20. Santo
Chapter 20
Santo
A s I leave Vasilisa in the library, my mind is already turning over how to handle Lila.
I never expected her to be a problem. She’s young, working part-time to pay for her education—a favor to Mrs. Keen. I let her in.
And now I regret it.
She frightened my wife. Pressed her about me. About the men she’s been with.
The thought alone makes my jaw clench.
Now, she sits across from me in my office, wringing her hands, eyes cast downward. A bead of sweat trickles down her temple, and she swipes at it quickly, her breath shallow.
I don’t say anything.
Not yet.
Instead, I take my time. I let the silence stretch, let her squirm under the weight of it as I shoot off a quick text to Luca.
Then I check the surveillance feed.
The monitor lights up, displaying the library. Vasilisa is still there, standing near the shelves, admiring the array of paints and brushes I had set up for her. She looks... ethereal. The natural light catches in her golden hair, softening the angles of her face, making her look almost untouched by the world around her. Untouched by me.
She was breathtaking in the garden earlier.
And now, because of Lila’s careless words, she’s wary of me.
My fingers tighten around the phone.
I force myself to exhale slowly before turning my gaze back to Lila. She’s still refusing to meet my eyes, her fingers twisted together in her lap.
Good.
She should be nervous.
But fear alone isn’t enough.
She needs to understand.
I lean forward slightly, just enough for her to feel the shift in power.
“Lila.”
She jumps, her head snapping up, wide eyes locking onto mine.
“It’s time you take a long vacation.”
She blinks rapidly, like she’s not sure she heard me right. “A vacation?”
I nod once.
Her lower lip trembles. Her eyes shine with unshed tears. “I’m sorry, Mr. Amato, I didn’t mean to—”
I lift a hand, a silent command for her to stop talking.
“What you meant or didn’t mean is irrelevant.” My voice is quiet, but the edge in it is sharp enough to slice. “What matters is the damage that’s been done.”
She opens her mouth, desperate to defend herself, but my stare alone is enough to silence her.
“Vasilisa is my wife, Lila. And it is not your place to scare her. It is not your place to confuse her about this household. Or me .”
“I... I didn’t think—”
“That’s right. You didn’t.” My voice is like a blade, precise, cutting through her like I can see the moment it lands. She shifts in her seat, uncomfortable, her fingers gripping the hem of her skirt like it’ll ground her.
For a second, a flicker of guilt tugs at the back of my mind.
But I dismiss it just as fast.
“When I hired you, I made it clear that this job requires discretion. You, seducing my men for information that doesn’t concern you?” I tilt my head slightly. “That tells me you’ve forgotten what discretion means.”
She wilts, her entire body caving inward. “I’m... I’m really sorry, Mr. Amato,” she stammers, voice small.
I study her, the apology hanging heavy between us. I can see the unspoken plea in her eyes—for mercy, for forgiveness.
I let her sit in it.
Then, with an exasperated sigh, I finally respond. “I don’t need your apology, Lila.” My voice cuts through the silence, sharper than I intended. “Just make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
She nods so quickly it’s almost frantic. “Yes, sir.”
I stand, rounding the desk with slow, deliberate steps. She stiffens when I stop beside her, her fingers twisting together so tightly they turn white.
She knows better than to move.
“And about that vacation,” I murmur, looking down at her. “Consider it started.”
She blanches, face losing all color, but she doesn’t argue.
She just nods frantically, stammering out another weak “Yes, sir.” before scrambling to her feet and nearly bolting from the office.
The door clicks shut behind her.
I sink into my chair, exhaling slowly, and glance at the monitor.
Vasilisa is still in the library.
She’s more at ease now, her delicate fingers uncapping tubes of paint, brushing soft strokes across a blank canvas. Colors blend and swirl beneath her skilled touch, forming something beautiful—something soothing. The sight alone eases the tightness in my chest.
She’s a goddess.
Her very soul is like crystalized sapphire held in her eyes, Vasilisa is everything I am not - pure, kind, good, and full of light. My very presence may taint and tarnish her innocence. But watching her so focused and calm fills me with an unexpected admiration and sadness. I want to protect her from the darkness of this world, especially from the darkness in me.
She dips her brush into a pool of cerulean blue, her fingers wrapped around the handle with quiet precision. She moves with such ease, such grace, her brush gliding across the canvas like she was born for this.
I don’t just see her.
I feel her.
She turns her head slightly, eyes flicking toward something off-camera, and I marvel at the sight. The elegant slope of her throat, the delicate curve of her shoulders. My gaze drifts lower, catching the whisper of lace beneath her blouse.
She has too many buttons undone.
It would be too easy—too natural—to trail my tongue along the soft curve of her décolletage, to taste the warm skin at the swell of her breasts.
A sudden impulse grips me.
Not just to touch her.
To sit beside her.
