18. Vasilisa
Chapter 18
Vasilisa
I wake early, the unfamiliar weight of the house settling around me as I shower in the luxurious bathroom, steam curling against the cool glass.
I take my time getting dressed, reaching for what feels like me. A silk blouse, a short skirt over sheer tights, soft fabrics that remind me of home.
I’m grateful to Cassandra for picking more designer versions of my usual style, but the closet also holds dresses I wouldn’t usually wear. Tighter, shorter, lower cut. There are silk slips barely longer than my fingertips, delicate lace that leaves nothing to the imagination.
Maybe they were chosen for his tastes.
Maybe he prefers his women to show skin.
If that’s the case, he may just not be interested in my skin showing considering he’s abruptly left the room each time I’ve been in lingerie.
I glance at my reflection, fingers hesitating at the buttons of my blouse. I undo a few more than usual, just enough to let a glimpse of my red lace bra peek through.
My fingers comb through my hair, debating whether to leave it down.
But the air shifts, heavy with the weight of being watched.
I startle slightly as I meet Santo’s reflection in the mirror.
He’s standing behind me, close but not touching, his broad frame still, stoic.
His eyes lock onto mine, visible just above my head, dark and unwavering.
Then his gaze lowers trailing down my body, slow, deliberate.
Like he’s memorizing.
Like he’s teetering on the edge of something dangerous.
I turn to face him, my pulse skipping.
I give him a bright, practiced smile, an attempt to ease the tension that coils between us.
His predatory stare softens.
Just a little, but not enough.
“I didn’t expect you to be awake so early,” he drawls softly.
“I wanted to get started on our day,” I say, brushing past him as I leave the bathroom and head toward the closet. My pace quickens, but I can feel Santo trailing behind me, his steps steady and deliberate.
I grab a pair of heels from the closet and move toward the bed to put them on.
As I approach, I falter.
His eyes are still following my every move.
My gaze shifts to the sitting room couch, considering my escape, but before I can act, Santo’s fingers graze mine.
His touch is light but firm as he takes the shoes from my grasp.
“Allow me.” His voice low and smooth.
He nods toward the bed.
Reluctantly, I climb onto the edge, my legs dangling awkwardly over the side.
The ridiculous height of the bed makes it impossible to do anything gracefully—like everything in this house, it’s designed for him, not for me.
A soft chuckle fills the space.
I glance up, my cheeks warming instantly. Santo watches me, eyes stormy and unwavering.
Then—he kneels.
The sight steals my breath.
Santo Amato, larger than life, dangerous and untouchable, kneeling before me.
He sets the shoes beside me on the bed, his hands moving with an ease that feels far too intimate.
Carefully, deliberately, he lifts one of my feet onto his knee.
My breath catches.
He takes the first heel and slips it on, his touch slow, reverent. His fingers brush against my ankle, lingering just a second longer than necessary.
Fastening the strap into place, and the warmth of his skin seeps into mine, sinking deeper than it should.
I bite my lip, stifling a sharp inhale when his thumb drags lightly across my skin.
His gaze flicks up, catching me in the act.
A slow smirk tugs at his lips.
“Are you okay?” His voice dips lower, teasing, coaxing. Like he enjoys unraveling me.
I nod quickly, too quickly. He knows.
He says nothing, just shifts to my other foot, repeating the process with painstaking attention.
I can’t look away.
His hands move with precision, care, reverence. Like this isn’t just some simple task—like this is worship .
Something deep inside me stirs, and suddenly, the room, the house, the world beyond this moment—all of it fades.
There is only Santo. His hands. His touch. His presence wrapping around me like silk and steel.
“Thank you.” My voice betrays me—breathier than I mean it to be.
Santo doesn’t blink.
“Anything for you, Dea.”
His voice is so warm, so sure, it sends a shiver straight through me.
But he doesn’t let go.
His thumb lingers, tracing slow circles against my ankle.
The touch is light, unhurried— yet it leaves behind a heat that spreads through me like a secret I shouldn’t be keeping.
I want to speak, to say something, anything, but the words never come.
Because his gaze clashes with mine.
There’s something unspoken there. Something heavy.
“Shall we go?”
His voice pulls me from my thoughts, smooth and unaffected as if he hasn’t just unraveled me without trying.
He releases my foot and rises back to his full height, offering his hand. A gentlemanly gesture. Simple.
