26. Santo
Chapter 26
Santo
V asilisa was waiting for me.
I’ve known this all day—saw her nod when Mrs. Keen asked if she was trying to seduce me, the anticipation building inside me like a ticking time bomb.
Every part of me wants to rush to her, to hold her, kiss her, take her, but I can’t.
Not now.
I shrug off my jacket, tossing it onto the couch, before lowering myself into my chair. My fingers drum rhythmically against the polished wood of my desk, my eyes landing on the painting she gave me—La Serenata.
The piece is breathtaking, but all I see when I look at it is her.
Vasilisa.
The way she looks at me.
Bright eyes filled with hope.
Then confusion and pain—the same look she wore when I slammed the door in her face.
Fuck.
I watched her today, as I always do.
But this time, I watched her with Luca .
Painting.
Since when does that fucker paint?
I’ve known him my whole life—there’s not an artistic bone in his body, but my wife comes around and suddenly he’s Van fucking Gogh.
I shake off the sharp sting of jealousy. Luca is my most trusted man, my cousin —he would never cross me.
Still, the image lingers, twisting in my chest like a knife. I lean back in my chair, rubbing my temples.
My mind wanders back to our interactions over the past few weeks; the stolen glances, soft touches, the taste of her skin on my tongue, the feel of her smooth thighs wrapped around me, her warm light frame on my lap and those lips… those damn lips have been haunting me.
I want her.
But wanting her is dangerous.
She doesn’t know who I am. What I’ve done. What I am capable of.
She grew up in this life, but she hasn’t seen the violence firsthand.
She hasn’t seen me, not the version of me that kills without hesitation, the version that men whisper about in fear.
The thought of her looking at me with disgust, the thought of her being afraid of me—
It makes my stomach turn.
I run my fingers through my hair, tugging at the strands, trying to ease the pressure building in my skull.
I need to see her.
I flick on the monitor, scanning until I find her—alone in her bedroom, sitting on the bed we should be sharing if I wasn’t such a fucking idiot.
Her face is in her hands.
For a moment, I think she’s crying.
A sharp pang of something ugly and unfamiliar lodges in my chest. She exhales, straightens, pulls herself together and heads to the bathroom.
I don’t have cameras in the bathroom, so all I can do is watch the closed door. The need to go to her, to fix this, claws at me. My jaw tightens.
A sharp knock snaps me out of my haze. I grab my phone to unlock the door.
Luca steps inside. Jealousy licks at the flames of my rage.
“What do you want?” My voice comes out sharp, unforgiving.
“Report from Maksim,” Luca replies sternly, unfazed. “He can’t reach Miroslav or Vera. He’s called Pietro in for an interrogation.”
I lean forward, my jaw tightening. “He thinks Ivanov is involved?”
“Not sure yet,” Luca admits. “But the Popovs’ sudden departure from the country raises red flags. Maksim has men flying overseas as we speak, but there’s a problem.”
Luca avoids eye contact. Something very unlike him, it makes my patience snap.
“Just spit it out.”
Luca exhales, his fingers flexing at his sides.
“He wants you to question Vasilisa.”
I scoff, shaking my head. “My wife has been here for weeks. I saw the feed this afternoon when her sister called—she was blindsided. That was genuine.”
Luca’s expression doesn’t shift. “Are you sure?”
Something cold slithers through me.
“Are you questioning my ability to know where my wife is and what she’s been doing since she arrived in my home?” My voice is low, sharp—a warning.
“No, I’m questioning if you really know her.”
My hands curl into fists.
I narrow my eyes. “You’re overstepping, Luca.”
Luca holds my gaze. “I mean no disrespect. I only want what’s best for the family.”
I exhale through my nose, forcing myself to stay still.
“And my wife is part of the family.” My voice is measured, dangerous. “If Maksim can’t keep his organization in line, that’s not my concern. My wife is innocent—she doesn’t know anything about her parents’ affairs.”
Luca watches me carefully before giving a slow nod. “I’ll relay the message to Maksim.”
He turns to leave, his hand reaching for the door when I stop him.
“Luca.”
He stops, turning back toward me, his expression unreadable. A question in his eyes.
I hold his gaze. “It’s time you take a couple weeks off.”
