29. Vasilisa
Chapter 29
Vasilisa
I n the morning, I expected the house to be filled with Cosa Nostra soldiers given what happened to Marcello, but seeing Pietro next to Luca in the kitchen still surprises me. Relief floods through me, and before I know it, I’m rushing forward, springing into Pietro’s arms.
I’m glad I wore jeans today instead of a dress with all the hugging I’ll be doing. After yesterday, I’ve made sure to be completely modest in my sweater and jeans—I’m steering clear of upsetting Santo. He has enough on his plate.
I release Pietro and turn to hug a very startled Luca.
“I’m glad you’re back,” I say, beaming up at him.
“Romeo, that bad for one day?” Luca teases, raising a brow.
I laugh, but my smile fades as I notice Pietro’s face. A cut mars his lip, and his black eye stands out in the morning light—details I missed in my haste to hug him.
“What happened?” I ask, reaching out to touch his face.
Pietro gently grabs my hand, lowering it before I can reach him. A throat clears behind me, and I turn to find Santo standing at the threshold, Don Amato and Maksim flanking him.
Maksim speaks first, his voice sharp and casual all at once. “Sinner’s handling Kaya. I’m heading to Vancouver—Killian Byrne has eyes on the Turkish, and I want to see what he knows.”
“In light of what happened yesterday, it’s clear we’re at war,” Don Amato adds, his voice measured, commanding. “You’ve all been assigned. Santo sent out the details this morning. Check them and get where you need to be. We’re an alliance; no one outranks anyone. All hands.”
The men murmur their agreements before dispersing, leaving me in the kitchen with Luca, Romeo, Pietro, five other men, and Santo.
Santo’s voice is firm as he addresses Pietro. “Ivanov. You, Dmitri, and Fabiano will head to California. My sister Elena is at university and currently has two guards. I need you to protect her with your life.”
“I will,” Pietro replies with conviction.
Santo steps forward, patting Pietro on the back. “I mean it. She’s the second most important woman in my life.”
A sharp pang tugs at my heart, but I shove it down, keeping my expression neutral. Our eyes meet for a fleeting second before Pietro nods and turns to me with a polite smile. My best friend leaves, off to protect a sister-in-law I’ve never met.
Santo shifts his attention to Luca. “You, Romeo, Enzo, Sergei, and Alexei are on Vasilisa.”
I glance at him, but his stormy gray eyes remain locked on Luca.
“She doesn’t leave. Anything she wants, you get it for her. No exceptions. No risks. Before she enters any room, you do a sweep.” His voice is final, his tone brooking no argument.
“Santo,” I start softly, his name barely audible.
“No exceptions, Vasilisa.”
“It’s not that,” I reply quickly. “What about Mimi?”
His eyes soften slightly as he looks at me. “Maksim has that handled. We have men at Andras.”
He turns back to the men. “A moment with my wife.”
The room clears. The guards leave in practiced silence, and even Amelia, who had been serving breakfast, removes her apron and disappears without a word.
Santo steps forward, his presence swallowing the space between us, commanding even in exhaustion.
The dark circles under his eyes are stark against the sharp cut of his cheekbones, his gaze—usually so piercing, so unwavering—dulled by the weight of everything he carries. He’s polished as always, his crisp white button-down pristine against the navy vest and slacks tailored to perfection. But even in his effortless elegance, I see it. The strain in the tight set of his jaw. The barely-there furrow of his brow. The heaviness in his shoulders that even the finest suits can’t disguise.
And yet—he’s still the most devastatingly handsome man I’ve ever seen.
My heart stutters as his hands slide into his pockets, as he watches me, his gaze lingering, drinking me in as if he’s afraid he’ll forget the details of my face before he walks out that door.
It’s a look that wrecks me.
Not just because of the intensity behind it, but because it makes my insecurities coil inside me, pressing into my ribs like an iron vice. What does he see when he looks at me like that?
