23. Vasilisa
Chapter 23
Vasilisa
I had woken up in my bed, so either I sleep walk or Santo brought me to my room.
Now I sit perched on a bar stool in the empty kitchen, leisurely eating a bowl of freshly cut fruit. The vibrant colors and sweet aromas invigorate my senses, each bite bursting with flavor. The quiet hum of the house surrounds me, a fragile, early-morning peace.
Santo walks in.
He stops abruptly at the sight of me, his sharp gaze locking onto mine. My breath catches.
He’s devastatingly handsome in a three-piece charcoal gray suit, the crisp fabric molding to his powerful frame, his hair immaculate as always. Every movement—controlled, effortless—draws my attention, the flex of his muscles beneath the expensive fabric making it impossible to look away.
“You’re up early,” he remarks, heading to the fridge. He grabs a bottle of water, twisting the cap off with ease.
I force myself to look away, returning my focus to my fruit. “It’s seven. I usually wake earlier, but I guess I was tired.”
He hums in acknowledgment, his eyes sweeping over me. I had chosen a light dress for the day, as modest as possible with what Cassandra ordered. His gaze lingers, meeting my eyes before he gives me a small knowing smile.
“Ah, that’s right. We have that in common.”
He reaches into the fridge again, this time pulling out a protein shake and setting it on the counter.
I hesitate, my fingers tightening around my fork. “We have quite a few things in common, Santo,” I murmur before I can stop myself.
His head tilts slightly. “What’s that?”
I hesitate again, then shake my head. “Never mind.”
His gaze sharpens, but he lets it go.
“Thank you for bringing me to bed last night,” I say instead, pushing the conversation in a safer direction. “I lost track of time while reading.”
His lips curve into a grin, but his eyes—his eyes remain intense, unreadable. “Not a problem.”
The way he says it makes heat creep up my neck. Then his gaze shifts, dropping to my bowl.
“You should eat more.”
Before I can respond, he steps closer, his scent—spice, musk, something inherently him—wrapping around me. He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to my cheek.
It’s brief. Barely there, but my skin burns where his lips touch. Then, without another word, he strides out of the room, leaving me breathless, sending a spark through me—small, but impossible to ignore.
I want more.
I think back to our wedding night, to the way I had practically thrown myself at him. Santo had promised he wouldn’t touch me until I wanted him. Well, every day, I want him more than I’d like to admit.
With a frustrated sigh, I push the thought away and finish my fruit, rinsing my bowl and placing it in the dishwasher before heading to the library.
I need a distraction.
The first date painting is nearly done—I could probably finish it tonight—but a new idea is already forming in my head.
Our first kiss.
I grab a fresh canvas, setting it up on the second of the three easels Santo had placed in here for me. My hands move on instinct, sketching out our silhouettes. I don’t hesitate—I know the moment I want to capture.
The dresser. My legs wrapped around his waist. My dress unzipped.
Heat creeps up my neck as the memory flashes through my mind. I trace the lines of his broad shoulders, the tilt of my head as he kissed me, the press of our bodies. Maybe he’d like it for his bedroom.
His bedroom.
The thought irritates me. We should be sharing one. A throat clears, snapping me from my thoughts. I turn to see Luca standing at the doorway, holding a rectangular box in one hand and a massive bouquet of lilies in the other.
My heart jumps. I rush toward him, reaching for the flowers first.
The bouquet is beautiful—pure white lilies, soft and delicate, nestled among sprigs of baby’s breath. The scent is clean, fresh, and unmistakably familiar. Tucked between the blooms, a small envelope peeks out. I slide my finger under the seal, pulling out a cream-colored card. A familiar scent clings to the paper—subtle, warm, unmistakable.
Santo’s cologne.
‘I didn’t have time for breakfast but wanted to make sure your day goes well.’
My fingers trace over his handwriting, my chest tightening with something I don’t want to name. This—this—isn’t something I expected from him. Thoughtful.
A soft smile tugs at my lips. “This is beautiful.”
Luca nods, setting a rectangular box onto the nearby desk. “Santo wanted me to give you this too. It’s your laptop.”
I blink. “Seriously?”
The moment the words leave my mouth, excitement takes over. I gently set the lilies down and hurry to open the box, revealing a sleek silver laptop. My fingers glide over the edges, appreciating the smooth, cold surface.
“It’s fully charged, and the charger’s in the box,” Luca adds, as if reading my mind. “Santo also saved his card onto it, so you can shop online if you need anything.”
My cheeks hurt from smiling so hard. I look up at Luca who looks unmoved, almost bored. “Thank you, Luca.”
“I’m just the messenger,” Luca says leaving me alone with my new gifts.
I grab my phone from where it rests beside my easel and dial Santo. The phone rings twice before his smooth, steady voice answers.
“Mia Dea. I take it you received my gift.”
Just hearing his voice sends warmth curling through my chest. “I love the lilies—they’re gorgeous. Thank you. And the laptop… it’s perfect.”
There’s a small pause. “The laptop was a necessity. I told you I’d get you one for your classes.”
“Yes, but this is more than I expected. It’s… a lot. Thank you, Santo.” My voice wavers slightly, the weight of his gesture settling deeper than I meant for it to.
“Only the best for you,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “But I have to go. I’ll be home by seven tonight.”
