14. Santo
Chapter 14
Santo
V asilisa didn’t respond.
I don’t blame her.
I spent the rest of the week pretending she didn’t exist, as if that would erase the taste of her name from my mouth or the scent of her skin from my memory.
It didn’t.
Days at NovaRael. Nights at Opulent. I bathed in self-loathing and regret like they could cleanse me, but they didn’t.
Tomorrow, I’m supposed to stand beside the most innocent woman I’ve ever met, look into her eyes, those goddamn eyes and let them strip me bare. She doesn’t know it yet, but she’s staring straight into the abyss.
She wants a prince. A fairy tale.
I can’t give her that. I can’t give her anything but the weight of my shadow.
Scythe.
She belongs to me and yet every time I look at her, I feel him.
He stirs when I see her, claws at the surface of my skin like he’s ready to break free, to take and consume. Being near her makes me feel the same as when I pull the trigger, or carve a knife into skin, like the world slows and sharpens, like the kill is inevitable.
But she isn’t a target.
She’s everything else.
I watched her anyway. Watched the little blue dot on the tracker app drift across the city. Luca trailed her, invisible but close. I couldn’t keep away, not even from a distance.
Obsessed.
That’s what I am. A man infatuated with something fragile and beautiful, something that will shatter the second I lay my hands on it.
So, I won’t.
A glass slams onto the table, shattering the thought.
Angelo laughs, leaning back against the leather of the booth.
“Another round!” He shouts over the music at Opulent. We have a booth in the back, I hate being close to the stage so reluctantly Angelo agreed to the booth in VIP.
Opulent was my father’s vision of a gentlemen’s club. Angelo, ever the blunt one, calls it a strip club with taste. Our bottle service girls wear what they please, as long as it’s black or red.
The dancers on stage don’t just spin around poles—they command attention, dictate their own performances, and walk away with their own money. The golden rule? No touching. Anyone who lays so much as a fingertip on them takes a one-way trip to the basement. That is where I’ve spent my nights here, in the basement serving punishment to those that dare to break our golden rule.
Tonight, though, Angelo convinced me to stay above ground. Let my knuckles heal before the wedding. So here I sit, Luca to my right, Angelo to my left, and Nico beside him—a makeshift bachelor party I never asked for.
I drain the last of my whiskey and set the glass down with a dull thud. “No more rounds. I’m heading home,” I say, giving Luca a nod to let me out of the booth.
Luca stands, but before I can move, Rachel slides in, pressing herself against my side like she belongs there. Her fingers toy with the lapel of my jacket, a slow, teasing drag. “Don’t go,” she purrs, her voice soft and honeyed. “I’ve been waiting to get you alone all night.”
Rachel is a beautiful girl, fiery red hair, hazel eyes, but that’s never mattered to me. She’s been through hell. We found her in a shipping container meant to carry only weapons. Smuggled in, dehydrated, battered, and discarded like cargo. We gave her a choice—help to start fresh, a ticket to school, or work at one of our establishments. She picked this life, took a job as a bottle service girl, and now shares a luxury apartment with another survivor—one who went on to become a nurse at our hospital.
“Not happening.” I say gently prying her hands off of me and helping her out of the booth with me.
She pouts, her eyes scanning my face for any crack in my resolve. She won’t find one.
“My shift ends in thirty minutes,” she tries again, her voice softer this time. “We could leave together .”
Across the table, Angelo snickers, clearly enjoying the show. I shoot him a sharp look before turning back to Rachel. “Still a no. Luca will take you home.”
Luca gives a curt nod, already used to this routine.
“I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t get so fucked up you can’t be coherent at the wedding,” I say to my brother and Nico as I head for the exit.
“No promises brother,” he shouts.
“Don’t go,” Rachel whines from behind me.
I’m starting to get irritated. I turn to her trying to keep my cool as I tell her in no uncertain terms to fuck off, but she hands me a card instead. “Call me if you change your mind.”
I glance down. Her number scrawled across the top, her name beneath it, finished off with a kiss mark in that bold red lipstick of hers.
I huff out a quiet laugh—Rachel never quits. But it doesn’t matter. I pocket the card and walk out, not bothering to look back.
This fucking wedding can’t come soon enough.
***
My head pounds from lack of sleep.
I spent the night dreading today, knowing that by nightfall, my home won’t be mine anymore. She will be here. Vasilisa. A permanent presence I won’t be able to ignore.
The thought unsettles me.
I toss off the covers and sit up, rubbing my temples. This arrangement is a business move, nothing more. An alliance. I get NovaRael out of it. I wanted NovaRael. That’s what matters.
At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.
I think of Evie Mitchell, my new secretary, and how dismissive she was of Vasilisa. I didn’t like it. In fact, I may have to replace her.
I exhale sharply and shake my head. This —this impulse to remove anyone who so much as looks at Vasilisa the wrong way—is the real problem. I can’t let this infatuation turn into something deeper. If it does, it’ll make her a target.
They already tried to take Elena.
She refuses to leave university, despite Angelo and I threatening to drag her home. She has a final exam, so we allowed her to stay under strict protection. Riot, her guard, hasn’t left her side.
Before, she was our only weakness.
Now? Vasilisa is another.
And if I let myself care —if I get attached —it will cost me. Cost her . And I know what price we tend to pay.
I push the thought down and step into the master bathroom, seeing it now from a different perspective—hers. This will be her space.
It’s grand but not excessive, classic but not suffocating. My gaze drags over the mirrored wall, the marble countertop with two sinks, my grooming products still neatly arranged beside a vase of fresh flowers from the garden. The scent is subtle, trailing in the air like a whisper.
The rich chocolate-brown ottoman sits in the center of the room, a striking contrast to the lighter marble tones. A functional piece, yet something about it feels indulgent—an invitation to linger.
I exhale in relief. It isn’t too much. She’ll like it.
Then my gaze catches on the soaking tub beneath the window, and that’s where the problem starts.
I see her there.
Hair damp, cascading down her back, water beading against her skin. Her eyes closed, her body half-submerged, exuding a kind of serenity that is entirely out of reach for a man like me.
I drag a hand down my face and clench my jaw. No. No, no, no.
The image refuses to fade.
I turn the shower on, the rush of water breaking the silence. Steam rises, curling against the mirrors, but my thoughts remain tangled. I can see her here, feel her presence in a space she hasn’t even set foot in yet. Walking barefoot across the mosaic tiles, trailing delicate fingers along the marble counter.
I hate that she’s affecting me like this.
I hate that I want her to.
My fists tighten, nails pressing into my palms as I force myself to breathe through it. This arrangement is strategic. Necessary. Nothing more.
But as I strip off my clothes and step under the hot spray, I can’t deny the truth, no matter how much I try to bury it.
Vasilisa is already slipping past my walls.
I tilt my head back, letting the water burn away the weakness.
At least, I try.