25. Vasilisa
Chapter 25
Vasilisa
A s the final brushstrokes adorn the canvas, completing the masterpiece that is La Serenata, Luca walks into the library. With a huff, he plops himself down in one of the plush lounge chairs, crossing his arms over his chest and fixing me with an intense gaze. The colors of the painting seem to come to life in response, dancing and swirling with energy. The faint smell of turpentine lingers in the air, a reminder of the hours spent perfecting each delicate detail.
My heart races as I await Luca’s reaction to my creation, knowing that his intense stare must mean he has an opinion—but instead, I get a furrowed brow.
“Are you alright?” I ask gently, trying to ease the tension.
“Is that La Serenata?” he asks, his gaze still fixed on the painting.
I nod, a small shrug accompanying my reply. “It’s where Santo and I had our first date. Well, our only date. The second one was cut short by work.”
Luca snorts. “You’re married now. Plenty of dates to be had.” His blunt response catches me off guard, and I tilt my head.
“Is something wrong?” I ask, worried I’ve done something to upset or offend him.
Luca’s jaw tightens. He exhales sharply through his nose, as if weighing his words. “There’s just a lot going on, and I’m stuck—” He stops himself abruptly, his expression hardening.
I hesitate before offering lightly, “Babysitting me?” The words leave a guilty taste in my mouth. I know he could be handling other business for Santo instead of being here with me.
Luca presses his lips into a thin line before shaking his head. “Forget it, I’m sorry.” Then, as if resetting, he straightens up in his chair and asks formally, “Do you have anywhere you want to go, Mrs. Amato?”
I can’t help the giggle that escapes me. “No, Mr. Cattaneo , I have nowhere I need to be,” I reply in the same mock-formal tone. A smirk plays across his face, and the tension between us eases.
“How long have you been painting?” he asks.
“I’ve dabbled on and off all my life, but now, thanks to Santo, I have this.” I gesture around the room with pride.
Luca nods in understanding. “I always thought I’d be good at painting, but I’m shit at most things artistically.”
“Would you like to try your hand at it?”
He exhales, tilting his head. “I don’t have time for painting.”
“Oh, of course not,” I tease sardonically. “Too manly for such creative endeavors.”
Luca shakes his head and chuckles, the deep sound echoing through the room. “I never said that,” he defends with a smirk. “Just... never had the opportunity.”
I wipe my paint-smeared hands on a rag and turn to face him, raising a single brow in challenge. “How about now?”
He blinks, caught off guard, then exhales through his nose. “I’ll make a fool of myself.”
“Then I’ll make a fool of myself with you,” I offer.
A moment passes, then he shrugs. “Fine.”
I beam and hand him a clean brush, gesturing toward a blank canvas. “Paint something.”
Luca hesitates, shifting the brush in his grip like it’s foreign to him. For a moment, I wonder if he’ll back out, but then he dips the brush into the paint and slowly brings it to the canvas. His strokes are rough, hesitant at first, but soon, something shifts. The lines become more confident, the colors bolder.
We paint in silence.
I steal glances at his work, watching as a landscape takes shape beneath his careful hand—a lake, ducks included. It’s simple, but there’s something peaceful about it, an unspoken longing captured in the water’s stillness.
I smile as I finish up my own painting—a quiet memory of my first kiss with Santo, captured in soft, blended hues.
Luca’s painting is not what I expected.
With a final stroke of the brush, I sit back and take in his unexpected masterpiece. The lake is calm, the ducks peaceful, and for a moment, I lose myself in the serenity it exudes. He catches me looking, and I give him a soft smile.
“You have a talent,” I say sincerely, brushing my fingertips lightly over the canvas.
Luca scoffs, shaking his head. “Well, I had a really great teacher.”
I laugh wholeheartedly. “I sense sarcasm there.”
“No, no sarcasm involved. Just stating facts.” He chuckles, and the camaraderie between us feels surprisingly easy. “Thanks for encouraging me to paint. I’ve never done anything like this before.”
I nod. “Sometimes we need someone to push us to do things we wouldn’t normally do.” I pause before adding, “Even if it’s uncomfortable or scary at first.”