Yet somehow, my heart flutters wildly against my ribs.
“Sure,” I breathe out, slipping my hand into his.
The moment our fingers intertwine, his grip tightens—just for a second, just enough for me to feel it.
He helps me down from the bed and leads me toward the door.
“You should eat something before we start our day.”
I nod, but I barely register the words.
Because my mind is still tangled in the moment he touched me.
I follow as he leads me down the grand staircase, but I’m barely listening.
He’s talking—about the architecture, the security, the household staff, someone named Mrs. Keen— but I hear none of it.
I hear only the sound of my own pulse.
Because my focus is locked on him.
On the way his fingers remain intertwined with mine. The way his jaw flexes as he speaks, tightening and relaxing like he’s holding something back.
An image flashes through my mind without warning. My fingers threading through his hair. The way it felt beneath my touch when he devoured my mouth, when my legs wrapped recklessly around him on the dresser.
Heat floods through me.
I barely catch myself before I stumble.
“This is Julian.” Santo’s voice snaps me out of it, grounding me.
I blink, realizing we’re standing in the kitchen.
It’s large and bright—white marble, gleaming steel, expansive windows.
Behind the island stands Julian.
Tall and lean, with chestnut hair that falls carelessly onto his forehead. He looks closer to Santo’s age, his warm smile instantly welcoming.
He bows slightly in greeting, a playful glint in his eyes.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Amato,” he says, his voice rich and smooth.
Before I can respond, I feel it.
The slightest shift in Santo.
His hand tightens around mine so faintly, so imperceptibly I almost miss it.
Almost.
“Julian here is one of the most sought-after chefs,” Santo continues, his voice smooth—too smooth. There’s an edge there now, one that wasn’t there before.
His gaze lingers on Julian a beat too long before finally flicking back to me.
“Would you like something specific for breakfast?” His tone is polite, carefully neutral. “Julian can whip up anything you like.”
But I can tell his mind is elsewhere.
His eyes keep darting back to Julian. Like he’s watching. Like he’s measuring.
I hesitate, glancing between them, my pulse picking up.
“I... Um...” I clear my throat. “Maybe a croissant? And a cappuccino?”
“Coming right up.” Julian’s response is easy, confident, unfazed. He moves through the kitchen with effortless familiarity, his hands precise as he works.
“And for you, boss?”
“My usual omelet.” Santo’s voice is clipped, cool. Without another word, he guides me toward the breakfast nook, pulling out a chair for me.
I settle in, murmuring a quiet, “Thank you.”
But even as he sits across from me, something feels... off.
His jaw is locked tight. His posture rigid.
The air thickens.
The smell of fresh coffee fills the kitchen, a welcome distraction, comforting in a way that eases some of the tension.
Julian places a cappuccino and a croissant in front of me, then sets down Santo’s omelet.
“Thank you.” I say sincerely taking a bite, the croissant warm and flaky, melting on my tongue.
A soft hum of satisfaction slips past my lips.
Santo watches.
He eats slow.
He doesn’t speak.
His stormy gaze fixates on me, unblinking.
Something in his face softens—just slightly, just enough for me to notice.
Julian moves to clear the dishes, his presence lingering a second too long.
I can feel his eyes on us.
Santo notices, too.
And just like that, his entire demeanor shifts.
“Vasilisa.” His voice is low, dark, commanding.
It slices through the space, firm, final, impossible to ignore.
Even Julian pauses.
Santo stands, his movements controlled, deliberate. “Let’s continue. I need to show you the library, where you’ll be painting.”
I can’t help the excited gasp that escapes me. “Now?”
Santo chuckles. “Of course.”
He extends his hand. I take it without hesitation. The way his fingers close around mine, firm, warm, certain, makes my breath hitch.
He leads me out of the kitchen, guiding me through the vastness of his home like it’s second nature.
We ascend the grand staircase, the wood polished to a gleaming shine. My fingers drift along the intricate carvings of the banister, tracing the silent stories etched into them.
Santo walks with quiet authority, his grip steady, unyielding, yet somehow… gentle.
The route to the library is labyrinthine, winding through halls steeped in history. The walls shimmer with tapestries and gilded frames, bathed in the soft glow of antique chandeliers.
I should be taking it all in. But it’s him that holds my focus.
His presence. His touch. The way he commands a room without a word.
