15. Santo
Chapter 15
Santo
T he wedding being held at my father’s estate was Maksim’s idea. The property is massive, with its own ballroom. That was my mother’s favorite place to entertain before my father sent her away.
The drive to my father’s doesn’t take long. I chose to be driven instead of driving myself—not out of nerves, just practicality. The new doorman barely gets a word out before I’m led inside. My father greets me with open arms, Angelo standing beside him, looking surprisingly well-rested for a man who spent the night drinking.
“Santo, today’s the big day, how do you feel?” My father claps me on the back, throwing an arm around my shoulders as best he can given my height.
“I’m ready,” I say simply.
He steers me toward the ballroom, Angelo following in our wake.
As we make our way through the grand foyer, I can’t shake the feeling of apprehension that gnaws at me. The marble floors gleam under the soft glow of the chandeliers, but my steps feel heavy, weighed down by the burden of my impending marriage.
My father leads the way, his strides confident and purposeful.
The ballroom doors swing open, revealing a controlled chaos of final touches. Servers move swiftly, adjusting linens, setting out crystal, perfecting every detail. The air is thick with the scent of lilies—Vasilisa’s favorite. I’d chosen them to appease her, but now, they serve as a reminder of what’s coming. Of what I’m about to step into.
My father gestures toward the scene with a satisfied smile. “Isn’t it magnificent, Santo? Your mother would’ve been proud.”
I nod, but my mind is elsewhere. The grandeur of it all only sharpens the unease clawing at my gut. Vasilisa may be young, beautiful, the perfect bride on paper—but she’ll be a target, just like my mother was. Just like every woman tied to men like us.
A cold thought settles in my chest.
This could be a mistake.
We step into the gardens, where the greenery stretches wide, lush and endless. The aisle is laid out before us, dressed in satin ribbons and scattered with petals from my mother’s favorite roses, leading straight to the ornate gazebo where I’ll be exchanging vows. The sight of it is... daunting.
Gardeners work tirelessly on the flower arrangements, their hands moving with practiced ease, weaving stems and blossoms together. The meticulous care in their work grounds me for a moment, cutting through the unease threading through my chest.
“Your bride’s here already,” my father says, voice laced with amusement. “Her mother and sister are getting her ready in your room.”
My room. The thought of her being in there stirs something in me I can’t quite name.
Before I can dwell on it, my father waves down a gardener and leaves me with Angelo.
“Maksim and her father are in the office,” Angelo says, eyeing me. “You wanna have a drink with them before we get ready in my old room?”
I exhale slowly, still trying to shake the feeling sitting heavy in my gut.
“All of Maksim’s men are here. So are mine. Where’s Luca?” Angelo asks as we head back inside.
“He’ll be here soon,” I say, shooting off a quick text to confirm. “Let’s get that drink.”
We make our way to my father’s office, the sound of our shoes echoing off the paneled walls. As we walk, memories creep in—ghosts of a time when this house was full of laughter, before my mother was sent away. Now, the grandeur feels hollow, an empty shell that mirrors the unease sitting heavy in my chest.
I step in to my fathers office; Maksim and Miroslav are deep in conversation, their sharp profiles outlined against the mahogany bookshelves.
“The groom arrives,” Maksim announces, a faint smirk playing on his lips. He extends his hand. “Congratulations, Santo.”.
I clasp it firmly, nodding. “Appreciate it, Maksim.”
Angelo moves to the bar, pouring himself a whiskey before offering me one. The amber liquid swirls hypnotically in the cut crystal glass as he hands it over. I exhale, taking the drink with a nod before bringing it to my lips.
“How’s business?” Miroslav asks, his tone casual, but I don’t trust casual—especially not with him. Given the QUEEN file, I hesitate, but this is a chance to gauge his reaction.
“Good,” I say, then tilt my glass slightly. “Except for a file that’s been causing some issues.”
His brow furrows. “What file?”
“It’s labeled Queen .”
For the briefest second, he stills. Then, he shrugs. “No clue. Never seen it before.”
He’s lying.
Before I can press, Maksim cuts in. “No more shop talk. We have a wedding to get ready for.” He stands just as my father steps inside.
“Miroslav,” my father greets with a nod. “If the boys are leaving, we can finish our conversation from earlier.”