I glance back at my own painting, thinking about how nice it was to share this moment with someone. An idea sparks.
“We should paint together more often,” I suggest casually.
Luca exhales a short laugh. “I won’t have the time. Eventually, Santo will find someone else to—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening.
I arch a brow. “To babysit me?” I finish for him, my voice soft, without accusation.
Luca opens his mouth, guilt flickering across his features, but before he can say anything, my phone rings.
His eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Damn it, if that’s him, tell him I was only joking.”
I glance at the screen flashing Mimi across it. “It’s not him,” I inform him, then add with a smirk, “But it wouldn’t matter what I say. He can hear us in here.” I gesture toward the security cameras hanging in the room.
Luca groans, running a hand down his face.
I chuckle, lifting the phone to my ear.
The moment I answer, Mimi’s tearful voice crackles through the speaker. My stomach drops.
“What’s wrong?” I ask urgently, my grip tightening around the phone as I try to steady my voice.
“Our parents are sending me to Andras Academy!” Mimi wails, her voice thick with sadness and fear.
I freeze. The name alone makes my chest tighten. Andras Academy. A school infamous for its rigid structure, designed to shape syndicate heirs like weapons from a forge. My parents had once threatened to send me there—worse, they wanted me to attend Cambion , the university it feeds into. But I had managed to escape that fate. Mimi, it seems, has not.
“What? Why? When?” My thoughts tumble into a chaotic swirl.
“Today,” she blubbers between gasps for air. “They left for France this morning, and Pietro is taking me to the airport.”
France? My brows knit together. “Why on earth would they go to France?”
“Who’s in France?” Luca’s voice cuts in, sharp with curiosity.
“My parents,” I reply distractedly, barely processing the question as my mind spins.
Mimi sniffles. “Who are you talking to?”
“Luca’s here,” I tell her, my eyes flicking toward him. His presence is grounding, though I barely have the energy to explain.
“LUCA?!” Mimi shrieks, her voice cracking through the phone like a whip. “Oh God, I’ll never be able to date him now that I’m gone!”
She dissolves into another round of sobs. I pull the phone away from my ear, grimacing at the volume. Across from me, Luca looks horrified. His eyes widen as he mouths, Date me?, like the very concept has just shattered his universe.
I suppress a sigh. “Mimi, I don’t think that was going to happen for you anyway.”
Luca scoffs, shaking his head in silent agreement.
“Please focus,” I urge. “Did Mama say anything to you?”
“No,” she replies quietly, her voice muffled by her tears. Then, softer, “Oh, Pietro’s here.” A sharp inhale, then another hiccupping sob. “I have to go. I’ll send you letters. You have to write to me, or I’ll go insane.” Her final words echo as the call cuts off.
I lower the phone slowly, staring at it as if it holds answers I’ll never find. The unease festering in my chest deepens. None of this makes sense.
“They never mentioned a trip.” My voice is quiet, more to myself than anyone else. “And they definitely haven’t talked about Andras Academy since I was in high school.”
Luca watches me, his usual sharpness now tinged with something more thoughtful. “That’s strange,” he admits, arms folding across his chest. “I’ll talk to Santo, see if Maksim knows anything.”
I nod, grateful. Luca won’t let this go unanswered.
I’m left alone with my thoughts. My art. The silence.
The weight in my chest lingers, my thoughts still tangled with worry for Mimi, but I remind myself—Luca will tell Santo. Santo will ask Maksim. Things will be okay.
Slowly, my gaze drifts back to my painting. La Serenata. The memory of our first date immortalized in bold colors and soft brushstrokes. The tension in my shoulders eases, just a little.
Tonight, I’ll present it to Santo. Maybe, just maybe, I can convince him to have dinner with me again. And this time, I hope we’ll actually get to finish it.
The way he kissed my hand this morning, the tender way he caressed my cheek, the lilies, the laptop—each gesture lingers in my mind, weaving together into something undeniable. I want to be his wife in every sense of the word . I want him.
I should ask Amelia to help me make another one of Santo’s favorite dishes and make tonight special.
Leaving the library, I descend the stairs and make my way to the kitchen, passing a few staff members along the way. They smile and greet me warmly, their kindness wrapping around me like a comforting embrace. I’ve been accepted. I belong here. It feels like home. All that’s left is to get my fairy-tale ending with Santo.