“This is the east wing,” he finally speaks, his voice low and steady, echoing slightly in the grand expanse. “Most of these quarters are reserved for the staff if they choose to stay. Or for guests.”
Before I can respond, he pushes open a set of double doors. I step inside—and stop breathing.
The library.
Shelves stretch up and up, towering toward a vaulted glass ceiling. Sunlight streams in, filtering through the dust particles dancing in the air. The scent of aged paper, polished wood, and something distinctly Santo wraps around me.
And then—I see them.
The easels.
Near the massive windows, bathed in natural light.
My heart stutters. I already know. This will be my sanctuary.
A place where I can exist. Create. Lose myself in color.
Santo’s voice pulls me back. “Do you like it?”
His gaze is on me, not the room.
I look up, meeting his stormy eyes, hoping he can see what I feel— the gratitude, the relief.
“Like it?” The words barely leave me. I swallow, breathless. “Santo, it’s... it’s beautiful.”
His grip on my hand tightens—just slightly, but I feel it.
A small smile plays on his lips, brief and quiet.
He leads me through the space, showing me every detail, every hidden corner, every untouched book.
The silence between us isn’t empty. It’s weighted. Charged.
A quiet storm waiting to break, but he says nothing as we leave the library.
Not until we reach the bottom of the stairs, stopping in front of a heavy wooden door.
His home office.
Santo pauses.
“Vasilisa.” His voice is different this time. Calm, but final.
“This is your home now, you are welcome everywhere, except one place.” His gaze flicks to the closed door.
It’s a warning.
And I understand. His world has merged with mine, but not completely. Some parts remain locked away.
I nod, offering a small smile. For now, what he’s given is enough.
Santo watches me for a moment longer, then his expression shifts. Softer.
He takes my hand again—and this time there's a sense of excitement behind it.
He leads me toward the back of the house, stopping at the large glass sliding doors. “I want to show you our garden,” he says proudly escorting me outside.
My heart leaps at the word.
Our.
Santo leads me down the stone path, his grip steady as he guides me deeper into the garden’s embrace. The further we walk, the more I realize this place is a hidden paradise.
The vibrant colors spill out around us in a breathtaking array; fiery reds of the roses, calming blues of the hydrangeas, the soft blush of peonies tucked into the greenery. Nothing is out of place. Every flower, every vine, every stone in the path feels meticulously placed, a work of art cultivated with care and intention.
I can feel his gaze on me as I take it all in.
At every turn, something new captures my attention. I pause, bending to admire unfamiliar blooms, inhaling their delicate scents, running my fingers along petals that feel impossibly soft. But when I spot the lilies, my heart flutters.
I glance at Santo, but he says nothing—only watches.
“This is my favorite part of the garden.”
His voice is quieter now, almost reverent, as we approach a stone bench nestled between two towering magnolia trees.
I gasp softly.
The blossoms shower down like a cascade of soft pink and white petals, forming a delicate canopy above the bench. Sunlight filters through the branches, casting golden halos around us, illuminating the space with an almost ethereal glow.
It feels untouched by time. Sacred.
My fingers slip from his as I step forward, unable to tear my gaze away from the sheer beauty of it all.
I turn back to him, emotions welling in my chest.
A lump forms in my throat, my voice hoarse with emotion. “Santo…” I whisper. “This... this is gorgeous.”
His features soften, just slightly, and he walks toward me, reclaiming my hand in his.
“I wanted to share this with you.” He angles himself toward me, his expression wavering.
“My mother loved this garden,” he continues, his voice low, weighted. “I continued to build it in her memory.”
I blink in surprise, absorbing his words.
I hesitate, not wanting to break whatever fragile thread has formed between us. “I’m sorry for your loss,” I say softly.
He nods once, his gaze distant. “She lived here for her last few years. I visited during summers.”
Something about the way he says it, careful, measured, makes me tread lightly. He’s letting me in, but only just enough.
Still, I can’t help but ask. “Were your parents divorced?”
The shift is immediate.
Santo releases my hand and steps away.
The absence of his touch is instant, jarring.
I curse myself for saying the wrong thing, for asking something that wasn’t mine to ask.
“No.”
His tone is clipped, sharper than before. He turns his back to me, his broad shoulders tense, his posture stiff.
“She lived here because my father thought she would be safer.” A bitter pause. “He was wrong.”
A chill runs through me.
