16. Vasilisa
Chapter 16
Vasilisa
H e kissed me.
Consumed me.
That kiss was like coming up for air after drowning, like finally drinking after dying of thirst. It was passionate, magnetic, breathtaking... perfect.
Maybe Mimi was right. Maybe this could be more than duty. More than an arrangement.
Santo leaves, and I reach for my swollen lips, still tingling from his touch. That kiss —it was intense, filled with passion, with unbridled need. I’ve never been kissed like that before. Never felt anything like it.
I exhale shakily, placing the fallen roses onto the dresser and gathering what’s left of my breath. My skin still burns where his lips touched, a phantom heat I ache to feel again. I wanted more. I want more.
His scent lingers in the air, in my hair, wrapping around me like a whisper of what just happened.
I turn to the mirror, and the sight makes me blush.
Anyone would think something far more scandalous happened in this room. The door swings open, and Cassandra and Isabella return. The moment their eyes land on me, my cheeks ignite.
Isabella giggles.
Cassandra sighs, rolling her eyes. “I told him not to ruin you,” she says exasperated. “I hope you two had fun, it’s going to cost him double to fix this.”
“We—I didn’t—” I stammer, but Isabella just giggles harder, meeting my gaze in the mirror as she re-pins my hair and tucks the roses back into place.
“Sure,” Cassandra drawls, shaking her head in disbelief. She kneels, fluffing out my dress. “Did he at least leave your underwear intact?”
My eyebrows shoot up, and if my cheeks get any pinker, I might actually combust.
“Good,” Cassandra chuckles. “Let’s get you decent again.”
Isabella finishes securing my hair, then drapes the low veil over it before moving on to my makeup. She smirks as she sweeps on shimmering shadow, then soft lipstick.
“So… is he as good as they say?”
Cassandra swats her arm. “Bella, she does not want to hear what his exes say.”
“He doesn’t have exes, Cass. More like flings,” Isabella giggles, but I find nothing funny about it at all.
My stomach twists.
Of course, I expected Santo to have a past. But hearing it out loud— casually —turns expectation into reality, and reality stings.
“Enough,” Cassandra scolds, shooting Isabella a withering look. She immediately lowers her gaze, mumbling an apology. The air shifts, quieter now, as she brushes some highlight onto the tip of my nose and wordlessly packs up her things.
I inhale deeply, forcing the sour weight in my stomach to settle.
“Santo’s past does not matter.” My voice is even, though the words are more for myself than anyone else. “What’s important is the present. The future we will share together.”
Cassandra offers me a small, knowing smile. Isabella stays silent.
When they finish, I smooth my dress and turn to admire my reflection. My heart flutters, a delicate mix of excitement and anxiety. I take a steadying breath. I am fulfilling my duty. I am doing what I was meant to do.
Needing a distraction, I reach for my veil, fidgeting with the delicate lace.
“How do I look?” I ask, shifting slightly to view myself from all angles.
Cassandra steps back, her critical eye sweeping over me with approval before she dusts off her hands.
“You look breathtaking,” she says sincerely.
Isabella finally lifts her gaze, whatever tension from before forgotten as she takes me in.
“Like a true princess,” she whispers, awed.
A knock at the door cuts through the moment. My breath hitches in anticipation as Isabella steps forward to open it.
It’s not Santo, as I half-expected.
Instead, Mimi stands in the doorway, eyes shining with excitement, a stunning bouquet of lilies and roses clutched in her hands.
She gasps as she takes me in fully.
“Oh, Vasilisa,” she breathes, holding the bouquet out to me. “You are going to take everyone’s breath away.”
I accept it gratefully, pressing the flowers close to my chest.
Santo may have had flings. Meaningless. Forgettable . But I am the one he is marrying. Arranged or not, this is ours now . And I am determined to make it work—to build something real, something lasting.
Steeling myself one last time, I meet my own gaze in the mirror.
“Here goes,” I whisper.
