27. Vasilisa
Chapter 27
Vasilisa
S anto didn’t come home last night.
The morning is eerily quiet, the kind of silence that seeps into the bones, heavy and suffocating. Amelia brought my breakfast to the library, but it sits untouched on my plate, the scent of warm eggs and herbs turning my stomach. I have no appetite. Not after last night.
Not after the way he looked at me.
The memory replays in my mind, sharp and unforgiving—the cold detachment in Santo’s eyes, the way he slammed the door in my face, like I had committed some unforgivable crime.
I grip the fork in my hand, my fingers tightening around the cool metal before I drop it, letting it clang against the plate, and return to my painting.
I don’t understand him. When he suggested I spend time with Luca instead, it felt like a slap in the face. Like I was something to be passed off, discarded.
But then, later that night, he came into my room—his touch soft, reverent as he brushed a strand of hair from my face.
Gentle.
Loving.
A stark contrast to the man who had abandoned me just moments before.
Who is my husband, really?
The hot and cold nature of his affections unravel me. One moment, he looks at me like I am something precious, something worthy . Then the next, he turns away as if I’m a mistake he regrets making.
I don’t know which version of him is real .
I swallow hard, forcing the lump down my throat, blinking against the sting in my eyes.
I was raised to be a good wife .
Stay silent.
Pay attention.
Be helpful.
Never challenge. Never overshadow.
But with Santo, I had hoped for more.
I had hoped for kindness.
For patience.
For something that could, one day, become love .
But hope is a dangerous thing, and I fear mine is wasting away.
Because how long can I keep waiting for a man who holds me close only to push me away again?
How long before I become just another ghost in his life?
My stomach turns again, but this time from anger.
I never signed up to be bullied by my own husband.
Our marriage was arranged for the sake of our families, but I am still a person. A woman with feelings. And I deserve respect.
I will demand it.
Tonight.
But for now, I force my focus elsewhere. I turn back to my painting, dragging my brush across the canvas, finishing the image of our first kiss. But there’s no joy in it. Not like there was before. I step back, my arms crossing tightly over my chest. And yet, despite the ache lodged deep in my ribs, I feel a sense of pride at its completion.
At least this version of us is whole. At least this Santo doesn’t turn away from me.
The door to the library creaks open, and my heart stutters, tightening with anxiety.
For a split second, I think it’s him.
I hope it’s him.
But it’s not.
Instead, a familiar face appears.
Romeo.
“Hi, Mrs. Amato, I’m assigned to you while Luca is… away,” he says with a boyish grin, but his eyes flicker with something uncertain.
I still at his words. The reminder that Santo sent Luca away burns through me, but I don’t let it show.
Instead, I force a polite smile and turn back to my brushes. “Call me Vasi, please. How are you, Romeo?”
“Tired, actually.” He stretches, rubbing the back of his neck. “Long night with the boss.”
My head snaps toward him. “You were with Santo?” My curiosity flares before I can contain it.
Romeo hesitates, caught. “Family business,” he answers sheepishly, clearly knowing he’s said too much.
I nod, understanding but unsatisfied. “Where is my husband today?” I ask, testing how much he’s willing to reveal.
He shifts slightly. “NovaRael. Working on some file or something.”
His words are vague, but I can feel the weight of them. He knows more.
Romeo watches me closely as I continue cleaning my brushes, then—out of nowhere—“How old are you?”
I chuckle, raising a brow. “No one ever told you not to ask a lady her age?”
His eyes widen in realization, and he stumbles over an apology.
I laugh, waving him off. “I’m kidding. I’m twenty. How old are you?”
“Same,” he smirks. “Mr. Amato is a lucky guy.”
I scoff, rolling my eyes. “Be sure to tell him that next time you see him.”
“Trouble in paradise?” Romeo probes, his smirk lingering.
I don’t answer. Instead, I grab my canvas and stride toward the library doors.
Romeo follows, not deterred in the slightest, carefully taking the painting from my hands. “Be careful, Mrs. Amato,” he scolds gently.
That’s it.
I throw my hands up, exasperated. “Vasi!”
Romeo chuckles as we make our way down the stairs to my bedroom. When we reach the door, I push it open and step inside—only to realize he hasn’t followed me.
Turning back, I find him standing in the hallway, shifting uneasily.
“Get in here!” I huff, gesturing for him to enter.
