21. Vasilisa
Chapter 21
Vasilisa
T he house is a flurry of activity in the morning, just like Santo said it would be. Men move with quiet efficiency—nods replacing greetings, eye contact kept to a minimum. The tension is thick, the air humming with unspoken rules.
I try to play the part of the perfect wife, but every room I step into empties just as quickly.
And to make it worse, my husband is nowhere to be found, while his brother, Angelo, lingers.
I avoid him just like everyone else avoids me.
It’s not that I’m incapable of introducing myself, but by the time afternoon rolls around, I’m drained. The constant movement, the sharp glances, the unspoken weight of my presence—it’s too much.
Seeking an escape, I slip outside and lay down on the bench beneath the shade of the magnolia trees. The air is warm, thick with the scent of flowers, and for the first time today, I let myself breathe.
I close my eyes.
It doesn’t last long.
A shadow falls over me, pulling me from my moment of peace. My eyes snap open, and I’m met with the sight of a young man. Sunlight catches in his light brown hair, forming a halo around his head. His pleasant smile disarms me instantly.
I scramble to sit up, smoothing my dress down my thighs, forcing a polite smile.
“Is this spot taken?” he asks, nodding toward the bench.
I shake my head, shifting over. “No, please. Sit.”
“I’m Romeo Romero,” he introduces himself, offering his hand.
“Vasilisa.” I take it, his grip firm but careful—a contrast to the world we live in.
For a while, we sit in silence. It’s comfortable, something I didn’t realize I was craving.
Then a voice shatters the peace.
“Romero.”
The warmth in Romeo’s face disappears as he stiffens and rises to his feet. His eyes meet Angelo’s.
“Don Amato.” His nod is respectful, but the tension in his jaw betrays him.
Angelo barely acknowledges him, his sharp gaze fixed on me.
“Vasilisa,” he greets, voice cold. His eyes flick down, assessing me. I know that look, scanning for any hint of impropriety.
I swallow hard. “Don Amato,” I say, forcing my voice steady.
He studies me for another beat before shifting his attention back to Romeo. His lips curl into something that isn’t quite a smile. “I hope Romero isn’t bothering you.”
A veiled threat. A reminder .
“He’s been very kind,” I answer quickly, trying to keep whatever this is from escalating.
Romeo shoots me a brief appreciative glance before straightening.
“You’re needed inside, Romero,” Angelo says coolly. “Santo’s looking for you.”
A flicker of something crosses Romeo’s face—dread? But he nods and heads toward the house, leaving me alone.
With him.
“Are you settling in?” Angelo asks, his voice still icy.
“Yes,” I manage, my fingers curling into the fabric of my skirt, as if that will ground me.
Angelo starts pacing, hands clasped behind his back. His movements are too measured, too controlled—like a predator circling prey.
I keep my gaze trained on him, hoping—praying—for someone to walk outside, to interrupt whatever this is.
“Maksim speaks highly of you, Piccola,” he muses, his gaze locking onto mine. “You wouldn’t want to tarnish that reputation.”
My heart pounds. “I have no intention to,” I say quickly, trying to sound confident. Trying to sound like I belong here.
Angelo smirks, apparently not convinced by my assurance. He opens his mouth to say something else when the sound of footsteps approaching cuts through the moment. We both turn toward the noise—Santo.
“Angelo,” he greets curtly, skipping any formalities. His gaze moves to me and softens—just slightly. “Vasilisa.”
“I was just leaving,” Angelo says smoothly before I can reply. With one last look—something between a warning and amusement—he strides away, leaving us alone in the thick silence of the garden.
Santo watches him go before turning back to me. “You okay?” His voice is softer now, tinged with something that almost sounds like concern.
I nod, offering a small smile. “I’m fine.”
His gaze dips lower, lingering just long enough for me to feel it. I shift slightly, and the lace tops of my stockings peek out beneath the hem of my black turtleneck dress. Santo notices.
His jaw tightens. His expression doesn’t change, but his eyes darken, just enough to betray his thoughts.
“I have a meeting to get to,” he says finally, his tone quieter than usual, as if he’s reluctant to go.
“When will you be back?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“Late,” he admits, his voice softening. “But I’ll try to make it before midnight.”
A flicker of disappointment stirs in my chest, but I push it down with another small smile. “That’s okay.”
