22. Santo
Chapter 22
Santo
T he reflective glass windows of Beaumont Enterprises gleam against the city skyline, a symbol of wealth built on old money and even older corruption. The Beaumont brothers—Warren, Wesley, and Wilder—have made a name for themselves off their father’s empire, but power is nothing without control. And they don’t have nearly as much of it as they think.
I step into the lobby, where Luca and Romeo are already waiting—the latter leaning against the reception desk, grinning shamelessly as he flirts with the woman behind it.
We head toward the elevators, but before we make it inside, the receptionist calls out for us to stop. I don’t bother stopping. She can threaten to call security, but that’s not a problem. I own them.
The elevator ride is smooth, stopping on the seventeenth floor—Warren’s favorite number. The predictable prick never changes. His predictability is his weakness.
The doors slide open to reveal three security guards waiting. Men that work for me. I give them a brief nod, and they step aside.
We move down the hallway toward the glass conference room. Inside, the Beaumont brothers sit in mid-conversation, laptops open, papers scattered across the sleek glass table. The moment they see me, the tension in the room shifts.
Warren is the first to react.
“What the hell are you doing here, Amato?” he seethes, already bristling.
I smile, slow and sharp, watching his discomfort flicker beneath his anger. “Is that any way to greet an old friend?” My voice drips with mockery.
“You’re far from a friend.” Warren sits back, smoothing his Armani lapel. “What do you want?”
Luca and Romeo take opposite stances in the room as I address War directly.
“I want a building,” I say simply. “And I hear you’re not willing to budge.”
Warren sneers.
Beside him, Wesley is already typing away on his laptop. “You want the Parker building,” Wesley states, eyes still on the screen. “East side. Right in the middle of Maksim’s territory.”
“That’s the one,” I smirk, pointing at Wesley. “Gold star for you.” My tone is sarcastic, but my eyes stay serious and alert.
Warren scoffs, crossing his arms. “Not giving it up. Especially after your little alliance with Korsakov. I’m not handing that bastard a damn thing.”
There it is. His real problem.
I tilt my head, faux concern lacing my tone. “Still caught up in your little pissing contest with Maks?” I click my tongue. “Pathetic.”
His jaw clenches. “Yet your brother’s still kissing his ass, even going so far as to give you a bride,” he bites out. “How is she, by the way? Vasilisa, right?”
My blood turns lethal in an instant.
The air in the room thickens. I don’t react. I don’t flinch. I don’t let him see how much that name— her name —twists a knife in my ribs.
I just smile. A dangerous, warning kind of smile. “You don’t ever say her name.”
Warren smirks. Wilder chuckles. Wesley keeps typing.
Then Warren leans forward, eyes glinting. “Would be a shame if something happened to her. Like your—”
Click.
The sound of Luca’s gun cocking cuts through the air.
Wesley’s fingers freeze on the keyboard. Wilder lifts his hands in surrender, his smirk vanishing. Even Warren, for all his bravado, flickers with hesitation.
I raise a hand. Luca stands down, but barely.
Instead, I move. Crossing the room in two slow steps.
I lean over the glass table, grab Warren by his tie, and yank him forward until our noses nearly touch.
My voice is low. Deadly.
“If you so much as utter another word about my wife, I will slit your throat—” I pull him closer, until I can feel his shaky exhale against my skin, “—and fuck her in your blood.”
The room is deathly silent.
I shove him back. Hard. His chair nearly tips over, his hands gripping the edge of the table to keep himself steady.
Luca and Romeo move beside me as I turn toward the door. We’re done here.
But just before I step out, I glance back, watching Warren try to shake off his rattled expression.
I smirk. “Oh, and tell Mandy I’ll be seeing her soon.” I add casually mentioning his sister.
Warren stiffens. His mask cracks—just a little.
And I savor every second of it.
We make our way to the elevator, the doors chime open before I even have a chance to press the button. Surprised, I see Olivia Baker standing there, her eyes widening as she takes in my presence.
A moment of confusion flickers across her face before she asks hesitantly, “Did I come into the wrong building?”
Without a word, Luca, Romeo, and I step into the elevator as Olivia slips out.
Just as we step out of the building, my phone buzzes—Angelo’s name flashing across the screen.
I answer. “The meeting was a bust,” I begin, but before I can say more, Angelo cuts me off.
“Meet me at the penthouse. Maksim’s here.” His tone leaves no room for argument. The line goes dead before I can respond.
I exchange a glance with Luca and Romeo. No questions need to be asked. We head straight to Angelo’s.
The penthouse elevator opens directly into Angelo’s meticulously designed world.
Black and maroon decor, stark white walls—everything placed with a precision that reflects the man himself. It’s sleek, controlled, calculated. Much like my brother.