Maksim gives Miroslav a questioning look but doesn’t push. Instead, he heads for the door, Angelo trailing behind. I place my glass on the bar and follow, even though every instinct tells me to stay and press Miroslav further.
Once we step into Angelo’s room, I find my suit laid out neatly on his bed—shoes, cufflinks, the whole ensemble. The sight of it sends another sharp pang through me. It still doesn’t feel real, like I’m walking through a moment meant for someone else.
“No cold feet, Santo?” Angelo teases, pulling open a drawer and threading a tie around his collar with practiced ease.
I let out a low grunt in response. Cold feet would mean I wanted to run. That’s not it. It’s not that I don’t want to marry Vasilisa—I made this choice. But the uncertainty of it, of us , sits in the back of my mind, steady and unshakable.
Angelo must pick up on it because he stops halfway through tying his knot and steps over, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t overthink it.”
“Kisa’s stronger than she looks, if that’s what’s got you wound up,” Maksim adds, sounding sure.
“Of course she is,” I say. “She’s survived you so far, hasn’t she?”
Maksim chuckles, shaking his head as he grabs his suit pants. “That she has.”
The tension in my chest loosens, just a little. The easy back-and-forth, the casual ribbing—it shifts the moment, turning it from an obligation into something else. A ritual, a rite of passage, something shared.
A knock on the door interrupts us, and Luca steps inside. He pauses, his sharp gaze flicking between us, taking in our polished appearances.
“Well, don’t you all clean up nicely,” Luca remarks, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Thanks, Luca,” I reply, adjusting my cufflinks. “You, on the other hand, look like the best man at a funeral.”
Maksim snorts. Angelo actually chokes on his drink.
Luca rolls his eyes, straightening his tie. “Funny. I’ll make sure to wear black when I’m putting you in the ground.”
The laughter lingers, shaking off the last bit of unease in the air. But as it fades, Luca shifts, his smirk dimming into something more serious.
“You ready?” he asks, tone steady now.
I nod and step into the hall where my men are lined up. The weight of their stares settles over me, but another, more pressing need rises in my chest—a sudden, unshakable urge to see Vasilisa before the ceremony.
“I’ll meet you in the garden,” I announce, already moving toward my old room, where I know she’ll be.
With each step, the knot in my stomach tightens. The hallways feel longer than I remember, the polished floors stretching endlessly ahead. Servants glance my way as they rush between their tasks, their eyes flickering to me with a mix of curiosity and unease.
My pulse thrums in my ears, growing louder with every step.
Finally, I reach the door.
My pulse hammers in my ears as I raise my hand, hesitating for a fraction of a second before knocking. A muffled noise comes from inside, followed by the soft creak of the door opening.
Mimi stands in the doorway, her wide eyes blinking in surprise, fingers still curled around the doorknob.
“Santo?” she gasps, her voice pitching higher in shock. “You shouldn’t be here.”
I know.
I know I shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t have left the others, shouldn’t have let this pull drag me down these hallways like a man possessed. But knowing doesn’t stop me.
“I know,” I reply, forcing a small, apologetic smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “But I need to speak to Vasilisa.”
Mimi hesitates, lips pressing together, weighing the risk. Then, as if she suddenly remembers her priorities, a mischievous grin tugs at her mouth. “Where’s Luca?”
I almost laugh. Her not-so-subtle crush on him reminds me of Elena at her age—awkwardly transparent, endearing.
“He just went downstairs,” I say, lowering my voice like I’m letting her in on a secret. “If you hurry, you might catch him.”
Her cheeks flush a delicate pink, and in a blur of soft fabric and barely concealed excitement, she’s gone.
The moment she disappears, the humor fades.
I push open the door, stepping inside.
Soft whispers fill the space, accompanied by the rustle of fabric, the quiet hum of final preparations. My sitting room has been transformed—delicate touches, elegant details, a place no longer mine but hers. But none of it matters.
Because there she is.
Vasilisa stands in front of a full-length mirror, bathed in the golden glow of the afternoon sun filtering through the window. Her gown cascades around her in soft waves of ivory, and Isabella, Cassandra’s hired help, carefully pins small white roses into her golden waves—exactly as I had requested.
It shouldn’t knock the air from my lungs.