He extends a hand to help me to my feet. His fingers linger on mine. I expect him to let go once we’re inside, but instead, he stops near the base of the stairs, turning fully toward me.
“You’ve covered up more today,” he says, his gaze dragging over me again, settling on the high neckline of my dress before dropping to my legs.
“But now you’ve left those on display instead.”
I glance down, suddenly self-conscious under his scrutiny. “They really can’t be all that distracting, my legs are very short,” I say quickly, brushing off his comment, trying to lighten the tension.
His lips twitch, his gaze unwavering. “They’re also very mine ,” he says quietly, but there’s no mistaking the possessiveness in his voice.
The words wrap around me, leaving me momentarily stunned, unsure how to respond.
Before I can say anything, he takes a step back, his expression calm once more. “I’ll see you tonight, Vasilisa.”
Then he’s gone, heading for the front door.
I stand there for a beat, pulling in a slow breath, steadying myself, before finally moving toward the kitchen in search of a snack.
Julian is at the sink, washing dishes. He looks up when I enter, flashing me an easy smile.
“Need anything, Mrs. Amato?”
“Call me Vasi, please.” I wave a hand dismissively. “I just came in for a snack. I can make it myself.”
I head toward the pantry, but Julian shakes his head, already drying his hands on a towel.
“Nonsense. I’ll whip you up something. What are you craving?”
“Something sweet,” I admit, a small grin tugging at my lips.
He chuckles, pulling open a cupboard and rummaging inside. “I think I’ve got just the thing.”
I try to peer over his shoulder, but his broad frame blocks my view.
“Here we go.” Julian straightens with a triumphant grin, holding up a small box of cupcakes, their sugary tops gleaming under the kitchen lights. When my eyes light up, he chuckles. “Santo wouldn’t be too pleased if he knew about this stash.”
I wink, accepting the box. “He doesn’t need to know.” I grab one and immediately take a bite, the sweetness melting on my tongue. “Does he really not allow snacks?”
“He prefers healthy snacks only.”
I grimace. “He doesn’t know about my sweet tooth yet.”
Julian smirks. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
Warmth spreads through me at the thought. Maybe I’m making a friend.
“What’s for dinner?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Hungry already? You’ve got a cupcake in hand.”
I laugh. “No, I just wanted to know if I could help.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to learn. Please.”
He studies me for a moment, then grins. “Alright then.” He pulls open a drawer and hands me a crisp white apron.
I take it gladly, the cool fabric smooth in my hands. “What are we making?”
“Spaghetti aglio e olio.”
I pause, the words familiar. “Spaghetti, garlic, and oil?”
I slip the apron over my head, tying it securely around my waist.
Julian nods approvingly. “You’ve been paying attention.”
He turns to the counter, where a spread of fresh ingredients awaits—flat-leaf parsley, cloves of garlic, dried chili peppers, and a freshly made spaghetti. “It’s a simple dish, but full of flavor.”
For the next half hour, we work side by side. Julian shows me how to finely chop the garlic and parsley while he slices the chilies with effortless precision. He walks me through sautéing the ingredients in olive oil, his voice patient and encouraging at every step. The air fills with a mouthwatering aroma, making my stomach growl in anticipation.
As we wait for the water to boil, he hums an unfamiliar tune under his breath, moving around the kitchen with an easy fluidity—like he belongs here.
I watch him, admiring how naturally he handles everything, how at home he seems. He tosses a pinch of salt into the pot with a little flair, and I giggle.
Once the pasta is cooked, he guides me through the final steps—tossing the noodles into our sizzling mix of olive oil, garlic, and chilies. A generous sprinkle of parsley and freshly grated parmesan finishes the dish.
Julian plates it up, handing me a fork. “Try it.”
I twirl a bite onto my fork and take my first taste. The pasta is perfectly al dente, the flavors bold and balanced—rich olive oil, tangy garlic, the slow burn of chilies, and the freshness of parsley tying it all together.
“This is... amazing.” I swallow, unable to hide my delight.
Julian grins. “I had a feeling you’d like it.”
We sit down to eat, and soon the rest of the kitchen staff trickles in, joining us for dinner. They’re warm and welcoming, chatting with me about the ins and outs of the house, telling stories about Santo and how kind he is to them.
The thought makes my heart warm.
Here in this kitchen, surrounded by easy laughter and acceptance, I feel something I’ve been missing since arriving.
I feel at home.