Maksim is sprawled on one of Angelo’s plush sofas, a glass of whiskey balanced lazily on his knee. He looks up as we enter, his brows pulling together, his mouth set in a grim line. With his ridiculous colorful hair, he almost looks like a sad clown.
Across the room, Nico and Vaska sit in silence, their expressions giving nothing away, their posture is stiff, their eyes sharp, assessing.
“Finally.” Maksim exhales, standing to greet me. “Let’s get down to business.”
His gaze flicks from me to Luca and Romeo, giving each of them a respectful nod before clasping my hand in a firm shake.
Then, his grin sharpens, and with a heavy clap to my back, he adds, “Sorry for taking you away from your honeymoon, but I’m sure Kisa doesn’t mind the reprieve.”
He winks.
The heat spikes in my chest, my jaw tightening before I force it back down.
He turns, and we follow him to Angelo’s dining room, where my brother sits at the head of the table. Nico drops into the seat beside him, Vaska flanks Maksim. Scattered across the table are photographs—Gabriel Kaya and his men. A few shots of Katya and Elena.
I grab a picture of my sister, snapped as she walks past a grocery store, Riot beside her. My grip tightens around the edges. “Where did you get this?”
“That was found in the apartment of the man who tried to take your sister,” Maksim says before sliding another photo across the table. Katya. Outside Maksim’s casino. “This one was with the man who tried to take my sister. They’re watching us. Tracking us. I need to know every move they make before they even think about making it. That’s where you come in.”
“You want my men on surveillance. Easy enough.” I study a picture of Gabriel Kaya, the Turkish bastard responsible for the attempted abductions. He wants our attention. Now he has it.
Maksim leans forward, his expression carved from ice. “Make sure it’s easy. I want every detail—his men, his movements, his family. If he so much as fucking breathes wrong, I want to know before he does. And then, I want him delivered to me. Alive.”
The rage in his voice is barely leashed.
“What has you gunning this hard? We’ve known about Kaya for weeks.”
Maksim’s jaw ticks. “One of his men tried to rob my casino. Held one of my girls at gunpoint. Vaska handled the accomplice, but the bastard ran off with my money. Kaya managed to slip someone into my hired security team. That will never happen again.”
I nod. “Consider it handled.”
Beside him, Vaska runs a knife over a handkerchief, his movements slow and methodical. “I gutted that accomplice like a fish. Sliced through him like butter. And I’ll find the other one too.” His voice is low, almost bored, but the gleam in his eyes says otherwise.
“No doubt about that,” Maksim mutters.
Angelo leans back in his chair, flicking a glance between Maksim and Vaska. “How many men do you need to lock down your territory?”
“Half. I want double the protection. Katya has six men on her at all times.” Maksim exhales sharply.
Angelo nods. “Elena’s coming home in a couple of months. Until then, I may have to put more men on her.”
I pull out my phone as the conversation continues, bringing up my security feed. I rewind, backtracking to what Vasilisa was doing while I was gone.
The screen shows her in the kitchen—cooking with Julian.
Something sharp and ugly twists in my gut. She’s laughing, her eyes warm. Too warm. Warm in a way that should be reserved for me and me alone.
A simmering rage starts low in my chest. My jaw clenches as I fast-forward the footage. The scene shifts—she’s sitting with the kitchen staff, sharing a meal.
She looks happy. Comfortable. Accepted. The staff is treating her well.
But Julian shouldn’t be that close to my wife.
Not if he values his life.
***
I get home around three in the morning. The master bedroom door is closed but light outlines the door frame. She’s awake.
Waiting.
A flicker of something uneasy settles in my chest as I push it open. The sitting area is empty. The bed, untouched. The bathroom door is open, the space vacant.
A cold weight drops in my stomach. She’s not here
Panic sets in, sharp and immediate. I turn, striding out of the room and taking the stairs two at a time. The library—dark. Silent.
My mind races with thoughts of where she could be. Did she leave? Was she taken? While I was busy making plans on how to guard Katya and Elena; my wife was alone.
Alone.
Maybe she decided to visit her family, but I didn’t leave her with a driver. Thoughts of her in a ride share with a stranger—unguarded, vulnerable—sends a slow, seething burn through my veins. My steps turn heavy, my jaw locking as I reach for my phone. If she’s not in this house, I’ll mobilize every damn man I have to find her—
Then I hear it.
Soft, steady breathing. A faint snore.
Relief slams into me so hard my chest aches. I pocket my phone and move toward the sound, stepping into the living room.
I flip on a lamp, its warm glow casting a comforting light over the space.
There she is.
Sprawled across the couch in a silk robe that barely conceals her delicate lace nightgown. Her locks of golden hair spill around her like a halo. Her lips are parted slightly, lashes fluttering like she’s caught in a dream.
I exhale, tension easing as I take in the sight. The stress, the fury from earlier—none of it belongs here. Not with her like this.
I shouldn’t have left her alone tonight.
