24. Santo
Chapter 24
Santo
I ’m furious.
Red-hot rage claws through my veins, burning, searing, consuming. But then she walks down the stairs. And just like that, my fury is shackled—momentarily stunned by the sight of her.
That dress clings to her like a second skin, the color a perfect match to her flawless complexion. My cock hardens instantly, and I shove my hands into my pockets to keep from reaching for her. She moves toward me with effortless grace, slipping her arm through mine, guiding me to the dining room like she doesn’t sense the war raging inside me.
The table is set. The aroma of creamy carbonara fills the space—a scent that should bring me comfort. Instead, it fuels the fire licking at my insides.
She made this for me.
But she made it with him .
The thought sinks its teeth into me, venomous and unshakable.
“Smells good,” I force out, dragging my chair back and settling into it.
She smiles, warm and inviting, as if that alone will thaw the ice running through my bloodstream. With practiced ease, she twirls the spaghetti onto our plates, the candlelight catching in her hair, gilding her in gold. She’s too fucking beautiful. Too soft. Too perfect.
I grip my fork too tightly as I take my first bite. It’s exquisite—just as I knew it would be. Creamy sauce, crisp pancetta, pasta cooked to absolute perfection. It’s the kind of meal that should make a man weak with pleasure. I groan despite myself.
“I see you like it.” She beams, her eyes bright with something dangerous. Hope. Expectation.
I can’t stand it.
“Yeah, it’s good.” The words scrape out, rough and jagged, betraying the storm inside me.
Her smile falters, barely noticeable, but I see it. I feel it. And I hate myself for it.
We eat in silence, the air thick with unspoken words. She’s waiting for me to say something. To give her something.
I give her nothing.
The only thing I can focus on is the memory of her with him. The easy way she laughed, the way she touched his arm. Julian. I grit my teeth so hard my jaw aches. The urge to claim her right here, right now, is a vicious, living thing inside me. If I had my way, I’d bend her over the table, sink into her, and make damn sure there wasn’t a single part of her that didn’t know who she belongs to.
First time be damned. I wouldn’t even care if the staff was here to watch me claim her.
But then, an ugly thought slithers in. Would it even be her first time?
It never mattered before. Virginity, purity, all those ridiculous notions were beneath me. But with her? The idea of another man having had her—touching what’s mine—sends a violent fury ripping through my chest.
I laugh under my breath. It’s unhinged. Hollow.
Her voice cuts through the silence, gentle but hesitant. “Did you have a good day?”
“Yeah.” The word is a slap—blunt, short, distant.
She looks down at her plate, hiding the flicker of hurt in her eyes before she speaks again. “This is your favorite dish, right?”
I glance up at her, my grip tightening around my fork. “Of course.”
But I don’t taste the food anymore. All I can taste is the jealousy curdling in my gut, the unbearable possessiveness clawing at my throat.
I’m going to lose my fucking mind.
Without another word, I shove my chair back, the legs scraping against the floor with a sharp screech.
Her eyes widen as I stand abruptly, my fists clenching at my sides.
I can’t do this.
Not when all I want to do is drag her upstairs and show her exactly who she belongs to.
“Excuse me,” I say curtly, my voice clipped, betraying the restraint I’m barely holding onto.
She looks up, startled. “Santo?”
“I need to rest.” The lie tastes bitter on my tongue, but I force it out anyway before turning sharply on my heel and stalking toward my study.
The moment I shut the door behind me, darkness swallows me whole. The controlled facade I wore at dinner shatters as I slam my fist onto the desk with a force that rattles the objects atop it. A sharp sting explodes through my knuckles, grounding me in something real, something other than the jealousy clawing through my insides like a rabid beast.
I welcome the pain.
It’s better than this maddening rage.
Stalking toward the bar, I grab the decanter of whiskey and pour a generous amount into a glass. The amber liquid gleams under the dim light, swirling like molten gold—deceptively warm, just like the anger simmering beneath my skin. I throw it back in one go, the burn rushing down my throat, but it does nothing to quench the fire.
The glass clinks heavily as I set it down, my jaw tightening as the silence presses in. She’s just outside this room. Close enough to touch, to pull into my arms. Close enough to pin beneath me and lose myself in until every thought of any other man is erased from her mind.
Yet she feels untouchable.
Like a mirage—something beautiful and fleeting, something I can’t reach without destroying myself in the process.
A soft knock sounds at the door.
“Santo?”
Her voice is quiet, laced with concern. It spears through me, cutting through the haze of whiskey and jealousy.
I turn, but don’t answer. I don’t trust myself to.
If I open that door, I’ll either say something I regret or fall to my knees for her, and I refuse to do either.