To watch her create something out of nothing, to lose myself in the way she paints, she breathes, she exists. To soak in the peace she radiates and let it settle inside me, even for a moment. But I know myself. I’d shatter that peace the second I got too close.
A sharp knock on the door pulls me from my thoughts.
“Come in.” My voice is rougher than I expect.
Luca steps inside, closing the door behind him. “You wanted to see me, boss?”
I tear my gaze from the monitor, switching it off a little too quickly. I motion for him to sit.
“Yeah.” My voice comes out even, controlled. “When you gave me your report, was it a full report on Vasilisa’s romantic relationships?”
Luca’s brows furrow as he drops into the chair. “On her relationship with Jude Olsen?”
“Besides him. And that piece of shit, Pietro.” The name leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.
Luca leans forward, quirking an eyebrow. “There was no evidence that there was ever anything between her and Pietro.”
“Doubtful.” I dismiss it just as fast. “What about others?”
Luca chuckles. “She’s twenty, Santo. How far could she have gone?”
“Plenty of twenty-year-old’s are promiscuous.”
His amusement deepens. “Since when do you care about promiscuity?”
“When it pertains to my wife.”
Luca smirks, leaning back like he’s enjoying this. “We don’t do the blood-on-the-sheets thing anymore, so what is this about? Was she not a virgin? Maksim said—”
“Maksim can’t even keep his own sister on a leash.” The words snap out before I can stop them.
Luca’s expression shifts, arms crossing over his chest. For the first time, he actually looks… displeased.
“Is that really the issue here?”
“No.” The irritation coils in my gut. “Go find me what I asked.” I wave a hand in dismissal, expecting him to leave.
But he doesn’t move.
“I already have it.”
He pulls out his phone, scrolling for a second before glancing up. “There’s only one other before Jude. A Logan Doyle. Lives in London now.”
I exhale, relieved. “Good. He needs to stay an ocean away.”
Luca’s eyes widen, his expression flickers between confusion and bemusement. He slips his phone back into his pocket, shaking his head.
“You like her.”
His voice is quiet, careful, like he’s testing the words out loud.
I frown, my fingers drumming irritably against the desk. “This isn’t about liking her, Luca.” The denial is swift, firm. Even as my conscience whispers otherwise. “This is about keeping my wife safe.”
Luca laughs. A low, knowing sound that grates on my nerves. “I’ve seen how you are with women, Santo. This is different.”
He leans forward, his smirk growing. “You don’t care about their pasts. Hell, half the time you don’t even ask their names.”
His smirk deepens.
“But with Vasilisa? You want to know every man who’s touched her. You’re jealous .”
The accusation lands—sharp, unyielding. My throat tightens, heat rising up my neck before I can shut it down.
“That’s… that’s ridiculous.”
Luca grins.
He pushes up from his chair, his gaze unwavering as he places a firm hand on my shoulder.
“Remember who you’re talking to, Santo.” His voice shifts—lower, knowing. “I’ve known you all my life.”
My jaw ticks. “And have you ever known me to be jealous?”
Luca’s grin widens.
“That’s just it.” He slaps my shoulder lightly before heading for the door. “No one’s ever known you to be this human before.”
The click of the door locking is the last sound before silence swallows the room whole.
Luca’s words claw at the edges of my thoughts, sinking in deeper than I want them to.
Jealous.
Jealousy is such a soft emotion. A human emotion. And I can’t afford soft things.
I clench my fists. This isn’t about jealousy. It’s about control. Security. Keeping what’s mine untouched. It’s about making sure the ghosts of Vasilisa’s past stay exactly that—ghosts.
But the thought of her with someone else—of another man’s hands on her, another man knowing the softness of her sighs— curls inside me like a sickness I can’t shake.
I need to ask her.
Or it will fester.
I push to my feet, stride out of the office, the door slamming shut behind me. The halls of the estate are quiet, dimly lit, the marble floors clicking under each measured step.
Everything is too calm. That unsettling stillness before a storm.
At the library doors, I pause. A hesitation I don’t recognize roots me in place. She doesn’t belong to anyone else. But does she even belong to me?
I exhale, knocking once. “Vasilisa?” My voice is low, softer than I mean for it to be.
A beat of silence.
Then the door cracks open, and she stands before me. Paint smudged on delicate fingers. A messy bun barely holding up golden strands, some slipping loose to frame her face.
She smiles—small, tentative, but so fucking sweet it knocks the breath out of me.
“Santo,” she peeps my name, like it’s something forbidden—something dangerous.
I open my mouth, the question burning on my tongue—but I can’t ask it.
I can’t ruin this.
“I came...” I start, but the words die on my tongue. She watches me, patient, waiting, eyes full of something I can’t name.
I force myself to swallow the truth, pushing past the ache that settles low in my chest.
“I... I came to see your painting.”
A lie. A terrible one.
