32. Vasilisa
Chapter 32
Vasilisa
I don’t remember when I drifted off, but the sharp bang of the front door slamming downstairs yanks me from sleep like a bucket of ice water. My heart slams against my ribs, my mind foggy yet instantly alert. The weight of last night presses against my skin, the ghost of Santo’s touch lingering in places that still throb with warmth.
Santo .
He’s home.
I barely take a breath before I’m up, tightening my robe around me as I hurry down the stairs, my pulse a frenzied beat in my ears. The anticipation—of his presence, his voice, his hands—drives me forward too fast. I miscalculate the last step, my footing slipping out from under me. A startled gasp escapes me just as strong arms catch me, steadying me before I can fall.
Spicy tobacco and mint flood my senses, a scent so achingly familiar that my stomach knots with unease.
Not Santo.
My gaze snaps up, locking onto the wrong pair of eyes—light, sharp, filled with amusement. My stomach twists as a slow, knowing smile spreads across Angelo’s face.
“Well, Piccola,” he muses, his voice laced with humor. “What a lovely way to greet me.”
I wrench myself out of his grasp, my robe slipping dangerously off my shoulder in my haste. His eyes trail the movement, slow and deliberate, before flicking back up to meet mine. There’s something in his gaze—something I don’t like.
I clutch the fabric tighter around me. “What are you doing here?” My voice betrays me, shaky with confusion and something else—something colder.
Angelo smirks, tilting his head like he’s amused by my reaction. “Santo sent me to check in. He’s still working.”
“Santo can delegate the Don to watch his wife?“ I ask, the disbelief thick in my voice.
His smirk falters just enough to show the flicker of annoyance beneath his easy arrogance. “No one delegates me, “ he says smoothly, but there’s an edge now, a quiet warning. “This is more of a brotherly favor.”
His arm drapes over my shoulders before I can react, the weight of it heavy, possessive. I don’t like it.
“Come on,” he says, guiding me toward the kitchen like I don’t have a choice. “Why don’t we get some breakfast? Have a little chat. Get to know each other.”
There’s something unsettling in how casual he makes it sound. I swallow hard and nod, forcing my body to move, even as my jaw clenches against the unwanted proximity.
“Tell me, tiny,” he drawls, the amusement creeping back into his tone, “have you ever fired a gun?”
I step out from under his arm, shrugging him off like his touch is something I can scrub away. “Can I get dressed first?”
His chuckle is low, dark. “If you have to.”
I don’t wait for a second dismissal. I turn on my heel and bolt up the stairs, my skin prickling with unease.
Getting dressed proves harder than I expect. My hands hover over my options—one part of me reaching for the dresses I’ve been trained to wear, another considering Santo’s insistence on modesty. Jeans or decorum? I hesitate, the war inside me unfamiliar, frustrating. This is ridiculous.
In the end, my training wins. I pull on a corduroy dress over a crisp white shirt, black tights hugging my legs, and finish with platform heels. Something about it feels like armor. I brush my hair into a ponytail, smoothing stray strands before inhaling deeply.
I step into the hall—only to collide with Luca.
His expression is tense, cautious.
“Angelo’s here,” he murmurs.
“I saw him already… unfortunately, not as dressed as I am now.”
Luca’s brows draw together, his concern evident. “He wants us to leave.”
The weight of his words settles in my chest, pressing tight. “He wants me to leave my home ?” My voice rises with indignation, sharp and unwavering.
“Not you,” Luca clarifies, shaking his head. “Just us. Romeo and me.”
A chill creeps down my spine. Grabbing Luca’s arm, I plead, “Please don’t go.”
His expression softens, but his stance remains firm. He pats my arm gently, his touch reassuring, but it does nothing to ease the unease twisting in my stomach. He carefully pries my fingers off him. “Angelo won’t hurt you, Vasilisa. I don’t know what he wants, but I do know that much.”
That’s not enough. Not for me.
Romeo appears at the end of the hall, his sharp eyes assessing the tension between us. “Did you tell her?”
“I was getting there,” Luca mutters.
“Tell me what?” I demand, looking between them, my pulse hammering against my ribs. A tight, suffocating sensation creeps into my chest. “Is Santo okay?”
Luca holds up a hand, stopping my thoughts before they spiral. “He’s fine.”
I exhale sharply, the relief short-lived as Luca continues, “It’s your parents. They still haven’t been found.”
The air shifts, turns thick and oppressive. My breath catches in my throat.
“Do you think they’re—” The words lodge themselves there, too monstrous to voice.
“No,” Luca interjects, his tone firm, unwavering. “The intel we’ve gathered suggests your father made a deal with some of our enemies. It may involve the Armenians.”