In my modest jeans and sweater, I feel plain, unremarkable , so small beneath his scrutiny. And yet, he doesn’t look away. His gaze softens, deepens, burns with something I can’t name. Something I ache to understand.
Then, he moves.
A single finger glides under my chin, tilting my face upward in a touch so gentle it unravels me. His lips brush mine—soft, fleeting, not enough .
And before he can pull away, I stop him.
I rise onto my toes, my hands flying to his face, my fingers curling onto his jaw as I pull him down, kissing him like I can breathe life back into him.
He exhales sharply against my mouth, and for a second—just a second —he melts .
The tension in his body falters, his hands ghosting over my waist as if he wants to hold me there, as if he wants to stay. But then the moment slips away, and when I break the kiss, we’re still close, our foreheads nearly touching, my breath still tangled with his.
“Come home safe to me,” I whisper, my voice breaking just slightly.
His hands twitch at his sides, and something unreadable flickers in his dark eyes. His brow creases—not in frustration, not in hesitation—but in something deep and unspoken . Something he can’t say.
He won’t promise me.
Instead, his voice drops, rough and low. “I will endeavor to.”
And then he straightens.
The guards return, stepping into the room like shadows, and suddenly, he’s gone. Not physically—not yet—but the warmth of his presence is already fading. The air between us feels heavy with things left unsaid, with everything we should have spoken aloud but didn’t.
And then he leaves.
I don’t know when he’ll be home, only that I will be waiting up.
I loathe the shadows that follow me everywhere I go.
They are constant, lingering just at the edge of my freedom, a reminder that I am watched, that I am guarded—as if I am something delicate, something that can be taken.
I refuse to be either.
Instead of dwelling on it, I focus on my painting. Seated in the library, I let my brush move across the canvas, bringing to life the newest piece taking shape beneath my fingertips—a depiction of Santo and me, in the garden beneath the magnolia trees. A moment that is ours, captured forever in paint.
Luca doesn’t join me today. He sits at a nearby table with Romeo, their conversation quiet, their presence steady. Enzo and Sergei remain outside the library door, silent sentinels. But Alexei—he is the only one who seems to pay me any mind.
He stands behind me, broad-shouldered and imposing, his dark hair cropped short, his neatly trimmed beard making him look even more severe. His entire presence is combat-ready—dressed for war, boots heavy against the floor, his piercing blue eyes constantly watching.
More often than not, his gaze lands on Luca, sharp with an unspoken fury—one that Luca returns, unbothered, unwavering.
Alexei observes my work, tilting his head slightly before commenting in Russian, a compliment slipping from his lips. “You are talented.”
I nod, accepting the praise. “Spasibo.”
“You married into this family solely for the alliance?” Alexei asks in Russian, his voice low, his gaze flicking toward Luca and Romeo, ensuring they don’t understand.
I keep my expression neutral. Calculated. “Yes,” I answer evenly. “But my husband is a good man, so the marriage is good.” My tone is polite, controlled—distant, but firm.
Alexei chuckles.
I don’t like it.
“None of us are good men,” he says smoothly. His head tilts, watching me with something that makes my skin prickle—not fear, but irritation. “You know... the Pakhan promised you would be one of ours before he sent you to this dump to struggle with the classless.”
I pause.
And then, very slowly, I turn to face him.
My voice is even, my chin lifted, my pride unshaken. “Having my own library is hardly a dump,” I say, my Russian precise, elegant. “And being forced to marry one of you?” I smile, but there is nothing soft about it. “That would mean I would drop in rank. That would truly be a struggle.”
His expression shifts. Offended .
Good.
A sharp scrape echoes as Luca and Romeo push their chairs back, rising to their feet. In an instant, they are at my side, a silent wall of protection.
Luca’s voice is a low, dangerous drawl. “What did you say to her?”
Alexei scoffs, his disapproval clear, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of reacting.
Instead, I exhale slowly, my composure unwavering, and switch to English as I address Luca.