Surprise flickers across her face before she smooths it over with a soft, amused smile. She doesn’t call me on it. Instead, she steps aside, allowing me in.
She leads me to her canvas, and I don’t know what I was expecting, but it sure as hell wasn’t this.
The blues melt into greens, soft brushstrokes blending so effortlessly it looks almost alive. Dabs of white scatter like distant stars, pulling the whole piece together like a dream you can’t quite hold onto.
I stare, caught in it—in her.
And then, I feel it.
The warmth of her hand slipping into mine.
I look down, startled by the delicate fingers threading through my own, paint-streaked and small, like she’s always meant to fit there.
“Do you like it?” Her voice is barely above a whisper.
I can’t answer.
Not when my chest feels too tight. Not when my grip on her instinctively tightens, like I might never let go. Not when I know, in a matter of days, moments, breaths, she’s already more than I can afford her to be.
Not when I understand I will keep her.
No man—not her past, not her future, not even fucking fate—will take her from me.
“Vasilisa...” I murmur, turning to her, and fuck—she’s looking at me like I’m something gentle.
She blinks, waiting. Expectant. Wide-eyed. Sweet.
The air thickens between us, charged with something untamed, something I don’t have the words for.
Finally, I force out the only answer I can manage.
“Yes.”
I lift my free hand, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear, fingertips grazing soft skin. “I love it.”
But the truth hangs unspoken between us, thick and inescapable.
It’s not the painting that has me ruined.
It’s the painter.
We stand in silence, caught in the moment. Something flickers in her eyes—uncertainty, emotion, something deeper.
Then, softly, she speaks.
“Is Lila in a lot of trouble?” She hesitates. “I didn’t want—”
“No.” I cut her off before she can worry. “She’s truly on vacation. Her job will be here when she returns.”
Vasilisa searches my face, then offers a small smile before looking back at her painting.
“Can you guess what it’s going to be?”
I peer at the twilight sky she’s crafted, the glow of streetlights framing what looks like an overhead view of a familiar place. And then it clicks.
“La Serenata?”
She beams. “Yes. Our first date.”
She’s painting that night.
The memory rushes back, unbidden. The ambiance of La Serenata, the rich scent of wine and candle wax, the way her emerald dress clung to her frame, molding to every delicate curve.
“You’re painting that night?” My voice comes out lower than I intend.
She nods, her fingers tracing the edge of the canvas. “I wanted to capture our story.”
Biting her lip, a light blush stains her cheeks, her gorgeous eyes shining with something vulnerable.
I can’t take it.
I reach out, hooking my thumb under her lip, freeing it from her teeth. She stills, her breath catching, but I don’t stop. My thumb trails along her cheek, memorizing the warmth of her skin.
She’s flushed. Paint everywhere. Pure. Beautiful. Mine.
A hunger pulses inside me.
I cup the back of her neck, fingers threading into the loose tendrils of her hair, and pull her in.
Her lips part in surprise, but I don’t give her time to second-guess it. I capture her mouth, taking what I crave.
She gasps against me, gripping my shirt as I deepen the kiss, swallowing the soft, sweet moan that slips past her lips.
I freeze.
I need to stop.
Pulling back, I rest my forehead against hers, breathing her in.
“May I have it?” I murmur, my voice rough, still inches from her mouth.
Her eyes flutter open, dazed. Confused. Wanting.
“Have what?” she whispers, her gaze dropping to my lips.
I step back—before I take more than I should—and turn to the painting.
“May I have the painting when you’re done?”
She blinks, still trying to process what I’ve just asked. “You want me to gift it to you?”
“I could buy it if you’d like.”
Her lips twitch, amusement flickering in her expression as she traces the edges of the canvas.
“Where would you put it?”
I don’t hesitate. “In my office.”
She tilts her head, considering, a shy smile playing on her lips. “Next to the Monet? I don’t think so.”
She giggles. And fuck—the sound grips something inside me, twisting it tight.
“Why not? You’re just as talented.”
I slip my hands into my pockets, fighting the urge to pull her back into me.
“I am not,” she huffs, still smiling, still intoxicating. “But I’ll still give you the painting.”
Her tongue swipes across her bottom lip, and I know I need to leave before I kiss her again.
I nod, stepping back. Creating space.
“Dinner is in twenty minutes. I’ll take mine in the office.”
She frowns, confused, searching my face, but doesn’t push. Instead, she simply nods.
I make it to the door before pausing, glancing over my shoulder.
“Tomorrow morning, my men will be here.” My eyes flick to the hint of lace peeking from her blouse, the teasing dip of her neckline.
A smirk tugs at my lips. “Try to wear something more... appropriate.”
Her cheeks flush. She chuckles, nervous, but she nods.
And before I can stop myself, before I can do something reckless, I steal one last look at her.
Then I shut the door behind me and head to my office—where I can be alone with my thoughts of her.