She tries again. “Santo,” she murmurs, her voice impossibly soft. I hear a faint thud against the door—her hands, perhaps. She’s waiting for me, waiting for an answer I don’t have. “What’s wrong?”
I close my eyes and exhale through my nose, dragging my fingers through my hair. My breath is uneven, ragged, but I force out the lie anyway. “I’m just tired.”
Silence.
I can feel her hesitation through the damn door, but eventually, she relents. “Okay.”
The soft click of her heels echoes through the hallway, fading with each step she takes away from me.
I sink onto the couch, pressing my fingers into the bridge of my nose, willing myself to calm down. To be rational. But the image of her dances before my closed eyelids; that beautiful dress hugging her body tight, her hair cascading around her shoulders in golden waves and those bright hopeful eyes boring into mine. How can I stay angry when every fiber of my being yearns for her?
Julian.
I can’t fucking kill my chef.
The thought is so ridiculous it almost makes me laugh. Julian has been nothing but loyal, and I know— I know —he did nothing wrong. This jealousy is mine alone. This vicious, unfamiliar possessiveness is a monster of my own making.
I exhale harshly and pull out my phone, texting Julian. ‘Take your vacation early. Double pay.’
His response is immediate, overflowing with gratitude. The moment I see his thanks, some of the pressure inside me loosens, just enough to let me think clearly.
I text Mrs. Keen next. ‘Can you return tomorrow?’
As soon as I hit send, my phone rings. I sigh and reluctantly answer.
“What’s going on, Santo?” Mrs. Keen’s voice is warm but inquisitive, cutting through the thick silence of my study.
“My wife wants cooking lessons, so I need you.” The lie slides off my tongue with ease, though it’s only half a lie. The truth is, I just need her here—to make sure Vasilisa eats, to keep her occupied, to fix the mess brewing in my head.
Mrs. Keen hums knowingly. “Why can’t Julian do it?” There’s amusement laced in her tone.
I press my fingers to my temple. “He’s starting his vacation tomorrow.”
“That’s odd . He wasn’t supposed to leave until I got back.”
I exhale, already tired of this conversation. “I gave him an early break.”
There’s a beat of silence before she speaks again, and I can practically hear her disapproval. “And Lila? Can’t she fill in for me?”
“Lila’s on vacation too.” I rub my jaw, the weight of my own irrationality pressing against my ribs.
Mrs. Keen laughs softly. “So this new wife of yours has already made an impression on you… and she’s made friends you don’t approve of?”
Heat creeps up my neck. My grip tightens around the phone. I don’t respond fast enough.
“Can you come back to work early or not?” I snap, my frustration bubbling over.
“Santo,” she tsks, pausing just long enough to drag out my irritation.
I grit my teeth. “Please, Amelia.” The moment her first name leaves my mouth, I know I’ve lost.
A soft chuckle hums through the line. “Okay sweet boy, I’ll be there,” Mrs. Keen soothes, her motherly nature shining through just like it did when I was young.
My shoulders drop slightly in relief. “I’ll send the private plane for you. First thing in the morning.”
Then, in a quieter voice, I confess, “Vasilisa doesn’t eat enough.”
That, more than anything, earns Mrs. Keen’s cooperation. “I’ll take care of her, Santo.”
When I hang up, the silence is louder than before. The ticking clock. My own measured breaths. The simmering unease that never truly fades.
I push off the couch and move to my desk, flipping on the monitors. One by one, I scan the security feeds.
She’s not in the bedroom.
My fingers tighten around the armrest as I cycle through the cameras.
Then, I find her.
The library.
She’s still wearing that damned dress—though now, a smock is tied loosely around her waist, the fabric dusted with paint. Her golden hair is twisted atop her head in a messy knot, wisps falling loose, framing her face.
She’s completely absorbed in her work, her expression contorted in deep concentration, her brush gliding effortlessly over the canvas.
Something in my chest tightens.
I watch her.
Because even from a distance, even when I should leave her alone—I can’t stop watching her.
The easel is turned just enough to keep the painting hidden from view, a deliberate tease that ignites something restless inside me. A burning curiosity. A need.
I want to see it. I need to see it.
The desire propels me forward before I can think twice. I leave my office hastily, heading straight for the library. Failing to knock, I push open the double doors.
She gasps, startled, her brush slipping from her fingers, a streak of paint splashing against her smock. “Santo.” My name is barely a breath, a whisper that curls in the air between us.
She doesn’t get the chance to say more before I cross the room in long, urgent strides. My gaze drops to the canvas, and the moment I take it in, my breath catches in my throat.
It’s raw. It’s beautiful. It’s us.