“It’s nothing.” My voice is smooth, dismissive. I flick my gaze back to Alexei, unimpressed. “He’s just a typical grunt in the Bratva with a typical attitude.”
A muscle ticks in Alexei’s jaw, but he doesn’t argue.
Instead, he turns sharply on his heel, moving to guard the door, clearly irritated.
I watch him go, my fingers tightening briefly around my brush before I return to my painting.
I won’t let men like him think they can shake me.
The rest of the day passes by uneventful. I’m worried about Santo and Luca assures me he is just at NovaRael working, but his tone suggests otherwise. As night falls, the house becomes quiet. All except the light scratching sounds of brushes against canvas and the quiet whispers of my guards conversing in secret. The magnolia trees are coming to life under my brush, vibrant pinks and deep greens set against the blue-sky backdrop. I paint until my fingers grow numb from gripping the brush, but it’s a sort of therapy that keeps me grounded amidst all the uncertainty.
“Vasilisa, you should rest,” Luca suggests, his voice breaking the silence. He’s been observing me quietly from the side, his brown eyes holding a hint of concern.
“I can’t sleep,” I mutter back, not taking my eyes off the canvas. My heartstrings tug sharply at the thought of Santo somewhere out there in danger.
“Try,” urges Romeo with a soft smile.
“Perhaps you’re right,” I confess with a sigh. I tidy up my materials before allowing Romeo to accompany me to my room while Luca heads outside to replace Enzo and Sergei. “Where’s Alexei?” I ask Romeo as we head to the master bedroom.
Romeo grimaces, “Santo sent him back to Maksim.” he shrugs.
“Santo spoke to you, you heard from him today?” I ask stopping mid stride. “Is he okay?”
Romeo nods confidently. “Yes, he’s working at the office today, he’s in no danger.”
“I was there this morning Romeo, there’s a war coming,” I cross my arms over my chest.
“And your husband is one of the most powerful men in the city, he’ll be fine, and you’ll be safe,” Romeo chuckles, “Now relax your brow before you wrinkle.”
I can’t help, but crack a smile, “Okay, but next time he calls can you tell him I want to talk to him?”
“If he contacts me, I will,” Romeo promises.
I open my door, but Romeo stops me, and ushers me behind him, “I have to do a sweep.”
Exasperated, I sigh, “No one has been in or out of this house.”
“Alexei left, that’s someone,” Romeo says with finality as he enters the room leaving me in the hall. Luca stops next to me. “Enzo and Sergei are guarding the property with the others; I’ll be out here with Romeo while you sleep.”
I nod but don’t bother telling him I won’t be sleeping, at least not in this room. Romeo steps aside, gesturing for me to go in. Back in my bedroom, I quickly shower and throw on a robe, tying it securely. With an entourage now my shadow, modesty seems necessary.
When I open the door, both men look surprised to see me. Luca lowers his phone a little too quickly, his movements stiff.
“Who are you talking to?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.
“Angelo,” Luca clips, his tone firm.
“Liar,” I counter, folding my arms over my chest.
“I don’t lie,” he says coolly, mimicking my stance.
“To me, you do,” I challenge. “I want to speak to Santo.”
“He’s busy,” Luca says, his voice sharper now.
But before I can reply, I hear a deep sigh from the phone in Luca’s hand. Santo’s unmistakable voice cuts through the tension.
“Give her the phone.”
Luca’s jaw tightens as he switches off the speaker and hands the phone to me. I press it to my ear, my frustration melting slightly at the sound of Santo’s voice.
“Santo?”
“Why aren’t you sleeping? It’s late, Dea,” he mutters, the weariness in his tone tugging at something inside me.
“Are you okay?” I ask quietly.
“I’m working,” he replies simply, but there’s a softness in his words, almost an apology.
“Okay,” I whisper, defeated, before handing the phone back to Luca. I make my way downstairs, Romeo trailing me silently. I can hear Luca’s low voice reverberating in the background, but I don’t care to listen. Santo has his responsibilities—to the Don, to my cousin, to Cosa Nostra.
