12. Santo
Chapter 12
Santo
M y future wife is a brilliant enigma. I muse silently, watching Vasilisa command the room with an ease she doesn’t appear to know she has. She speaks, and every man at the table hangs onto her words, drawn in without even realizing it.
Her words ignite a hunger to know more about her.
And then, I feel it—that quiet hum in my chest. Not jealousy. Something deeper. Possessiveness.
Around the table, brows furrow, and lips part in astonishment, their eyes fixed on Vasilisa as if she holds the key to some profound mystery. One man leans forward, eyes lingering longer than necessary. My grip tightens on the armrest.
She fidgets with the hem of her skirt, unaware of the effect she has, not just on them, but on me.
Fire licks at my throat.
It’s not anger. Not yet. Just the simple need to remind everyone who she belongs to.
Vasilisa’s shoulders stiffen slightly under the weight of their gaze. I reach for her hand, brushing my thumb over her knuckles, a silent tether, pulling her back to me. A warning to them.
“I believe we have a new strategy, gentlemen.” My voice is smooth but cuts sharp through the murmurs. It carries just enough edge to remind them exactly who’s speaking.
Marcus shifts in his seat. “Yes, yes, of course.” He adjusts his glasses, clearing his throat.
Good.
“Thank you for your invaluable input,” I continue, casting a glance at Vasilisa. Amusement tugs at the corner of my mouth, but the flicker of pride outweighs it. “I’ll let you all get back to work.”
Rising, I pull out her chair. My hand rests lightly at the small of her back as we step into the hall.
“You were incredible in there,” I tell her sincerely as we make our way down the hallway to my office.
Vasilisa looks up at me, her doubt evident in her eyes. “I just said what came to mind,” she replies modestly.
“And that’s exactly what we needed,” I assure her, my pride evident in my voice. “I’m proud to have you, Vasilisa.”
A spark of joy lights up Vasilisa’s eyes, and once again, I find myself captivated by the woman who walks by my side. Her cheeks burn a rosy red. “Thank you,” she says softly. She bites her lip, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth as we walk together.
Back in my office, Vasilisa drifts toward the large windows behind my desk, her fingers trailing lightly along the edge as if committing the space to memory.
“I’ve always loved this view,” she says softly, her voice touched with nostalgia.
I watch her, the sunset wrapping around her like she was made for it.
I could tell her that the view means nothing without her standing in front of it.
Instead, I just smile. “I’m happy to share it with you whenever you’d like to visit.”
She lingers by the glass, her silhouette cutting against the golden light. It’s mesmerizing… too mesmerizing.
I move behind her, hands finding her shoulders. Her body stiffens beneath my touch.
There. That moment. That flash of hesitation.
It makes me pause, waiting until I feel her slowly relax into me.
Darkness stirs within me. No. Something else. A need to eliminate the space between us.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, without turning away from the window.
“For what?” My brow furrows.
“For allowing me to be a part of this...” She waves her hand vaguely around. “It’s all the happy parts of my childhood.”
Her gratitude hits me in a way I wasn’t expecting. Her words are simple, but they land harder than they should.
I swallow the unexpected weight pressing at my chest. “I want you here.”
She turns, and as the sun dips lower, it sets her in an ethereal glow. I’ve seen beautiful things in my life. None of them compare.
There’s something about this woman, something elusive, something profoundly personal about her presence that demands to be respected and cherished and that, I realized, is the most endearing thing about Vasilisa.
I cup her cheek, thumb grazing over soft skin.
She leans into it.
That’s it.
I lower my head, close enough to feel her breath warm against my lips. Her eyes flutter shut, and for a second, recognition stirs.
She’s everything I shouldn’t want. Yet, I do.
Her scent, warm, sweet, familiar, threatens to ruin every wall I’ve ever built.
My lips inches from hers.
This goddess of a woman is mine .
The shrill chime of my phone shatters the moment.
Vasilisa’s eyes fly open, and she steps back, as if grounding herself.
I clear my throat, biting down the urge to snap the damn phone in half as I pull it from my pocket. Whoever it is better have a damn good reason for calling right now.
Nico’s name flashes across the screen.
Lucky bastard.
“Excuse me,” I say to Vasilisa stepping away from her. Nico is my brother’s consigliere, and he wouldn’t call unless there was an emergency.
I swipe to answer, “Go for Santo.”
“Sinner’s live, meet us at the town house,” Nico says giving me a name that’s laid dormant for a couple years now.
I turn back to Vasilisa and her expectant gorgeous face. “I have to cut our day short; I have some business to attend to.”
Her brow furrows. “Business?” She questions looking around the office.
“ Family business,“ I allude and watch as her brows raise in understanding.
“Of course,” she nods.
“I’ll walk you out and Marco will take you home,” I say leading her out of the office and toward the elevator as I text Marco.
“His name is Marco?” She asks. “That’s good to know, he doesn’t speak so I just sit in silence.” She chuckles, but a fire ignites in my chest at Marco ignoring her.
I walk her out to the car, where Marco stands waiting. Before he can reach for the door, I beat him to it, opening it myself and guiding her inside.