I reach out, my fingers ghosting over the edge of the canvas, drawn in by the emotions she’s bared in each brushstroke. The colors blend into something hauntingly intimate—passion, longing, reverence.
“Is this…” My voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper.
“Our first kiss.”
I drag my gaze away from the painting, meeting her eyes. There’s something flickering in them—admiration, maybe, but laced with uncertainty, shyness. A quiet vulnerability she’s offering me in this moment.
My fingers twitch with the need to touch her, to pull her close, to feel what she’s painted with my own hands. Instead, I reach out gently, caressing her cheek. Her skin is warm, impossibly soft beneath my touch. Her eyes flutter closed for the briefest moment before she meets my gaze again.
“Is this new?” I murmur.
She shrugs, pink blooming across her cheeks. “Yes. I just started it today.” Her voice shakes slightly, as if unsure of how I’ll react.
I inhale deeply, allowing the scent of paint and her to fill my lungs. There’s something so familiar about it, so uniquely hers, that it aches inside me.
“I…” The words fail me for a second, my throat tightening. I clear it softly. “It’s beautiful. Just like you.”
Her lashes flutter, her lips parting slightly as she gazes up at me. She looks so vulnerable standing there, so delicate. But those eyes—those brilliant, unyielding eyes—reveal a strength that has me reeling.
I swallow hard. “But why?” The question slips out before I can stop it. “Why paint this?”
She bites her lower lip, considering. Then, in a voice as soft as silk, she murmurs, “Why do artists ever create, Santo?”
She reaches out, her fingers tracing the contours of the painting—of us—with such care it steals the breath from my lungs.
“To express their feelings.” The answer comes automatically, though my own chest tightens at the weight of what she’s telling me.
A wistful smile tugs at her lips as she nods. “And these are mine.” She motions to the painting again.
Silence stretches between us, heavy but not uncomfortable. It’s filled with something deeper, something neither of us wants to break just yet.
My gaze stays on her, on the quiet sincerity in her expression, on the way she’s still so open despite everything.
“I’m not tired anymore.”
She blinks, caught off guard. “Really?”
I nod, reaching out, sliding my fingers between hers. She doesn’t pull away. Instead, she relaxes into my touch, the warmth of her hand settling something restless inside me.
“Really.” I search her face, wanting this moment—this truce—to last a little longer. “Why don’t we have some dessert?”
She tilts her head, eyes brightening. “Can we have cupcakes?”
I exhale a quiet chuckle. She could ask for a whole damn bakery and I’d give it to her.
“We can have whatever you’d like.”
I lead her out of the library, her hand still in mine. For the first time tonight, the storm inside me quiets.
In the kitchen, she wastes no time raiding Julian’s stash of cupcakes, plating one for each of us. The way she devours hers makes me question how I ever thought she didn’t eat enough. Her delicate fingers hold the cupcake with a care that contradicts the hunger in her movements, and when she hums in satisfaction, something primal stirs in me.
She finishes the last bite, and my gaze catches on the smear of chocolate at the corner of her mouth. Without thinking, I reach out, my thumb swiping it away. She stills, her breath hitching, her wide eyes locking onto mine.
I glance at the frosting on my thumb before bringing it to her lips.
Her gaze flickers down, hesitant yet intrigued, before she parts her mouth and accepts it. A gentle suck, her tongue flicking against my skin.
Heat crashes through me like a tidal wave.
I pull my thumb from her mouth, replacing it with my lips, capturing her in a kiss as sweet and sinful as the dessert we’d just devoured.
She gasps but doesn’t pull away. Instead, her arms wind around my neck, and I seize the moment, lifting her onto my lap. The hem of her dress bunches around her thighs, baring her soft skin to my touch.
The warmth of her body against mine is more intoxicating than any liquor. Her lips move impatiently against mine, matching my intensity stroke for stroke. A low groan escapes me as I deepen the kiss, chasing the lingering sweetness of chocolate from her mouth and replacing it with something far more potent— us .
I leave her lips just long enough to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down her neck, reveling in the soft sighs spilling from her lips.
Her voice—breathy, desperate —rings in my ears like a siren’s call.
I pull down the strap of her dress as I go, my lips following the exposed skin, lingering at her collarbone, then lower. She shivers beneath my touch, and when I nip lightly at the soft curve of her cleavage, her fingers tangle in my hair, a gasp breaking free.
The sounds she makes are mine , a melody that feeds the insatiable hunger clawing at my gut.
My hands slide up her thighs, fingertips tracing slow, teasing circles over the sensitive skin. When our eyes meet, hers are dark with unspoken longing, mirroring the storm inside me. A sense of satisfaction washes over me as I take in the power of desire I hold over this beautiful creature. I continue my lips assault on her skin, drowning in her, her sounds, her need .