Behind her, Cassandra fluffs the layers of her gown with quiet precision. Across the room, her mother, Vera, sits stiffly on the leather couch. The second I enter, her sharp gaze snaps to mine.
“Mr. Amato,” she says quickly, standing. “You shouldn’t be in here.” There’s a rush to her words, a flustered sort of urgency. “I mean… superstition and all that.”
I arch a brow, unimpressed.
She flounders for another excuse, but before she can find one, she mutters something under her breath and makes a quick exit.
And then, Vasilisa turns.
Our eyes meet.
Everything else vanishes.
The noise, the nerves, the weight of the past— gone .
All that’s left is her
Her striking gaze locks onto mine, and just like that, I forget how to breathe.
I’ve looked at her photo a thousand times. I know her face.
But standing here, draped in ivory, glowing like something out of a dream—something I can’t touch, shouldn’t touch—she is something else entirely.
A vision.
A temptation.
A reminder of everything I swore I wouldn’t want.
Yet here I am.
Drawn to her like I have no other choice.
Cassandra and Isabella linger for a beat too long, eyes darting between us like they can feel the shift in the air, the weight pressing in around us. Then, with a quiet exchange, they start toward the door.
Before leaving, Cassandra stops beside me, placing a hand on my shoulder. She leans in, her voice barely above a whisper.
“ Don’t ruin her dress or makeup.”
A wink. A giggle. Then she’s gone.
The door clicks shut behind them. And suddenly, we’re alone.
The silence stretches, taut and heavy. I can’t remember why I came here.
I don’t think it matters.
Because all I can think about is how much I missed her.
How much I craved her.
It hits me all at once, knocking the breath from my chest. A hunger so deep it feels like it’s been starving inside me these past few weeks.
I drink her in—the fabric of her dress catching the faint light, the delicate flush of her lips, the way her gorgeous eyes search mine, wide, unsure.
She’s looking at me like I’m a man.
I’m not .
I am something darker, something raw and restless. The thing inside me—the thing that belongs to her alone—stirs, sharp and unrelenting.
Scythe.
I want to take.
Claim.
Leave my mark on every inch of her skin.
I swallow hard, forcing air into my lungs, forcing some semblance of control into my body. But the way she watches me—like she can feel the war raging inside me—undoes me.
She moves.
A slow, careful glide, the soft rustle of her dress filling the space between us.
Then she touches me.
Her fingertips graze my cheek, cool against the heat burning beneath my skin. It’s the softest of touches, hesitant, like she’s learning me.
I stand there, rigid, breathing through my nose like I can regulate the storm inside me, like I can force myself to just be in this moment.
Her eyes never leave mine. They shine with something I don’t deserve—wonder, curiosity… a quiet sort of trust.
She should be afraid.
She isn’t .
And that—more than anything else—unravels me.
“Santo,” she whispers, her voice barely audible, yet it crashes through me like a storm. There's a tremor in her words, a hesitance that mirrors the chaos inside me. Her fingers drop, tracing an aimless path over the lapel of my jacket, a soft, lingering touch that sends fire licking up my spine.
“You... you look stunning,” I confess, my voice rough, raw. I capture her wandering hand, gripping it tighter than I mean to, feeling the delicate pulse beneath my thumb—rapid, uneven. Mine.
I bring her hand to my lips, pressing a slow, reverent kiss against her knuckles. Her breath stutters, but when she smiles at me, it’s radiant—something warm and blinding that threatens to undo me completely.
She’s too close.
“I came here because…” I hesitate, swallowing hard. “Because our first kiss shouldn’t be in front of everyone.”
Her lips part, a soft inhale, her lashes fluttering as she searches my face. I don’t give her a chance to respond.
I lean in, closing the space between us.
Her breath hitches the instant our lips brush, the slightest contact setting my body on fire. It’s soft at first—hesitant, cautious, a delicate testing of boundaries. But then she exhales against my mouth, a quiet surrender, and I lose the fragile grip on my restraint.
The kiss deepens.
I thread my fingers through her hair, tangling in the soft golden strands, heedless of the roses slipping free and tumbling to the floor. She clings to my lapel, her grip tightening, a quiet moan slipping from her lips as she kisses me back with more fervor, more need.