Luca’s face falls, but only for a fraction of a second. He schools his features so quickly I almost don’t catch it.
Almost.
“And when you return,” I continue, “be sure to let me know where your loyalties truly lie.”
Luca hesitates. Just for a moment, then he gives a sharp nod and exits without another word.
The door clicks shut, leaving me alone with the storm in my chest. I drag in a breath, but it doesn’t settle me. My eyes flick back to the monitor.
Vasilisa.
She’s curled up on the bed now—still in that stunning lace dress, her delicate body folded into itself. My chest tightens. I turn up the volume, listening.
A soft sniffle.
I inhale sharply, the sound gutting me.
She’s crying.
My jaw clenches, my entire body tensing with the urge to go to her. To pull her into my arms, press my lips against her hair, wipe away every tear, but something holds me back.
Shame.
Not because of what I’ve done, but because she doesn’t know what I am.
She wants a prince.
I will never be that.
I drag a shaking hand through my hair, trying to steady myself. My mind flashing back to her beautiful smile, her laughter echoing through the cold walls of my heart, warming them in a way that nothing ever has before.
The thought of that smile fading into fear…
The thought of her looking at me like I’m a monster… It’s enough to drive me insane.
I stand abruptly, my chair scraping back, my pulse pounding.
I need to tell her.
Not want.
Need.
She has to know she can trust me, she has to know she can rely on me—regardless of who I can be.
Before I can second-guess myself, I stride toward her room. I need her to see me, all of me. Just as I raise my hand to knock, I hear it.
A soft whisper filters through the door.
My stomach twists.
Is she talking to someone?
My protective instinct flares, and I push the door open gently.
I move past the sitting room threshold, my eyes scanning the dim space, then I see her and my heart cracks, she’s whispering to herself .
Curled up on the bed, hugging a pillow tightly, her eyes shut like she’s trying to keep something out.
Something claws at my chest.
This wasn’t how this was supposed to go.
I was supposed to tell her.
But looking at her now—small, fragile, hurting, the words die in my throat.
I clear my throat slightly before speaking up, “Vasilisa?”
Her teary eyes snap open, wide with surprise, startled by my sudden presence.
She blinks, trying to process me being here.
Whatever words I had prepared—whatever I thought I was going to say—stick in my throat.
Because she looks so beautiful . Even like this.
Even with tear-stained cheeks and red-rimmed eyes, even with her breaths uneven, she is achingly beautiful.
She wipes at her tears quickly, trying to pull herself together.
“Santo...” Her voice cracks, choking on my name.
She’s trying so damn hard to compose herself, to not break, but her efforts are in vain— Because another soft, wounded sob escapes her lips.
“Are you alright?” I ask gently, stepping toward her.
She lifts her eyes, blinking at me in confusion, like she doesn’t understand why I’m here.
I don’t even understand why I am.
She sighs, dropping her gaze. “I’m just overtired,” she lies.
The words cut through me.
I did this.
I upset her so much she’s crying so hard she can’t breathe properly. I have reduced her to this.
I am indeed a monster.
I inhale sharply, the weight of my own guilt settling deep in my chest.
“I just came to tell you—” my voice is strained, “that Luca is on assignment elsewhere for a couple of weeks.”
She nods quietly, accepting my words without question—without fight. She doesn’t ask why. She doesn’t even seem to care.
I brush a loose strand of hair from her face, aching to tell her everything—
Who I am.
What I am.
How I can’t fucking breathe without her.
But then I truly see it.
The redness of her nose, the slight swelling of her eyes.
The way her light is already dimmed.
Because of me.
I drop my hand.
And instead of telling her the truth, I do her a favor—
I walk away.
As I shut the door, I hear it. A single, sharp, muffled sob. My chest tightens, my hand clenching into a fist at my side.
I am at a loss.
I should have stayed.
I should have fixed this.
I should have—
No.
I need to get out of here. I need to leave her be, let her be free. I pull out my phone and call Maksim. He answers on the first ring.
“My wife doesn’t know anything about her father’s dealings,” I start, my voice clipped, sharp as a blade.
“You keep her out of it.”
Maksim chuckles darkly.
“Fine.” He pauses. “Is Scythe interested in a kill?”
I exhale slowly, letting the anger curl around my ribs, a slow-burning fire igniting in my gut. “Always.”