Amelia beams the moment I step into the kitchen, her hands dusted with flour as she kneads a ball of dough.
“Vasilisa!” she exclaims brightly. “What brings you here?”
“I would like to cook dinner tonight,” I explain, keeping my voice steady even as thoughts of Mimi and our parents try to creep back in. Not now. Tonight is for Santo.
Amelia wipes her hands on her apron, giving me a knowing look. “Are you planning on seducing Santo with good food?”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. I lower my gaze, but I nod. “What else does he like besides Carbonara?”
She laughs heartily, shaking her head. “There wasn’t much that boy didn’t eat growing up,” she says, her voice laced with affection. “But another favorite of his is lasagna.”
Relief washes over me. “I can make that.” A plan begins to take shape in my mind.
“Very well, then. Let’s get you the ingredients,” Amelia says, moving toward the cupboards.
The afternoon is spent surrounded by warmth—flour-dusted counters, the rich aroma of simmering sauce, and Amelia’s infectious laughter filling the air. Despite the lingering tension from Mimi’s call, I find myself relaxing, allowing the present moment to wrap around me like a soft cocoon.
By evening, the meal is ready—an elaborate spread, fit for a king.
I take a deep breath and adjust the thin straps of my short black dress. Tonight, modesty be damned.
My fingers brush over my bare skin, a shiver trailing in their wake as I pick up La Serenata, holding the painting close to my chest.
Tonight, I will show Santo just how ready— and willing —I am.
As I wait for Santo’s arrival, I take in the dining room, ensuring everything is perfect—the soft flicker of candlelight, the delicate arrangement of silverware, the deep red wine shimmering in crystal glasses. Tonight has to be perfect. Then, I hear it—the front door opening and closing. My heart leaps, but instead of approaching, his heavy footsteps retreat.
I hesitate for only a second before grabbing my painting and rushing after him. No. Not tonight. Not when I’ve done everything to make this special.
“Santo,” I call, my voice hopeful, desperate to catch his attention.
He turns his head slightly, acknowledging me, but keeps walking, his long strides carrying him swiftly down the hall.
I quicken my pace, my heels clacking against the polished floor, the canvas awkward and cumbersome in my arms. “I made dinner,” I say, breathless.
“I’ll take some in my study when I can.”
My heart sinks.
His words hit like a slap—distant, dismissive, uninterested. I grip the canvas tighter, willing myself not to falter. “I made lasagna,” I add quickly, my voice wavering. “And I finished the painting for you. I thought we could spend some time together.”
Still, he doesn’t stop.
I push forward, determined. I need him to see me.
But just as I nearly reach him, he stops abruptly in front of his office door.
The breath catches in my throat as he presses his thumb against the handle. A soft beep, the quiet click of the lock disengaging.
Then, finally, he turns.
His piercing gaze rakes over me, slow and unreadable. For a second, I swear I see something there—desire? frustration? My heart jumps, desperate for any sign that he feels what I feel.
Then it shifts, it’s gone. His expression hardens, Like a mask slipping into place, eyes turning sharp, detached, cold.
A blush creeps up my neck beneath his scrutiny, but it no longer feels like warmth. It feels like exposure . Like I’ve laid myself bare, only for him to turn away. Without a word, he takes the painting from my arms.
He steps inside, turning toward me slightly.
“If you’re looking to spend time with someone, call Luca.”
The door shuts in my face.
The lock clicks.
I stand there, frozen.
Confusion and heartbreak tangle inside me, squeezing my chest so tightly it’s hard to breathe. What just happened?
For a moment, I stay rooted to the spot, hoping—foolishly—that the door will open again. That he’ll realize what he’s done. That he’ll come back to me. But the silence stretches, pressing down like a weight.
He’s not coming back.
My arms feel empty without the painting. My body feels wrong in the dress I wore just for him.
Slowly, I turn and walk back to the dining room. The candles still flicker. The silverware is still perfectly aligned. The lasagna sits untouched. Everything is exactly as I left it.
Except for me.
Alone.
Rejected.
Once again.