I turn and follow Mimi out of the room.
My father waits in the hall, adjusting a cufflink, the smallest sign of nervous energy from a man who rarely falters.
“Everyone is outside and ready,” he starts, but when his eyes finally land on me, he stills. His breath catches, and something shifts in his gaze—something warm.
“You are a vision, dochen’ka,” he murmurs, the words thick with affection.
The tenderness in his voice surprises me.
“Thank you, Papa,” I say softly, tucking my hand into the crook of his arm as he leads me downstairs, Mimi trailing behind.
The weight of the moment settles over me with every step.
At the double doors leading to the garden, Mimi slips ahead, stepping into the soft serenade of music as she takes her place as my maid of honor.
The garden is magical. The air is thick with the scent of roses, and the soft hum of anticipation ripples through the crowd like an overfilled champagne flute ready to spill over.
And there—at the end of the aisle, beneath the ornate gazebo—stands Santo.
Not a hair out of place. His suit tailored to perfection. A man carved from discipline and control.
But his eyes—his dark, stormy gaze—is locked onto me. Only me.
A shiver rolls down my spine.
My father guides me forward, his grip steady, grounding. I can feel the weight of every gaze, hear the hushed whispers carried on the warm breeze.
But none of it matters.
Because Santo’s eyes never leave mine.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t so much as blink, but as we approach, a muscle in his jaw twitches.
Maybe he feels this too.
“Are you ready?” My father’s whisper pulls me from my thoughts as we reach the altar.
A wave of unexpected calm settles over me.
“I am,” I reply, steady, certain.
He presses a kiss to my forehead before offering my hand to Santo.
Santo steps forward.
The moment his fingers brush mine, a slow, unfamiliar tingle spreads through my palm. Electric. Undeniable .
He holds my hand—not too tight, not too soft, but with a quiet claiming.
His eyes search mine, a thousand emotions swirling beneath the surface.
The officiant clears his throat, shattering the silence.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we are gathered here today...”
As he continues with the traditional opening of the vows, I find myself studying Santo’s face. Wondering if he will be faithful in this marriage, if he feels the same nervous excitement as I do.
His gaze softens as he watches me.
Just slightly.
The vulnerability flickers there, fleeting but real, and somehow, that reassures me more than any vow could.
This is just as new for him as it is for me.
“Do you, Vasilisa Nova Popov, take Santo Dante Amato to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
The officiant’s words pull me back to the moment.
Santo’s gaze holds mine, expectant. Waiting.
And I know—there’s only one answer.
“I do.”
***
The ballroom is stunning,
Lilies bloom across every surface, their delicate fragrance wrapping around me like a promise . Santo chose them .
The thought lingers, softening the tight knot of nerves in my stomach. I want to believe it means something. That maybe—despite the cold distance he’s kept between us these past weeks—there’s hope.
Music hums in the background, a soft, steady rhythm beneath the murmur of conversation. Laughter ripples somewhere nearby. Familiar faces drift in and out of my periphery, but it all feels distant, like I’m watching through glass.
Until Santo’s hand finds mine.
His grip is firm. Grounding . A quiet claim in a sea of uncertainty.
His thumb brushes over my knuckles, absently, effortlessly , but the touch sends a slow, unwelcome heat curling through me.
My breath hitches.
“Ready?”
His voice is low, intimate. A thread of warmth in the cool distance between us.
I nod.
Though I’m not sure I am.
He leads me to the center of the ballroom, where the first dance waits like a spotlight.
A hush settles over the room.
I feel every gaze pressing against my skin, a silent weight of expectation, but Santo doesn’t seem to notice.
His focus remains locked on me. As if the world beyond this moment has already melted away.
His hand finds my waist, and heat seeps through the delicate fabric of my gown, spreading in slow waves. His other hand closes around mine, steady, guiding, his touch impossibly sure.
“You’re trembling,” he murmurs, leaning in just enough that his breath grazes my temple.