“We’re at the warehouse,” Maksim informs, ending the call.
I text Romeo and a few of my men, sending them the address before striding outside.
The moment I step into the cool night, I let it happen. The familiar rush of adrenaline. The slow, suffocating rise of something dark and violent and untamed. I allow the animal within me to surface.
Scythe.
The name that strikes fear into men’s hearts, that makes grown men beg.
The name I earned in blood.
***
The warehouse looms in the distance, a skeletal ruin swallowed by the night. The scent of oil, blood, and damp concrete lingers in the air, mixing with something thicker— fear.
I step through the side entrance, my steps echoing against the hollow floor. The air is alive with anticipation.
The men are waiting.
I can feel it—the shift in energy, the silent reverence as I enter. For a moment, I let myself relish the weight of it, the rush of adrenaline humming beneath my skin.
This is where Scythe thrives. Before me, two men kneel on the cold concrete, their bodies bound, their faces marred by fear and violence. Maksim stands off to the side, his calloused hands slick with blood, a sadistic grin plastered across his face.
I don’t need to ask what he’s done to them.
I already know. As Scythe, every fiber of my being thirsts for this—the power, the control, the lives hanging in my hands, waiting for me to decide their fate.
But Santo still lingers beneath the surface, restless, aching for something else.
He wants warmth.
He wants to go back home, hold Vasilisa, press her against his chest, whisper reassurances into her hair until she believes them.
He wants to dry her tears, bring back her smile, bask in the light of her presence.
But Scythe does not deal in warmth.
He deals in pain.
I lift my gaze to Maksim, who gestures toward the captives with an easy tilt of his head, his bloody fingers gesturing me closer.
I step forward.
The moment I do, she appears in my mind again; her tears glisten like stars in twilight, reflecting an ocean of emotions so deep it consumes me. A knot twists in my stomach.
I push it down. I force her away.
These men have information. I will extract it from them.
Maksim steps closer, pressing a blade into my palm. The metal is cool, familiar, a weight I know well.
“Have at it, Scythe,” he mutters, a knowing gleam in his eye. “Make them talk.”
I turn the blade over, watching as it catches the dim light, casting jagged shadows across the prisoners’ petrified faces. Maksim has already done his work—the Juggernaut never disappoints.
I stride toward the first captive, who whimpers as I draw the blade along his jaw, his chest rising and falling in frantic terror.
“You know why we’re here.” The words slip from my mouth effortlessly, my voice even, cold, absolute.
The man’s head jerks up and down, frantic, but his voice shakes. “I-I don’t know anything!”
I smile. A grim, lifeless thing.
“That,” I say, pleasantly, “is what they all say.”
Then, without hesitation, I bring the blade down onto his shoulder. The steel bites through flesh, carving through muscle, and the room erupts with his agonized scream.
The sound bounces off the warehouse walls, swallowed into the night beyond. A symphony of fear. A chorus of desperation. A song Scythe knows all too well.
The second man stares, terror etched onto his face, but he remains silent. He wants to be brave. Bravery has never been a shield against pain. In fact, it’s something I enjoy breaking down. Wiping the blade clean on the captive’s pants, I turn toward him.
He flinches before I even touch him.
Good.
I lower myself beside him, my voice just a whisper, soft, menacing .
“Your turn.”
His body tenses, his breath shaky in anticipation, dread or both.
I repeat my previous actions, but this time, I take my time, dragging the blade down his face, watching as blood pools in the jagged line I create.
Pain follows, predictable and sharp, and then, he breaks.
They always do.
The grueling hours roll by as I work my way through various methods of persuasion. Slicing and cauterizing the wounds I make to prolong the necessary torture to get the information we need.
With dawn seeping in through cracks and holes of the warehouse, they finally break–spilling secrets like water from a broken dam. Miroslav’s treachery unfolds before us; an unknown deal he made with our enemies, no longer a secret whispered within closed doors.
Maksim lets out a grunt of approval as I clean my blade, preparing to leave.
And then, the shift happens.
My mind returns and all I want is to go home. I want to hold Vasilisa, remind her that she is safe. I want to crawl into the warmth of her presence and forget what I just did here.
But Scythe won’t allow me reprieve. He reminds me that it is because of me that she cried herself to sleep.