My mother’s voice echoes in my head: “Your job is to help, not hinder the men in your life.”
I roll my eyes at the thought. Subhuman, trophies, and trinkets—nothing more to men like them, to men like Santo.
Ignoring Romeo’s questioning glances, I grab the blanket from the armchair, plop onto the couch, and curl up, facing the backrest. Luca’s heavy steps thud behind me, stopping at the couch.
“You’re going to pout in here?” he asks.
I don’t answer, pulling the blanket over my head and shutting my eyes.
I wake to the sound of muted voices. The scent of him is unmistakable— Santo is here . My heart skips, but I don’t move, feigning sleep as the men continue talking, oblivious to my consciousness.
“Why is she down here?” Santo’s deep whisper is tinged with irritation.
“She chose to. Should we have moved her?” Romeo replies.
There’s a pause, and I imagine Santo giving one of his silent, deadly looks before he speaks again.
“I have Nico replacing Alexei tomorrow,” Santo says, his tone firm, authoritative. “What did he say to her?”
“Don’t know. It was in Russian, but she looked bothered.”
Santo’s voice drops, a harsh edge cutting through his whisper. “If we weren’t low on men, I’d kill him myself.”
Guilt twists in my chest as I hear him sigh heavily, exhaustion weighing down every syllable. “You two can go. I have her.”
The sound of retreating footsteps fills the room, and I feel Santo’s presence settle beside me. His nearness radiates heat, a magnetic pull I can’t ignore even though I try.
“I know you’re awake,” he says coolly, his voice cutting through the darkness. My heart plummets, but I remain still, holding my breath.
He chuckles softly, a low, rumbling sound that sends a shiver through me. “Fine,” he mutters.
Before I can process his words, I feel his hands—strong, sure—slip under my thighs and back. He lifts me effortlessly, blanket and all, cradling me close to his chest.
I can’t help it; I melt into his warmth, his scent surrounding me like a cocoon. There’s no point in pretending anymore, but I still don’t open my eyes. If this is the only moment I get like this, I’ll savor it. Guilt tugs at me for being the reason he’s still awake, but being in his arms, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, I regret nothing.
His steps are measured as he carries me upstairs, each stride deliberate. The soft creak of the hardwood under his feet gives away our destination— my bedroom.
When he reaches the bed, he sets me down gently, as though I might break. The plush mattress cradles me as he adjusts the blanket over me with surprising care. I crack one eye open, just enough to peek through the folds of the blanket.
He doesn’t leave.
Instead, he stands there for a moment, his hand lingering on the edge of the blanket as if he’s unsure whether to let go. His face is cast in shadow, but his posture tells me everything—shoulders tense, head bowed slightly, like he’s carrying a weight he can’t share.
My chest tightens as I watch him. I can’t see his eyes, but I can feel the heaviness in the air, the storm of unspoken emotions swirling around him.
He exhales deeply, running a hand through his dark hair before stepping back. He lingers near the threshold, his hand resting on the frame as he looks back at me. For a moment, I think he knows I’m watching, but he doesn’t say anything.
Finally, he steps out, then I hear the door clicking shut behind him.
I stay impossibly still, my heart racing. Even though he’s gone, the warmth of his touch lingers, but I feel his absence like a cold draft.
I close my eyes, his scent and the memory of his arms wrapping around me still vivid. I try to resist the pull of sleep, afraid I’ll lose the moment entirely, but it’s impossible. Eventually, exhaustion wins, and I drift off, still wrapped in his lingering presence.
***
In the morning Santo’s gone again and as he said there is a new man in place of Alexei.
Nico.
Apparently, he’s Angelo’s right hand, much like Luca is to Santo. Nico is a towering figure; his broad shoulders and muscular frame showcase countless hours at the gym. A deep scar runs down his left eye to his jaw, giving his already intimidating presence an extra edge. He wears a stringer tank that shows off his arms covered in tattoos, paired with rugged cargo pants, he seems ready for anything. He strides into the library with an air of confidence, seamlessly switching spots with Romeo as I continue to paint. Romeo dutifully heads towards the door to guard it, leaving Luca to eye Nico as he walks over to me.