Then I notice the books—stacked neatly on the coffee table, one left open beside her. The sight makes me pause, the tension in my body giving way to something else.
My intelligent, beautiful wife, up late, lost in literature.
A quiet smile tugs at my lips.
I adore her like this.
I carefully lift her into my arms, cradling her against me, and immediately regret it.
She’s warm, soft, a breath of silk and lace against my skin. The scent of her—sweet, intoxicating—seeps into my lungs, curling around something dark inside me, something feral.
Mine.
The thin fabric of her nightgown leaves little to the imagination. Translucent lace teases over her curves, the swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist. My hands burn where they press against the smooth skin of her thighs, and my cock throbs painfully beneath my slacks.
I grit my teeth, adjusting my hold, forcing my focus elsewhere. Not now. Not like this.
She’s too light. The realization creeps in, tightening something in my chest. A reminder. A responsibility. I make a mental note—she needs to eat more. I’ll make sure of it.
As I move through the dimly lit house, I glance down at her peaceful face, the faint rise and fall of her breath. My heart aches as much as the rest of me does.
Fuck.
The second I step into her bedroom, the moonlight spills over her, silver illuminating soft skin, casting shadows along the sheets. It’s a vision that brands itself into me, searing through restraint, through the last shred of my self-control. I lower her carefully, my fingers lingering just a second too long, my gaze trailing over the way she curls up instinctively, pulling the blanket close.
She stirs, a soft sigh slipping past her lips. My fingers linger on the edge of the bedspread, my mind screaming at me to resist, to turn away. But it’s a losing battle, and with a soft curse I sink onto the edge of the bed.
For long minutes, I sit there, staring at her sleeping form, my heart pounding in my chest, fighting the urge to wake her and taste every inch of her skin. She stirs slightly, utterly unaware of the havoc she’s wreaking inside me. I exhale sharply, my fingers digging into the mattress.
She sighs again, a sound so soft, so fucking tempting, that I nearly lose the battle right then and there. My body vibrates with restraint, my muscles locked with the effort of resisting.
With a quiet curse, I push to my feet. If I stay, I’ll lose whatever restraint I have left.
I force myself out of the room, but even as I drag myself to my room, I already know—this won’t last.
She’s mine.
Locking my bedroom door, I strip down to my boxer briefs and slide into the cold sheets, trying to ignore the ache deep within me.
I squeeze my eyes shut, willing sleep to come, but it’s fucking impossible. Because all I see is her.
Vasilisa.
Her smile, teasing and sweet. Her body flush against mine, warm and soft, the scent of her wrapping around me, pulling me under. The way she sighs as I explore her—slow, deliberate—like she was made for my hands, for my mouth.
The images drag me deeper, until my dreams become something else entirely.
She’s beneath me, her golden hair spilling across my pillow, her body open, taking me so perfectly—tight, dripping, mine. My cock buried deep inside her, her back arching, nails clawing at my skin as she screams my name. A silent prayer. A desperate plea.
I wake with a strangled groan, my body coiled tight, my breath ragged.
A cold sweat clings to my skin, but the heat inside me won’t die down. My cock is painfully hard, straining against the fabric of my underwear, the ache pulsing deep. I glance at the clock. Six in the morning. No chance of getting back to sleep now.
With a sigh, I push out of bed, the frustration thrumming beneath my skin, and head for the ensuite bathroom. I turn on the shower and step inside.
I let the icy spray rain down on me, hoping it will quench some of the heat building inside me. My hand instinctively travels down to my cock gripping it tightly as I stroke myself. A bead of pre-cum glistens at the tip and I capture it with my fingers, spreading it over my heated crown. The cold water does little to cool me down. In fact, it only seems to intensify my arousal.
I grab the body wash from its spot on the ledge and pour some into my hand. With slow, deliberate movements, I spread it over my length, sucking in a breath as the slick glide makes my muscles clench.
I close my eyes, and she’s right there.
On her knees.
Her perfect, pouty lips parting as I feed my length into her mouth, watching as her lips stretch around my cock. Her tongue swirls around the tip, greedy, eager, perfect.
Fuck.
My grip tightens, stroking faster as I sink deeper into the fantasy.
Her crystal-blue eyes lock onto mine, filled with adoration, surrender. One hand fisted in her golden locks, I guide her, force her down my length, reveling in the way her throat clenches as she takes me too deep. She gags so fucking beautifully, tears welling at the corners of her eyes as I push her limits.
I curse under my breath, my hips flexing into my hand, chasing the high.
The pleasure builds, coiling hot and tight at the base of my spine. My breathing is ragged, my body trembling with the force of it. With one final thrust, I release myself entirely and ropes of thick come spray against the shower wall. Her name spills from my lips—a whispered mantra, a vow, a fucking promise.
My body shudders through the aftershocks, but the moment the pleasure fades, the ache is still there.
Because she’s not here.