Before I can respond, the line clicks off.
I find myself sitting there in silence, cradling the device in my hands. A soft sigh escapes me as emotions crash over me. No one has ever followed through on their promises to me.
But Santo did.
He said I could paint, and now I have an entire room dedicated to it. He said I could go to school, and now it’s happening. I don’t think there’s anything I could ask for that he wouldn’t give me. That realization settles deep in my chest, warm and overwhelming.
Happier than I’ve been in a long time, I throw myself back into my painting, the scent of lilies filling the air as I work. I fall into my rhythm, brush gliding effortlessly over the canvas, lost in the quiet peace of creating. My phone buzzes with a text from Santo.
‘Remember to eat lunch Dea.’
It’s a simple message, but my heart flutters all the same. I glance at the clock and sigh. He’s right, of course. It’s already past noon, and I haven’t eaten anything since morning.
I make my way downstairs, heading to the kitchen where Julian is busy chopping vegetables. “Hey, Julian,” I greet him warmly, then grab an apple from the bowl on the counter. I’m about to leave when my phone buzzes again.
‘Not just an apple.’
I pause, heat creeping up my neck as I glance around, searching for the camera. I spot it above the kitchen entryway and wave, my lips pressing into a small, amused smile.
Julian chuckles. “Thought you could get away with that?”
I sigh dramatically. “I almost made it.”
Shaking his head, he plucks the apple from my hand and replaces it with a plate—a fresh sandwich, crisp vegetables on the side, and a small tub of hummus.
I take a bite, humming in satisfaction as the flavors hit my tongue. “This is really good, thank you.”
“Don’t thank me,” Julian says with pride. “Mr. Amato told me your favorite sandwich. I made the submarine dressing myself.”
I pause mid-chew, my heart doing another stupid flip.
“It’s perfect,” I say, taking another bite, letting the flavors linger.
The thought tugs at me—how does Santo know my favorite sandwich? But then it clicks. The list. The detailed file I was given about him before we got married. He must have gotten the same about me.
That realization sparks an idea.
“Julian, what’s Santo’s favorite meal?”
He barely hesitates. “Carbonara. Why?”
I lower my voice instinctively, hoping the camera won’t pick up what I’m about to say. “Santo will be home on time tonight, and I want to make it for him.”
Julian’s brows lift slightly, but a slow smile spreads across his face. “Sure, we can do that. What time is he coming home?”
“Seven.”
He nods, considering. “Meet me back here at four-thirty. That’ll give us plenty of time to cook, then you can change and set up the dining room before he gets home.”
Excitement flutters in my chest. “Wonderful! Thank you so much, Julian.”
I pop my last carrot into the hummus, flash him a grateful smile, and rush off—eager to get back to my painting and to what I hope will be a perfect night.
I spend the next few hours lost in my work, the brushstrokes flowing effortlessly. Each stroke feels like a step closer to something real , something that has weight, something just for me. The afternoon melts away in a blur of color and motion, my heart light, my mind at ease.
When I finally glance at the clock, my stomach flips. Four-thirty.
I rush to the kitchen, where Julian is already waiting, a grin on his face and an apron in his hands.
“Ready to cook?”
“Yes” I reply, slipping on the apron and rolling up my sleeves, determination and excitement humming beneath my skin.
Julian walks me through each step. We start with the garlic and onions, chopping them finely before they sizzle in olive oil, filling the air with an intoxicating aroma. The pancetta crisps up next, its golden edges curling slightly in the pan. As I whisk eggs with Parmesan, freshly cracked pepper, and a pinch of salt, my hands feel steady—more confident than I expected.
Time flies.
Between playful banter and shared laughter, my nerves settle into something warm, something giddy. By the time we pour the velvety sauce over the perfectly cooked spaghetti and stir in the pancetta, a rush of pride swells in my chest.
I did it!
I made Carbonara for Santo.
I hope he loves it.
With Julian’s nod of approval, I set the table carefully, choosing the blue ceramic plates Winnie mentioned were his favorite. The heavy silver cutlery is polished to perfection, the crystal glassware catching the flickering candlelight just right. I step back, taking in the setting, adjusting a candle slightly before exhaling in satisfaction. Everything is going according to plan.
Choosing my dress takes longer than I anticipated; I want it to be perfect for tonight.
Tonight could be the night.
He said when I was willing and I am more than willing. Finally, I settle on a soft cream-colored silk dress that hugs my figure delicately - sexy yet elegant; hopefully he will think so.
As seven o’clock inches closer, anticipation bubbles inside me, making my stomach flutter. The scent of Carbonara drifts up from the kitchen, rich and inviting, filling the house with warmth.
Tonight will be different everything will be perfect.
I hear the front door opening and my heart flutters in my chest. I hope he can see the want in me and make a move.
I smooth my dress one last time, stealing a glance at my reflection. My skin is flushed, my eyes bright with excitement, with hope. This is it. I descend the stairs, my pulse quickening with every step.
Santo steps inside, his sharp gaze sweeping over me. For a second, just a second, I catch something in his eyes. Surprise.
He notices.
My face warms under his gaze, my anticipation spilling over as I reach the last step.
“Welcome home, Santo.”
The words come out soft, almost breathless. Tonight is the night.