As she settles into the seat, I reach for the belt, my hand hovering just inches from her face. My fingers graze the soft fabric of her dress as I carefully pull the strap across her, clicking it into place.
When I look up, our eyes meet—hers wide, searching. In their depths, I see every color, every unspoken emotion, clear as crystal. For a brief moment, her gaze drops to my lips. Then, just as quickly, she looks back into my eyes.
“Marco will let me know when he drops you off, but I would really appreciate a text from you letting me know that you’ve arrived safely,” I say softly.
“Okay,” she replies with a soft smile.
I shut the door and turn to Marco. He catches the look on my face and takes a step back, but not fast enough.
I grab him by the collar, yanking him close. “If my wife speaks to you, you answer her.” My voice is low, controlled. Deadly.
I shove him off. “Get her home safe.”
Marco nods quickly. “Will do, boss.” He scrambles into the car, wasting no time as he peels away.
I don’t wait to watch them leave. I’m already in my car, dialing Nico as I tear out onto the road.
He picks up on the first ring.
“Talk.”
“Someone tried to take Elena this morning,” Nico says, voice clipped. “Riot got the guy. Put him on a flight here. Angelo’s been working on him.”
Pressure clamps down in my chest at the mention of my sister’s name. My hands tighten around the wheel.
“Elena okay?”
“She’s rattled, but Riot’s got her. She’s safe.”
“I want her back home.”
“Angelo said the same. She’s refusing.”
“We’ll handle that later,” I grit out, ending the call and pressing harder on the gas.
The ride is a blur—just speed, headlights, and the steady pulse of rage in my veins. When I finally pull up to the abandoned house, I don’t hesitate.
Memories hit me as I step out. Scythe and Sin. Me and my brother, carving our way through the lessons our father drilled into us. Rebellion. Violence. Blood.
Nico’s already waiting on the front steps as I screech to a stop. I kill the engine, shrug off my suit jacket, and slam the door shut.
I stride toward him, unbuttoning my cuffs, rolling up my sleeves.
Time to get to work.
“Everything’s set. Angelo’s made a bloody mess,” Nico mutters.
We step inside, the old floorboards groaning under our weight as we head toward the basement.
Since the day we avenged our mother, Angelo and I have been known as Scythe and Sinner. Torturers. Judges. Executioners.
We don’t show mercy. Not for men like this.
The second we descend the stairs, the stench of burning flesh hits me like a punch to the gut. My body reacts before my mind does—Santo disappears, and Scythe takes over.
Down in the basement, Sin is already in his element.
Shirtless. Covered in sweat. His pupils blown wide, his grin sharp and wild as he works. A butane torch in his grip, flame roaring to life as he presses it to the bastard’s stomach.
The man screams, a raw, agonized sound that echoes off the walls.
Angelo just laughs.
The man is strapped to the metal table, his head encased in a steel box with nothing but a narrow slit for air and speech. His wrists and ankles are cuffed, but Sin went the extra mile—barbed wire coils around each limb, slicing into raw flesh, ensuring that even the slightest movement shreds him further.
Nico was right. It’s a fucking mess.
Blood drips off the table in thick rivulets, pooling on the cement floor before trailing toward the nearest drain.
I step forward, placing a steady hand on Sin’s shoulder.
He stills. A deep inhale. Then, slowly, he turns to face me, a manic, sweat-slick grin splitting his face. His pupils shrink slightly, focus sharpening as consciousness returns to his eyes.
“Welcome back, brother,” I murmur, my own grin mirroring his.
Sin chuckles, wiping a smear of blood from his chest. With a grand gesture, he extends his arm toward his work of art—the burned, mangled, twitching mess sprawled out before us.
“My masterpiece,” he announces, pride lacing his voice as he finally sets the torch down.
I take in the sight, admiring the meticulous destruction. Brutal. Effective.
I knock twice on the metal box covering the man’s head. Clang. Clang.
He whimpers, body jerking. The barbed wire bites deeper. More blood spills.
A slow smile spreads across my face. “Your best work yet.”
The man cries out, gasping through the slit in the steel.
“Tell me,” I say, voice calm, collected—deadly. “Who sent you to take Elena Amato?”
A choked sob. “Just kill me.”
His body shifts, fresh blood gushing from his torn limbs.
I tilt my head, watching. “If you tell me who sent you, I’ll make it quick. A bullet between the eyes.”
He lets out a broken, shuddering breath. “If I tell you,” he whimpers, “will you bring my body to my family?”
I consider it, letting the silence stretch.
Finally, I agree. “Your family will receive you.” My voice is devoid of warmth. “Now, who sent you?”
“Gabriel Kaya.” The words tumble from his lips, breathless and desperate.
I flick a glance at Nico. He nods, already typing on his phone.
“And your name?” I ask, voice casual—like we’re old friends catching up.
“Baris…” he wheezes, barely getting the name out. “My name is Baris.”
“Please… just kill me.”
I grip the metal box and yank it off his head. His face is a mess—red, battered, nose broken, one eye already swelling shut. I steal a questioning look at my brother who smirks.
Reaching for the scalpel and clamp from the table beside the butane tank, I motion for Sin to join me.
He doesn’t hesitate.