“Santo,” she pleas, pulling me out of my reverie. Her voice is strained with desire.
The way she says my name nearly undoes me.
“Yes, Dea?” I murmur, nuzzling the soft skin beneath her ear, breathing her in.
She exhales shakily. “I... I want you.”
Her confession is hesitant, as if afraid to voice it aloud.
I stop, pulling back just enough to take her in—the flush painting her cheeks, the way her body sings beneath my touch, the raw anticipation in her eyes.
She bites her lower lip, waiting.
I open my mouth to respond—
My phone rings.
The shrill sound snaps the moment in half like a blade slicing through silk.
Fuck.
I pull the phone from my pocket, my jaw clenching when I see the name flashing across the screen. Maksim.
Vasilisa shifts, the spell broken, and slips off my lap, her gaze downcast as she smooths her dress.
I stand, turning away as I answer the call, frustration curling hot and tight in my chest. Maksim needs surveillance pulled from one of the docks where a shipment has been intercepted.
By the time I hang up and turn back—she’s gone.
The rest of the night is spent drowning in work, sending over intel, making calls. But my mind isn’t on the docks.
It’s on the woman who should be in my arms.
Instead, she’s curled up alone in her bed, and I watch her through the security feed— like a coward.
Guilt gnaws at me, but it’s nothing compared to the ache in my chest.
Because I had her. And I let her slip away.
With only four hours of sleep, I wake to welcome Mrs. Keen back home. She joins me in the kitchen, her warm smile and familiar presence instantly soothing the chaos in my mind.
“So, what really happened?” she asks, cutting straight to the chase.
I shake my head, letting out a tired chuckle. “Like I said, Julian went on vacation.”
A soft voice chimes in before she can respond.
“Julian’s on vacation too?”
Vasilisa enters the kitchen, looking far too radiant for this hour. She’s wearing a flowy short skirt and a soft pink button-down, the color making her look even younger, more untouched—more mine.
I brace myself for Mrs. Keen’s reaction, but to my relief, she lights up with excitement.
She rushes toward Vasilisa, “It’s so wonderful to finally meet you!” Her enthusiasm is contagious, and Vasilisa reciprocates without hesitation, their embrace warm and genuine.
They part but still hold onto each other’s hands.
“You must be Mrs. Keen,” Vasilisa says politely.
“You may call me Amelia,” Mrs. Keen corrects, taking her in with approving eyes. “And look at you! Stunning!”
A blush blooms on Vasilisa’s cheeks. “Thank you, Amelia.”
“I’ve heard quite a lot about you,” Mrs. Keen teases, casting a mischievous glance at me.
I barely conceal a groan. Here we go.
Vasilisa’s gaze flicks to me, curiosity dancing in her eyes. “Is that so?”
I offer a helpless shrug, an apologetic smile playing on my lips. “All good things, I promise.”
Mrs. Keen chuckles knowingly and moves toward the counter, pouring coffee into three mugs.
“Would you like some?” she asks.
“Yes, please,” Vasilisa answers immediately, then turns to me with a simple smile—so soft, so easy—yet it knots my stomach.
We gather around the island, sipping coffee as Mrs. Keen animatedly recounts her trip to Europe. She describes cobblestone streets and fresh pastries with such vividness that I can almost smell them.
But I’m only half-listening.
Instead, I watch Vasilisa.
The way she laughs at Mrs. Keen’s stories. The way she absently traces the rim of her mug when she’s deep in thought. The way the morning light catches in her golden hair.
I can’t stop looking at her.
“I love her,” she says suddenly when Mrs. Keen leaves the room. Her gaze lingers on her half-empty cup, a gentle softness in her voice. “My mother isn’t very affectionate, so it’s nice to feel wanted by someone.”
A pang of something sharp and unwanted lodges in my chest.
“My mother was the opposite,” I find myself admitting before I even think about it. “Amelia became a surrogate for us after we lost her.”
Vasilisa looks up, her brows furrowing with quiet sympathy. She reaches across, her soft hand settling over mine. A simple touch, but it threatens to melt me.
“I would have loved to have met her.”
My throat tightens. “She would have adored you.” The words slip out on instinct, absolute in their truth.
Her lips part slightly, but before she can say anything, I lift her hand to my lips and press a tender kiss against her knuckles.
She exhales softly, a breathless sound that threatens to ruin me.
I want to stay. To keep touching her. To see where this moment could lead.
But I can’t.
Not yet.
Reluctantly, I pull away. “I have to go to work.”
She nods, a polite smile tugging at her lips.
“But I’ll see you later,” I promise, forcing myself to leave before she captures any more pieces of my heart.