A shiver rolls down my spine.
“I’m not used to dancing in front of an audience,” I admit softly, willing my voice to stay even.
His lips twitch at the corner, the ghost of something amused, something almost affectionate .
“You’ll be fine.” His grip shifts, subtle but firm. “Just follow me.”
The music swells, and Santo moves slow, deliberate, effortless.
I stumble slightly, my body stiff with hesitation. His hold tightens—not rough, not forceful, but unshakable.
“Relax,” he says, voice lower now, something intimate threading through it. “No one’s watching as closely as you think.”
But he is.
I lift my gaze, and the intensity in his nearly steals the breath from my lungs.
The world around us blurs, the grand ballroom softening into nothing but movement and warmth. His steps are smooth, surprisingly graceful for someone so imposing.
We move as one, the space between us narrowing with every turn, every breath. The faint brush of his jacket against the bodice of my dress sets my skin alight.
And then—his fingertips press into the small of my back.
Not enough to draw attention.
But enough that I notice.
Enough that I burn beneath his touch.
“Better?” he murmurs, his lips just beside my ear.
I nod, but words feel distant. Fragile. As if speaking might shatter whatever delicate thing lingers between us.
His thumb strokes a slow, absent pattern along my waist. A touch that feels less like reassurance and more like possession. I wonder if he even realizes he’s doing it. Or if it’s instinct.
By the time the music fades, I’m almost disappointed.
Applause ripples through the ballroom, pulling me back to the present.
Santo leads me back toward our table, his hand slipping from mine too soon. But the warmth of it remains, ghosting over my skin.
I hesitate, then reach beneath the table, slipping my fingers through his—just to hold onto the moment for a little longer.
For a while, everything feels… easier.
I sip champagne, let the murmured congratulations wash over me, and lean into the quiet comfort of Santo’s presence beside me. It’s not perfect. But it’s something.
Then Maksim appears, his hair an unmistakable flash of teal as he strides toward us with a crooked grin.
“I’m borrowing him,” Maksim says by way of greeting, already tugging Santo to his feet. “Don’t worry, Kisa, I’ll bring him back in one piece.”
There’s a teasing lilt to his voice, but the weight of his title is heavy beneath the humor. The Pakhan doesn’t really ask.
Santo exhales quietly but doesn’t resist.
I smile politely—because what else can I do?
Still, as he walks away, he glances back.
For just a moment, our eyes meet across the room.
And something passes between us—something unspoken, something I can’t quite name.
My gaze drifts through the ballroom, catching on my cousins—Maksim’s siblings, Katya and Kostya.
Katya is wildly beautiful, her white-blonde hair cut into a sleek bob, a form-fitting dress hugging her figure perfectly. She sits with effortless poise, long legs crossed, engaged in quiet conversation with her brother.
Kostya is her contrast in every way—where she is polished, he is careless. His crumpled button-down and leather jacket make him look more suited for a bar than a wedding. Yet, despite the heinous choice of attire, his face remains striking, deceptively soft against the hard edges of his demeanor.
I’m still studying them when a shadow overtakes my table.
Tall. Commanding.
I look up—and meet a pair of brooding, familiar eyes.
A slow, mischievous smile spreads across his face, dark hair cropped low, tattoos peeking from beneath the crisp edges of his all-black suit. There’s an edge to him, something sharp and unreadable.
But his eyes—light gray, where Santo’s are dark—give him away.
Santo’s brother. The Don.
I rise to my feet, smoothing my expression into something polite.
And smile. “Don Amato,” I say extending my hand.
He chuckles, clasping my hand in his and bringing it to his lips, pressing a light kiss to my knuckles.
“You can just call me Angelo,” he says smoothly.
But he doesn’t let go. Instead, he guides me around the table until I’m standing at his side, still holding my hand.
“You are a beauty.”
“Thank you,” I mutter, trying to pull away.
He squeezes gently before finally releasing me.