Baris senses it now—the shift in the air, the finality of it.
Sin grips both sides of his jaw, forcing his mouth open as Baris thrashes wildly. The barbed wire digs in deeper, ripping more flesh, more blood.
I lean in close, my breath hot against his skin.
His body stills.
His eyes widen.
Terror seeps into him as he realizes the truth—
He’s not getting out of this.
I smile, slow and cruel.
“I lied,” I whisper.
Then, with one swift motion, I clamp down on his tongue, yank it forward, and slice clean through with the scalpel.
A wet, gurgling scream rips from his throat.
Blood floods his mouth, choking him, drowning his own cries. His body convulses, the barbed wire shredding him further as his own suffering becomes his executioner.
I watch, savoring the moment.
His tongue, slick and useless now, I place it on the table next to the rest of our tools, a grotesque trophy in a collection of nightmares.
The scent of blood thickens the air. Metallic. Warm.
I inhale deeply. Power.
A rush surges through me, sharp and electric, coiling in my veins like fire.
I snap back to myself as Nico steps into the basement. I never saw him leave, but now he’s back, phone in hand.
“Maksim’s on the way. He thinks we should deliver Baris’s body to Kaya—says the Turks have been pushing into his territory. Sending it back will make a statement. Show solidarity in our alliance.”
Nico glances at the mess behind us. “I’m guessing you took his tongue?”
A ghost of a smirk tugs at my lips. “Of course.”
“Good.” Nico exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Maks wants to be the one to gift-wrap it for Kaya.”
I nod, barely hearing him now. The high is fading.
“Got it from here, boss, if you’re good,” Nico adds.
Angelo picks up his shirt from the tool table, sliding it on as I follow him up the stairs and out into the night air.
“That was invigorating,” Angelo says, clapping me on the back, his voice buzzing with residual energy. “You did excellent work.”
“Thank you,” I say automatically, stepping toward my car. The words feel distant, mechanical.
The blood is still drying on my skin.
“I heard Elena doesn’t want to come home,” I say, changing the subject.
Angelo stiffens. His jaw ticks. “She doesn’t have a choice now. I’ll get on a flight and drag her back if I have to.”
I nod, but my mind is barely registering his response. My thoughts are still tangled in the remnants of adrenaline and violence, my body still buzzing with the aftermath. The rage, the power—it burns out, leaving a hollow, sinking weight in its place.
Then Angelo speaks again, and the hollow ache twists into something else.
“What about Vasilisa? You moving her in before the wedding? Just in case?”
Vasilisa.
Her name slams into me like a wrecking ball.
The image of her flickers to life—her face, bathed in golden light, the sunset casting a halo around her. The way her skin felt beneath my fingertips. The warmth of her breath against mine. How close I was to tasting her.
How fucking pure she is.
A punch of shame coils tight in my gut. I had forgotten her. Forgotten her completely in the sea of blood I spilled. Her angelic face erased beneath the carnage, the screams, the warmth of torn flesh under my hands.
I feel sick.
She doesn’t belong in this world. She doesn’t belong with me .
I almost let myself believe I could have her. That I could hold onto something normal, something untouched by death and destruction.
But I’m not a normal man.
And nothing in my life is fair.
I meet Angelo’s gaze. His eyes reflect the same emptiness as mine—the same hollowed-out grief, the same silent rage that’s been carved into us since the night our mother was murdered.
Vasilisa could end up just like her.
I shove the thought down, bury it deep, and lock it away with the rest of my weaknesses.
“No,” I say, my voice flat. “She’s just an arrangement. She’s not a target.”
“Not a target yet ,” Angelo responds as he leaves my side for his car.
I reach for my door, grabbing my jacket off the driver’s seat to toss onto the passenger side when my phone slips from the pocket, landing with a soft thud.
I pick it up. The screen lights up. A text from Vasilisa.
‘Home safe.’ Just as I asked.
Sweet, obedient Vasilisa.
Shame washes over me like ice water, cutting through the last remnants of bloodlust. My grip tightens around the phone as I text her back, each letter feeling heavier than it should.
I look up. Angelo is just about to slide into his car.
“Hey!” I call out.
He pauses, glancing over the roof.
“You want to go to Opulent?”
A slow, knowing smirk spreads across his face. “ You , of all people, want to go to our strip club?” He lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Hell yes.”
He gets in his car, still chuckling as he drives off, his headlights cutting through the darkness.
Shame grips me tighter.
I sink into my seat, exhaling sharply as I hang my head.
I had her .
Just hours ago, Vasilisa was in my hands, her scent in my lungs, her warmth curling around me like something I could keep. She was light, soft, pure—everything I’ve never had, everything I don’t deserve.
But Scythe doesn’t care about light.
Scythe doesn’t care about anything except the rush—violence and power, the only gods I have ever worshipped.
And with every drop of blood I spill, I stain the pieces of her that have already begun to cling to me.
She deserves more.
More than a man who forgets her in a sea of red.
More than the shadow of death waiting to swallow her whole.
If she’s ever going to have a good life, it sure as hell won’t be with me.
I rev the engine and head for Opulent, burying her light under the weight of my own darkness.