He shakes his head. “I can’t just walk into the boss’s room.”
I blink at him. “Good thing this is my room then.”
Still, he doesn’t move. Instead, he grips my canvas tighter, like he’s debating running in the other direction.
“Yeah, the room you share with Mr. Amato,” Romeo says carefully. “I’d rather not die today.”
A sharp, bitter laugh escapes me.
“No, this is my room.” I gesture toward myself, then motion outside the hall. “Your boss sleeps somewhere over there.”
Romeo’s mouth opens—then closes. His expression shifts, realization dawning.
“Separate rooms?” He stares at me like I’ve just shattered some sacred truth. “He lets you have separate rooms?”
My laugh is humorless.
“Lets?” I echo, arching a brow. “No. He requested it.”
Romeo’s gaze drags over me, slowly, his eyes shamelessly drinking me in.
“To be away from you ?” His voice is laced with disbelief.
I force a casual shrug, pretending it doesn’t sting. Pretending I haven’t spent too many nights questioning why. Like I don’t feel the sting of rejection every night when I lie alone, wondering if he regrets marrying me at all.
He hesitates for a beat longer before finally stepping inside, breaking that invisible line. It’s small, but it feels like a win.
“Can you help me put that canvas up there?” I ask, pointing above my bed.
Romeo doesn’t argue. “Sure, let me grab some tools.”
He disappears for a few minutes before returning with a drill and nails in hand. With practiced ease, he pulls the bed away from the wall and begins hanging the canvas.
I watch him work, my arms crossing over my chest.
This painting—it’s a moment frozen in time. The first time Santo kissed me. The moment I thought maybe—just maybe—this marriage wouldn’t feel like a lifelong cage. But now, the brushstrokes feel like a mockery.
Romeo pushes the bed back and steps beside me, tilting his head as he admires my work. “It’s really good,” he says, and this time, his voice is free of teasing. It’s genuine.
I open my mouth to thank him, but his phone rings.
He answers it smoothly. “Go for Romero.” A low rumble crackles through the speaker.
His eyes flick to me.
He says nothing, just ends the call and walks out of the room without a word.
I don’t move.
Because I already know. I already know who’s calling me next. Sure enough, my phone rings.
Exhaling sharply, I answer tersely. “Yes?”
Santo doesn’t waste a second. His voice is a low growl through the phone.
“What was he doing in your room?”
My fingers tighten around the phone. Not this. Not again.
“He was helping me hang my canvas,” I reply coolly, my tone clipped, my patience already gone. “Is that a problem, husband?”
Santo doesn’t respond to my challenge, but I can feel his disapproval, thick and suffocating even through the phone.
Then it hits me. My stomach drops.
“Wait—you actually have a camera in my bedroom?”
“I told you I did,” Santo responds, unamused.
My breath catches.
“In the bathroom, too?” I demand, my incredulity growing.
A beat of silence.
Then, his voice, low and cryptic. “I’m not sure if I want to answer that or not.”
A hot, angry pulse rushes through my veins.
“It’s a yes or no question, Santo!” My voice rises, frustration spilling over.
Silence.
A dangerous kind of silence.
“Is there a camera in the bathroom?” I demand.
His answer comes fast—sharp, jealousy coiled into every syllable. “If there isn’t, will you bring him in there instead?”
Enough.
I end the call and toss my phone onto the bed, fuming.
The sheer audacity. The idiotic assumptions. The obsession, the lack of trust, the constant surveillance.
I can’t breathe in this house.
Storming toward the door, I yank it open and nearly crash into Romeo.
He blinks at me. “Everything okay?”
“No,” I snap, brushing past him. “I want to go out.”
Romeo hesitates. “Where to?”
I lower my voice, my eyes flicking toward the shadows in the hallway. “Not here, where all the ears are listening. I’ll tell you in the car.”
His hand immediately goes for his phone, but before he can even dial, I snatch it from his grasp and bolt down the stairs.
“Mrs. Amato!” Romeo chases after me, panic rising in his voice. “I need that back, seriously, you can’t—”
I stop abruptly at the front door, spinning on my heel to face him.
My grip on his phone tightens. “Are you going to hurt me to get it back?”
The desperation in his eyes is almost comical. “No! Never! You’re the boss’s wife. He would kill me.”
I lift my chin. “Then I’m keeping it.”