“I wanted to welcome you to the family, Piccola,” he says, his gaze trailing down my body, slow, assessing.
“Piccola?”
“Tiny,” he smirks, licking his lips. “You are rather small—even with those heels.”
Heat prickles across my skin.
I blush, ashamed. “I can’t really help my height,” I say, a little defensively.
Angelo moves in closer, lowering himself until his breath grazes my ear. “I never said it was a bad thing.”
A shiver runs down my spine. His voice, his proximity, the implication in his tone—it’s enough to make my stomach twist with unease.
He straightens, gaze never leaving mine.
“Now, let’s find my brother,” he murmurs, brushing his knuckles across my cheek in a slow, deliberate caress.
I tense.
Before I can process the moment further, a loud commotion draws our attention.
We both turn— Santo.
He’s striding toward us, his face set in a deep, unrelenting frown.
“Angelo,” he growls, his voice dangerously cool.
Angelo grins, slow and taunting. “There he is.”
He throws his hands up in mock surrender. “Relax, fratello,” he says smoothly. “I was just admiring your wife.”
Santo’s gaze flickers to me, then back to Angelo.
In one swift motion, he’s at my side, his arm locking around my waist, pulling me against him.
The tension thickens.
“If you’re finished making introductions,” Santo says icily, “we have other guests waiting.”
Angelo smirks but keeps his hands up, backing away at an infuriatingly slow pace.
He nods at me. “Piccola,” he regards in parting, before turning and disappearing into the crowd.
Santo’s grip on me tightens.
“Are you okay?” His voice is softer now, edged with concern.
I nod. “Yes. Yes, I am. He’s your brother, right? I wouldn’t be in any danger?” I ask, confusion laced in my voice.
Santo exhales, his hold firm but reassuring. “Correct. He’s just a pain in the ass.”
The rest of the night passes in a flurry of warm wishes and heartfelt toasts. Laughter and music swirl around us, a blur of celebration.
Through it all, Santo never leaves my side. His arm stays firm around my waist—not just a show of unity, but something possessive, protective. The earlier tension has faded, replaced by something lighter, something almost comforting.
But when the reception ends and we step outside, reality crashes in.
Hand in hand, we walk toward the waiting limo—toward my new life.
My belongings are already at Santo’s estate. My home now.
This is real.
Sitting in the back of the limo beside him, my nerves unravel all at once.
I have a duty to fulfill.
I’m a wife now.
I belong to the Bratva and the Cosa Nostra.
I’ve created an alliance —there’s no going back. Not to university. Not to my childhood home.
I will live with Santo. Share a bed. Become a mother.
The weight of it closes in, suffocating. My chest tightens, breath coming too fast, thoughts tumbling too quickly.
Santo must notice, because his hand finds my shoulder, warm and grounding.
“Are you alright?” His voice is steady, but there’s genuine concern in his eyes.
I nod, though I’m still struggling to breathe. Santo grabs my hand, intertwining our fingers.
“Vasilisa.” A gentle squeeze. “I know it’s a lot to take in all at once.”
I swallow hard. “Is it… will it always feel this chaotic?”
I don’t know why I’m surprised. I knew what I was agreeing to—the merging of two powerful families, the life I was stepping into. And yet…
“Life can be chaotic sometimes,” he admits, “especially when you’re part of families like ours.”
There’s something in his gaze, honesty, maybe even understanding, that eases the worst of my fear. But it doesn’t erase it completely.
“I will miss my home,” I whisper, mostly to myself, staring out at the city lights rushing past.
“You can always visit them,” he says, pressing a hand to his chest. Then, more solemnly, “And you will make new memories in our home.”
His words are meant to be a comfort. And they are.
But the unknown still looms large and daunting before me.
As we pull up to the grand estate, my heart thrums wildly against my ribcage.
The mansion gleams brightly under the moonlight and for a moment it takes my breath away. This is my home now.
The thought claws at my chest.
“We’re here,” Santo announces, stepping out first before offering me his hand.