“We have many enemies in this life.” He exhales, slow, controlled. “They look for weaknesses, and they attack.”
Finally, he turns to me again.
His stormy gaze locks onto mine, filled with something raw, something restless. “You are a weakness.”
The words knock the breath from my lungs.
A weakness.
I part my lips, but no words come. I don’t know how to respond to that.
His voice remains steady, detached, but the weight of his meaning is suffocating. “Being my wife makes you a target.”
I swallow thickly.
He’s not saying it to be cruel. He’s stating a fact.
A brutal, irrevocable truth.
I am a liability to him.
Santo steps closer, his expression unreadable once more. “I will ask that you take guards with you when you leave the house and that you make those ventures out brief and seldom.”
I deflate, sinking on to the bench.
The walls are closing in already.
But I nod. I understand.
His piercing gaze holds mine, searching. Seconds stretch, dragging between us like something unspoken, something unbreakable.
I reach out hesitantly, expecting him to pull away.
He doesn’t.
Instead, his hand finds mine again.
He lowers himself beside me, his touch firmer this time. More certain.
“I can do as you ask.” My voice is softer now. “But I want something.”
His brow furrows slightly, intrigued. A flicker of dark amusement dances through his stormy gaze. “What do you want?”
The word ‘you’ is on the tip of my tongue, but instead, I choose something safer. Something easier.
“I want to continue university.”
His expression shifts, the tension in his frame coiling tight. His eyebrows rise so fast I almost regret saying it.
But I press on. “Online. I want to take courses online.”
For a moment, he doesn’t say anything.
Then, relief floods his features. His smirk is back, slow, calculated, something possessive curling at the edges.
“Of course.”
His grip on my hand tightens slightly, just for a second, before he relaxes.
“I’ll have a laptop brought to you as soon as tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” I murmur, staring at our joined hands, my fingers brushing over his in a way that feels dangerously natural.
His thumb nudges under my chin, lifting my gaze to his.
“What are you studying?”
“Business,” I answer simply.
His smirk deepens. “Smart girl.”
His knuckles skim across my cheek, a barely-there touch.
I lean into it.
We spend what feels like hours beneath our pink canopy, sharing stories and laughter as petals fall softly around us.
I tell him about my childhood, about the days spent running through endless fields of sunflowers and tall grass, with nothing but laughter as my guide. He listens, his thumb absently grazing the back of my hand, and when I pause, he speaks.
“My mother loved flowers.” His voice is quieter now, softer, as if the memory is something delicate. “She had them everywhere—lining windowsills, filling drawing rooms, even the bathrooms. I used to joke that she was trying to turn the whole house into a garden.”
I smile at the thought. The most dangerous man I know was raised in a home overflowing with flowers.
For some reason, this moment feels… natural. He keeps his hold on my hand, his fingers strong, steady.
I lean my head on his shoulder, and he doesn’t pull away.
For a long moment, we just sit there. No walls, no expectations, no weight of Cosa Nostra hanging over us.
The heady fragrance of magnolias, the sweet scent of roses, the crisp undertones of fresh greenery— it all wraps around us, intoxicating as any wine.
Then, a breeze rolls through the garden, shaking the branches above us.
A rain of petals cascades down over us. I gasp, delighted, squealing as I lift my hand to catch them.
Santo laughs. A real laugh. Deep, rich, unrestrained.
It rings through the quiet space, echoing around us, bright and rare and so heartbreakingly beautiful I don’t realize I’m staring.
I feel my lips pull into a smile, unable to stop it.
He looks so different like this. So alive.
His handsome face softened by the warmth of his laughter, his stormy eyes lighter, unburdened.
My gaze drops to his lips.
The urge is sudden, undeniable.
I want to kiss him.
I want to taste his laughter, to feel it against my own mouth.
Without thinking, I lean in.
Santo moves first.
Abruptly, he stands, tearing his hand from mine.
The loss is so sharp, so jarring, I barely mask my surprise.
My heart stutters as I watch it happen—the walls slamming back into place, the openness in his expression disappearing behind something cold and blank.
Santo is gone.
His jaw tightens. “We should get back inside.” His voice is flat now, distanced. “You can paint, and I’ll call Luca about that laptop.”
He doesn’t wait for me.
He just turns, heading back up the stone path, putting space between us.
I stare after him for a moment, something heavy settling in my chest.
Then, without a word, I follow.