Romeo groans in resignation as I stride out of the house. His phone starts ringing—again and again—but I don’t even look at it. I simply power it off and tuck it behind me.
Romeo exhales sharply, rubbing his temples before yanking his keys from his pocket and unlocking the door to the SUV out front.
“You know he’s going to be furious right?”
I don’t even hesitate.
I slide into the passenger seat, cross my arms, and glare ahead.
“Oh well. I want ice cream.”
I know Santo will have a conniption about Romeo’s phone being off and me leaving the house, but today is worth it.
***
Romeo Romero is far too kind to work for Cosa Nostra. His easy smile and carefree attitude provide a welcome break from the tense atmosphere of our household and Santo’s watchful eye.
It feels good to be out and about, the warm sun on my skin and the fresh breeze in my hair.
After we got vanilla chip ice cream for me and rocky road for him, we climbed into the SUV and I make one final request—to go grocery shopping.
Romeo pauses mid-lick of his cone to study me with curious eyes.
“Julian or Mrs. Keen usually handles the grocery order, you don’t have to do it yourself. Just let them know what you need,” he reminds me, starting the engine while still holding his half-eaten cone.
“But doesn’t Santo have final say in what gets ordered?” I ask.
“Oh, he definitely does. But do you think he would deny you anything you want?” Romeo scoffs.
I shrug, taking another bite of my cone. “Well, what I want might not be to his taste.”
“What do you mean?”
“Chips, cookies, snack cakes...you know, treats.”
“Ah, junk food. Yeah, Boss isn’t known for keeping those around the house.” Romeo chuckles.
“So can we please go?” I plead, flashing him my most persuasive puppy-dog eyes. “I’ll owe you forever.”
Romeo shakes his head with a small smile. “Can I have my phone back?”
“After we finish shopping,” I counter playfully. “Consider it an incentive.”
My trip to the grocery store takes nearly an hour, as I carefully select all my favorite treats and indulgences. Among them is a tube of cookie dough—perfect for those moments when I can’t wait for Amelia to make it from scratch.
As we make our way back home, Romeo asks for his phone again, and I reluctantly hand it over.
To my dismay, he connects it to the car, turns it on, and a moment later, an incoming call lights up the dashboard.
My heart sinks as I recognize the name on the screen.
Santo.
Still, I hold out hope that Romeo won’t answer.
But my hopes are dashed when I hear Santo’s voice filling the car.
“Romero.”
Santo’s voice is a low drawl, deep and commanding, his control bleeding through the speakers.
Romeo stiffens beside me. “Yes, Boss.” There’s a hint of fear in his tone.
“Where are you taking my wife now ?” Santo demands.
I open my mouth, already annoyed, ready to explain. “We’re—”
But before I can finish, Santo’s booming voice cuts me off. “I wasn’t asking you .”
The words hit like a slap. I sink into my seat, feeling small, feeling powerless, feeling like nothing more than a possession.
Romeo swallows thickly. “We’re headed back to the estate, Boss,” he answers, casting me an apologetic glance.
“Be sure that you are.”
My fingers clench into fists. My anger, my exhaustion, boils over.
Just when I had started to breathe, to enjoy a simple day, Santo reminds me who he thinks I belong to.
I don’t even realize I’m speaking until the words spill out of me, sharp and poison-laced.
“We just went to get ice cream and then to the store. I thought this arrangement came with perks—like spending my husband’s money on things I want and need. Or is that no longer the case, Mr . Amato?”
The car falls deathly silent.
Romeo goes rigid, his body so tense I think he might shatter under the weight of it. My heart pounds. My ears ring. What did I just say?
Every instinct tells me to tuck and roll out of the car, but I can’t move. Can’t breathe.
Through the speakers comes a slow, measured exhale.
And then Santo’s voice is calm, cold, lethal. “That is correct, Mrs . Amato.”
The line goes dead.
Romeo doesn’t say a word. Neither do I.
We drive in silence the rest of the way home.
Once we return, Romeo disappears, leaving me to unpack my stolen happiness, my contraband snacks. Amelia takes one look at my overflowing bag of treats and sweets and bursts into laughter.
“You sure have a sweet tooth, Vasilisa,” she teases, shaking her head.
I grin, but my amusement is laced with defiance.
Because this isn’t just about sugar cravings.
This is about choice.
This is about having something of my own, even if it’s something as small as sweet treats hidden in a pantry.