I take it, letting him help me from the car. The cool night air rushes over my skin, a sharp contrast to the heat curling in my stomach.
He leads me up the stairs towards the grand entrance and with every step, it sinks in deeper that this is my reality now.
Inside, servants greet us with warm smiles and murmured welcomes, their kindness at odds with the storm of nerves twisting inside me. I respond where I can, polite and composed, but my mind feels elsewhere—spinning, grasping, trying to anchor itself.
Santo’s voice pulls me back.
“I’ll introduce you to everyone formally tomorrow,” he reassures me as we approach a set of ornate double doors. His thumb rubs gentle circles on my hand, offering silent comfort.
The doors give way under his push, and the air shifts as we step inside.
I am struck silent by the magnificence of the room before me. The sitting room is grand and elegant, with a cozy nook nestled by the large windows where I can imagine myself spending hours lost in a book. It’s as if a full-sized living room has been seamlessly incorporated into a bedroom, complete with plush couches for lounging.
Santo leads me through the threshold with a firm grip on my hand, never letting go as we enter the bedroom.
My eyes are immediately drawn to the imposing four-poster bed, a stark reminder of what it means to be his wife.
My heart flutters wildly at the thought.
I swallow hard, pushing the feeling down before my nerves can take over.
“Will you unzip me?” I ask softly, turning just enough to expose the zipper at the back of my dress.
“Of course.” Santo’s hand trails slowly down my spine, a whisper of heat against my skin as he grips the zipper and tugs it down.
The dress pools at my feet in a graceful cascade, leaving me bare save for delicate lace.
My breath catches.
The cool air against my skin. The weight of his gaze. The awareness of what’s expected—what I should do, what I have to do.
Santo is speaking, but the words don’t reach me.
I don’t think.
I move.
I throw myself into his arms, pressing my lips to his in a fierce, frantic kiss.
Santo catches me, his hands steady, strong, molding to my body.
For a moment— he gives in.
He returns it.
His lips move over mine with a heat that slows my desperation, turning it into something deeper, devastatingly controlled. His fingers trace over my bare skin in gentle but unyielding caresses, soothing me, grounding me.
But then he pulls away.
Releases me.
Takes a step back.
“What was that?” His voice is low, unreadable, but there’s a furrow in his brow.
I cross my arms over my chest, suddenly feeling exposed, embarrassed. I gesture toward the bed with a shaky hand, words slipping out before I can stop them.
“We have to… consummate.”
The moment the word leaves my lips, I regret it.
Santo’s gaze darkens before his expression smooths into something carefully controlled.
“We don’t have to do anything.” His voice is calm, but there’s a quiet edge of finality beneath it. “I was just telling you—this is your room. You can run a bath if you’d like. All your things are here, including what Cassandra ordered.”
He gestures toward a large door on the left. “In the closet.”
I blink.
“ My room?”
A different kind of heat floods my face—disappointment, humiliation, shame.
Santo nods. “Yes. I have the room next door.”
I scramble for my wedding dress, trying to cover myself, as if it can shield me from the sharp ache of rejection.
Santo steps forward. He cups my cheek in his strong, warm hand, tilting my face toward him. His touch sends a shiver straight to my core, melting my resistance, unraveling me.
His lips brush close—his breath warm as he murmurs, “When I take you, I want it to be with your full desire and willingness. I want you wet, desperate, dripping, and begging for an insatiable release.”
The words stroke something deep, something dangerous inside me.
“It won’t be to fulfill a duty.”
I tremble. His eyes, intense, dark, searing into mine, hold me captive. “Do you understand, Mia Dea? ”
My breath hitches. I nod, licking my lips without thinking.
Santo’s gaze flickers just slightly before he exhales, controlled as ever. “I have work to attend to. You go unwind and get some rest. We’ll see each other in the morning.”
He presses a soft kiss to my forehead, releases me and leaves.
The weight of his words, his touch, his promise— lingers .