“This is what you do all day? Paint?” His voice is smooth and melodic, though there’s a hint of skepticism in his tone.
I look up from my easel and meet his gaze evenly. “Is that how you speak to someone for the first time?”
He seems taken aback by my response, his brows furrowing in surprise. But I refuse to break eye contact, even when my gaze lands on his scar, I may be intimidated by many things, but I won’t let anyone see it.
“I was trying to make conversation,” he replies, slightly defensive.
“Then perhaps you lack the necessary skills,” I quip back.
Luca lets out a hearty laugh and Nico shoots him a dark look. “I meant no offense, Mrs. Amato.”
I offer him a small smile and correct him, “Call me Vasi or Vasilisa.”
“Vasilisa,” he repeats, testing my name on his tongue. “The Don said you were shy, but it seems like he was wrong.” He smirks at me.
I offer him a curious look before returning my attention to my painting. Nico moves behind me and watches intently as I work. He surprises me with his next words.
“You have talent,” he compliments sincerely.
“Thank you,” I reply, surprised but pleased at his recognition. “Do you paint as well?”
Before Nico can answer, Luca interrupts us with a warning tone. “ Don’t let her rope you into painting!” He points a finger at Nico dramatically.
I narrow my eyes playfully at Luca. “Don’t listen to him, Nico. He’s just upset that Santo no longer allows him to paint.”
“You paint, Cattaneo?” Nico teases Luca, clearly enjoying their playful banter.
Luca quickly flips him off and pulls out his phone, giving me a smirk before assuring me that he’s not calling Santo.
Nico raises an eyebrow at me, his posture relaxed but his gaze sharp. “You don’t want him to call Santo?”
“No. My husband can call me if he wants to, but he doesn’t,” I reply bitterly, setting down my brush and walking away from my painting toward the back of the library where the restroom is located.
Nico falls into step behind me, his movements quiet, but his presence looms. I glance over my shoulder, irritation bubbling to the surface.
“You don’t have to follow me to the bathroom,” I snap, the frustration in my voice sharper than I intended.
“That’s not what Santo said,” Nico replies evenly, but there’s a softness in his tone that takes the edge off his words.
I huff, throwing my hands up. “I’m so sick of being constantly trailed around! It would be nice to have some peace and quiet for once.”
Nico’s expression doesn’t shift, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—understanding, maybe? “He just wants you to be safe,” he says, his voice calm, almost gentle.
“I’m trapped in this house. How much safer can I be?” I retort, stopping in front of the bathroom door, crossing my arms defensively.
Before Nico can respond, Luca’s voice cuts in from across the room. “Just use the restroom, Vasilisa.” His tone is stern, exasperated.
Nico’s head snaps toward Luca, his brow furrowing. “Ease up,” he says quietly, but there’s an edge to his voice that makes Luca glance away.
I purse my lips, watching the silent exchange, and step aside as Nico gestures toward the bathroom door. He opens it, stepping inside first to do his sweep. Once he’s satisfied, he nods for me to go in.
When I return to my easel, Romeo is back in the library, and Luca is gone.
“Where’s Luca?” I ask, sitting down and adjusting my canvas.
“Boss called him away,” Romeo replies dismissively, and I know better than to press for details.
I focus on my painting, letting the tension in my chest bleed out through the strokes of my brush. By the time I finish the piece Luca returns, holding a large bouquet of lilies and roses. He sets them on the table beside me, a folded note tucked among the stems.
He clears his throat. “From Santo.”
I pluck the note free, my hands trembling despite myself.
“I hope this can make up for my absence.”
The words are simple, thoughtful even, but they feel hollow. My chest tightens as I look at the bouquet. The overwhelmingly sweet scent fills the air, pulling me back to our wedding day—a day I desperately want to hold on to but feel slipping further away.