Together, Amelia and I tuck the stash away, slipping the treats into a large, empty box on the bottom shelf. The box blends in seamlessly, just another forgotten item among the neatly arranged pantry goods.
I step back, arms crossed, satisfied with our handiwork.
“No one has to know.” Amelia winks, dusting her hands off.
I exhale, a genuine smile pulling at my lips. For the first time in hours, I feel a sliver of relief—a reminder that I’m not completely alone in this house.
We settle into a comfortable silence, the kitchen filled with the soft clatter of pots and pans as we work. It’s easy, effortless, and so rare to find a moment of peace here.
But I cling to it anyway.
Amelia kneads dough beside me, smirking as she tosses a glance at the pantry.
“All those treats—you could open your own store.”
I let out a light laugh, twirling a spoon in my hands. “Maybe I’m trying to sweeten up Santo.”
The words are half a joke, half a lie—because I know better. Santo isn’t the type to be softened by something as simple as sugar or kindness .
Amelia lets out a booming laugh, the sound filling the empty kitchen.
“Don’t waste your treats on him.” She tosses me an apple from the fruit bowl. “He wouldn’t know a good snack if it hit him in the face.”
I catch it easily, the cool skin smooth against my fingertips.
“Noted.” I smirk.
But the moment doesn’t last. The warmth, the laughter; it all flickers out as a sound drifts in from the hallway.
A low voice.
Romeo.
My fingers tighten around the apple, my focus sharpening.
Beside me, Amelia is still rolling out dough, completely unaware of the shift in my body language.
I exhale slowly, setting the apple down.
Then, careful not to draw attention, I slip toward the hallway—toward Romeo’s voice.
The closer I get, the clearer their conversation becomes.
“Scythe was ruthless,” Romeo says, his tone heavy with something that borders on admiration.
A shadow of unease slithers through me. Scythe? The name is foreign, but the reverence in their voices is undeniable.
“I’ve heard he’s an artist with his craft,” the other guard responds with a dark chuckle.
My stomach turns. An artist?
Romeo hums in agreement. “It was an art form,” he says, almost eagerly. “His methods of torture are unparalleled—like he relishes causing pain.”
A sharp chill runs through me, a cold, slicing dread sinking into my bones.
Torture.
I swallow hard, my fingers curling into my palms as their words swirl like poison in my mind.
“Did he really cut out their tongues?”
Before I can stop myself, a soft, startled gasp escapes my lips.
Both men turn sharply, their conversation halting as their eyes snap to me.
Romeo’s face drains of color. “Mrs. Amato,” he says quickly, stepping forward, his voice tight with panic. “Do you need something?”
I step back instinctively, my breath shaky as I try to collect myself. “No,” I reply, though my voice betrays me.
The second guard hastily excuses himself, already pulling out his phone as he disappears down the hall.
Romeo remains frozen, his jaw tensing, his guilty expression only making the knot in my stomach tighten.
I know the Bratva’s ways—violence, blood, ruthlessness—but this? The way Romeo spoke of Scythe…
It felt different.
Reverent.
Joyful.
A sick feeling rises in my throat.
Is that how Santo feels, too? Does he share the same dark satisfaction when taking a life? Does he enjoy it?
Can I handle it if he does…
My thoughts spiral, sharp and dangerous, as I turn on my heel, retreating back to the kitchen—to the only place I still feel grounded.
Amelia glances up as I enter, her warm smile faltering when she notices my expression—and Romeo lingering in the doorway. “There you are,” she says lightly, but her tone shifts as her gaze narrows on Romeo. “What did you do?”
Romeo stiffens beside me. “Nothing,” he replies, his voice defensive but too quiet.
I don’t hesitate. “Who is Scythe?”
The words leave my mouth sharper than I intended, slicing through the kitchen air.
Amelia’s hands still over the dough.
For the briefest moment, I see it—the flicker of hesitation, the carefully concealed pause. Then, she exhales softly, her expression smoothing over, practiced.
“He’s an associate,” she answers evenly, her familiar smile snapping into place like a well-rehearsed lie.
But I saw it.
Her eyes flick to Romeo for the briefest of moments—a silent exchange that I almost miss.
A cold weight settles in my stomach.
They’re lying to me.
I glance between them, my chest tightening, a sharp sting creeping into my ribs.
I thought Amelia was on my side.
I thought she was someone I could trust.
Now, I’m not so sure.