voice softer. More intimate. “Can I paint in there?”
His fingers curl slightly, a slow, deliberate caress at my nape. The air between us is thick, electric.
“Yes,” he whispers.
“Thank you,” I murmur, my voice softer than I intended.
He studies me, his gaze piercing. He leans in, and for a brief moment, I think he’s going to kiss me. My breath catches, anticipation coiling in my stomach—
The phone on his desk buzzes.
Sandra’s voice fills the room, shattering the moment. “Mr. Amato, the team is ready for you.”
Santo exhales through his nose, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face before he turns his chair slightly, giving me space to stand. “Would you like to come with me to my meeting?”
“Yes, I want to go with you,” I say without thinking.
The words leave me too quickly, too eagerly. Heat rushes to my face, embarrassment creeping in at the desperation laced in my tone.
Santo chuckles, the sound low and indulgent, and takes my hand. His fingers envelop mine, warm and steady, his grip firm yet gentle. It feels natural, effortless, as if we’ve done this a thousand times before. I find myself drawn closer to him, caught in the quiet pull of his presence.
His fingers squeeze lightly, a silent reassurance, steadying the nervous energy thrumming beneath my skin.
He leads me through familiar hallways until we arrive at a conference room I recognize from my youth. The long table is lined with six men, their curious gazes flicking to me as we enter. Santo doesn’t release my hand until he pulls out a chair for me, and I sit, feeling his presence beside me as he takes his own seat.
“What progress have we made?” Santo asks, his tone edged with authority.
“Still no luck opening the file, sir,” a man in wide-brimmed glasses reports. “We might get further in the upcoming weeks. Is this urgent?”
Santo’s patience thins. “As urgent as anything here. I want to know what’s being hidden as soon as possible.”
“Of course,” the man replies smoothly, unfazed. “The six of us will work overnight if we have to.”
“Even on weekends,” another man chimes in.
“What have you tried so far?” Santo presses.
“We’ve attempted brute-force attacks, decryption algorithms, even rainbow tables, but nothing is working. The encryption is rock solid,” the first man explains.
“An encryption?” I echo under my breath, recalling the cybersecurity training I had during my summers at NovaRael.
Santo is about to respond, but an idea forms in my mind, and before I can stop myself, the words slip out.
“Have you tried a social engineering approach?” I suggest. “Sometimes it’s easier to exploit human error than to crack the encryption directly.”
A brief silence falls over the room. Six pairs of eyes swivel toward me. I can feel Santo’s gaze settle on me, sharper than before.
I shift in my seat. “Or… what about a zero-day exploit?” I add quickly, my confidence faltering under the weight of their scrutiny. “There might be a vulnerability that hasn’t been patched.”
Another pause.
Slowly, I lift my eyes to meet Santo’s. His expression is inscrutable, his gaze lingering, assessing.
My pulse rises.