I set the note and flowers down on the table, leaving them untouched, and turn back to my easel.
Nico’s gaze follows me closely, his brow furrowed as if he’s trying to read my thoughts. Romeo looks confused but says nothing.
“Don’t take it personally, Vasilisa,” Luca says when he notices my lack of reaction.
I glance at him briefly, my expression impassive. “I don’t want empty words.”
Luca crosses his arms, his stance stiff. “He can’t be at your beck and call every day.”
“I don’t need every day, Luca,“ I say sharply, picking up a new brush. “But he could call. He could text.”
Luca exhales through his nose, clearly frustrated. “You expect him to stop in the middle of a war to text you an apology?”
“I don’t need an apology. I don’t need flowers. I need him. I need to actually feel wanted,” I say, ignoring the way Nico stiffens beside me.
“Next time, I’ll tell him your request is that he drops everything and comes running,” Luca quips sarcastically.
“A simple text. A good morning phone call. That’s all!” I snap, setting my brush down harder than I intended.
Luca starts to reply, but Nico steps forward, his protective instincts taking over. “Enough,” Nico says firmly, his voice low but commanding. He steps between us slightly, his posture tense. “She’s allowed to feel how she feels.”
Luca grits his teeth but says nothing, his gaze flicking between Nico and me. I don’t wait for another argument to erupt.
I rise from my seat and leave the library, brushing past Nico, who falls into step behind me.
“Where are you going?” Nico calls after me, his footsteps echoing down the corridor.
“Does it matter?” I shoot back, not bothering to turn around. My steps carry me toward the gardens—the only place that still feels like a sanctuary. The sunlight filters through the leafy canopy, dappling the ground and brushing my skin like a faint echo of Santo’s touch.
I make my way to the stone fountain and sit on its edge, staring at the rippling water. The sound of the fountain mingles with the distant chirping of birds, filling the heavy silence between Nico and me. He keeps a respectful distance, his watchful eyes never leaving me.
The smell of flowers drifts on the breeze, sweet and torturous. My chest tightens as the memories flood in—the laughter, the warmth, the fleeting moments of happiness I had here with Santo.
Suddenly, the stillness becomes unbearable. I stand abruptly, startling Nico.
“I’m going stir-crazy,” I announce, my voice sharper than I intended.
“Vasilisa...” Nico starts, his tone cautious, but he falls silent when I glare at him.
“Listen,” he says after a moment, his voice softening. “We’re at the beginning of a war. All Santo cares about is your safety.”
I scoff bitterly. “He didn’t want me. This was an arrangement. I’m of no real value to him, and we both know that.”
Nico’s expression hardens, and his voice becomes firmer. “Yes, you are.”
I roll my eyes, dismissing his words. “I’m just an investment to him. Without me, he doesn’t have NovaRael. If someone takes me, they take his company. That’s all I am—an asset to protect.”
Nico steps closer, his gaze piercing. “Do you want to know how many guards his mother had before she was taken off the front steps of this home?”
His words hit me like a slap, and my blood runs cold. I blink at him, stunned, the air around me suddenly too thick to breathe.
At the look on my face, Nico nods grimly. “Lucia meant everything to Marcello. He thought he could protect her by keeping her in a separate home. But our enemies found her. They took her... and sent her back to Marcello and his sons in pieces.”
The weight of his words sinks in, pressing down on my chest like a boulder. My legs feel weak, and I sink back onto the fountain, my thoughts reeling.
My stomach churns, and tears blur my vision. I raise a hand to stop Nico from continuing, my voice barely a whisper. “Enough... I don’t want to hear more.”
Nico nods, his sharp edges softening as he watches me. “You should rest,” he says gently.
I nod, feeling too overwhelmed to argue. Nico walks beside me as we head back into the house, his presence steady but unobtrusive.
The evening ends the same as the last. I fall asleep on the couch; my husband takes me to my bed and in the morning he’s gone.