Her tongue skims my bottom lip, a deliberate, seeking touch, and I part for her without hesitation. The moment her tongue slides against mine, a sharp jolt rips through me, something electric, primal. My heart drops, and suddenly, I have to take control.
I devour her.
Without breaking the kiss, I lift her effortlessly onto the nearby dresser. She gasps, the sudden movement catching her off guard, but it only takes a second before she melts back into me, her legs wrapping around my waist, the delicate silk of her gown wrinkling between us.
I break away just enough to look at her.
Her crystal blue eyes are darkened, heavy-lidded with lust. Her lips, swollen and glistening, part slightly as she tries to catch her breath. She swallows, her chest rising and falling in sharp, desperate movements.
I feel like a madman .
Every part of me is unraveling, barely holding Scythe back by a thread.
I grip the nape of her neck, pulling her in, capturing her lips again, this time with none of the hesitation from before. I nip at her bottom lip, sharp enough to make her gasp. The sound goes straight to my cock, hard and aching against the layers of her gown.
I need more.
I leave her lips, trailing down the delicate column of her throat, sucking, teasing, tasting. She moans again, breathless and soft, her fingers threading through my hair, tugging—desperate, pleading .
I could have her right here.
I will have her.
My fingers find the zipper of her gown, and I yank it down in one swift motion. The silk falls away, revealing white lace hugging the curves of her breasts, soft and inviting. I barely take a second to breathe before my lips are on her skin, pressing open-mouthed kisses down her collarbone, across her shoulder, down to the valley between her breasts.
She clings to me, nails digging into my shoulders as though she needs me to keep her tethered to the earth.
I am intoxicated.
By her scent. By the warmth of her body against mine. By the soft, needy sounds spilling from her lips with every touch.
I lift my head, meeting her gaze—questioning, asking, begging for permission.
She swallows hard, lips parting, and I already know she’s going to say yes.
A sharp knock shatters the moment.
The air is ripped from the room, from my lungs, from us.
Vasilisa stiffens against me, breath caught in her throat, eyes wide with realization.
I feel like I could kill whoever is standing on the other side.
“What?” I bark, my frustration spilling over before I can rein it in.
“It’s almost time. We’ve got to go,” comes Luca’s voice, calm but insistent.
A growl of frustration rumbles in my chest as I pull away from Vasilisa, my hands lingering for just a moment longer than they should. “Go away, Luca,” I grind out, my voice low and sharp. Of course, he’d choose now to interrupt.
“No can do, boss. Maksim’s looking antsy.” His tone carries the usual teasing lilt, but the urgency beneath it is clear.
I exhale sharply, dragging a hand down my face. Fuck.
My eyes drift back to Vasilisa. Her lips are slightly parted, her eyes still heavy with desire. A soft blush blooms across her cheeks, and her dress is deliciously rumpled. The roses that once adorned her golden locks now lay scattered on the floor, a testament to what almost happened.
She slowly slips off the dresser, her movements hesitant, her fingers pulling up the bodice of her gown in a futile attempt to erase what we just did.
“I’ll send Cassandra and Isabella to fix your hair,” I say, forcing a small, regretful smile.
Her gaze flickers toward the door, then back to me, her blush deepening.
Wordlessly, I move behind her, zipping up her gown with slow, deliberate care. My fingers linger at the small of her back, adjusting the fabric, smoothing it into place when I know damn well it’s already perfect.
She bends to pick up the fallen roses, hands trembling slightly, movements delicate and careful.
I crouch beside her, sweeping up scattered petals, and before I can stop myself, I reach for a single bloom, tucking it gently back into her hair.
She looks up at me.
Her eyes shine with something fragile—a quiet hope that grips me by the throat.
A promise .
The desperation to kiss her again is almost unbearable, an ache that settles deep in my chest, but I force myself to step back.
There’s no more time.
Outside, hundreds of people are waiting. Our families. Our responsibilities.
She is mine. But I cannot have her.
Not yet.
I swallow the need threatening to consume me and brush my lips over her flushed cheek—a fleeting, restrained touch.
“I’ll see you at the altar,” I murmur.
Then, before I can change my mind, before I can ruin everything, I turn and walk away.
As I leave the room, only one thought remains, echoing in my mind.
Vasilisa is perfect and pure and good.
I cannot let my darkness consume her.