The floor tilts beneath me. My body is still, but inside, everything is shattering. My father?
A deal with the Armenians.
A betrayal of the Bratva.
A betrayal of us.
I force myself to breathe, to pull my mind out of the chaos threatening to drown me. He left. My mother left. My sister and I…discarded.
I swallow hard, locking my emotions behind a wall of ice. “So, Angelo doesn’t want to hurt me, but interrogate me?”
Luca and Romeo exchange glances, their hesitation feeding my unease.
“We don’t know,” Romeo admits, his voice careful, measured.
“I’m not leaving,” Luca states with finality, his jaw set, shoulders squared.
I press a hand to his shoulder, grounding myself in the moment. “No,” I murmur, forcing steadiness into my voice. “You have to follow his command. I’ll be okay.”
The words taste like a lie, but Luca’s hesitation cracks just enough for him to nod.
Together, they escort me downstairs to the kitchen.
Angelo sits at the breakfast bar with Nico beside him. Julian is serving them, and I can’t contain my joy when I see him.
“You’re back!” The relief surges through me, and before I can stop myself, I rush forward, throwing my arms around Julian. His strong arms wrap around me, lifting me slightly off the ground in a bear hug. The warmth of his embrace is a momentary reprieve from the tension coiled in my chest, a familiar comfort in a sea of uncertainty.
“How was your trip?” I ask as we pull apart, though I keep hold of his hands, unwilling to sever the connection just yet.
Julian’s face lights up. “It was amazing. I spent time with my brothers, we went camping, fishing—it was—”
A sharp throat-clearing cuts him off.
Angelo’s sharp gaze zeroes in on him, then flicks to our hands. “You touch my brother’s wife like that all the time?” he drawls, his voice deceptively calm.
Julian pales, his hands slipping from mine as if burned. “No, sir, of course not. I’ve been on—”
“Enough.” Angelo waves a dismissive hand, cutting Julian off as if he’s no longer worth his attention.
My fingers twitch at my sides, the sudden chill of Julian’s absence leaving me more unsettled than I’d like to admit.
Angelo turns his attention fully to me now, his darkened eyes assessing, calculating. “Come here, Piccola,” he commands smoothly, motioning for me to step closer.
I hesitate.
Every instinct screams at me not to move, but defiance is a luxury I’m not sure I can afford. Gritting my teeth, I force my feet forward, stopping beside him as he swivels in his stool to face Luca and Romeo, who hover uneasily in the doorway.
Without warning, Angelo loops an arm around my waist. His grip is firm, heavy, his palm a brand against the fabric of my dress. My muscles lock up at the contact, a prickle of discomfort traveling up my spine.
“You two can leave for the day,” he says, flashing a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You too, Nico.”
Nico pauses, his fork halfway to his mouth. His brow furrows, and for the first time since I entered the room, real tension crackles in the air.
“I thought you wanted me to stay while you and Vasi—”
“No, you’re not needed,” Angelo interrupts smoothly, that smile widening. “I have Vasilisa.” His hand slides gently down my side, slow, deliberate. I suppress a shudder, my stomach twisting.
“I don’t think that would be appropriate, boss,” Nico says, his voice hard, controlled. He sets his fork down with a quiet clink and stands, his shoulders squared, his scar more pronounced under the shadow of his growing anger.
“Challenging me, Nico?”
“Just suggesting,” Nico replies evenly, but there’s steel beneath his words.
The two men lock eyes.
The room goes still, the unspoken power struggle thickening the air. My pulse pounds against my ribs.
Then, Angelo laughs, a slow, dark sound that makes my skin crawl. “Fine,” he says, waving a dismissive hand as if he’s humoring a child. “You three stay. Tiny and I have business to attend to downstairs .”
Confusion flickers through me. My gaze shifts to Angelo’s profile, his smirk unwavering. “Downstairs?”
He finally turns to look at me, his expression unreadable, but the glint in his eyes unsettles me. “Yes, Tiny.”
Before I can protest, he stands and presses a guiding hand against the small of my back. The pressure is firm, insistent, but not forceful—not yet.
I glance back at Luca, Romeo, and Nico, their faces set with silent concern. But no one stops him.
I force my spine straight as Angelo leads me toward the kitchen pantry.
At first, confusion clouds my thoughts. But as we pass my large stash of junk food, something catches my eye. A glint of metal peeks from the shadows—a small silver button embedded in the back wall.
Angelo presses his finger to it.
A low vibration hums through the air, deep and resonant.
Then, with a soft whoosh, the wall splits apart, sliding open in smooth, mechanical precision.
An elevator.
A hidden elevator.
My breath catches, my pulse kicking into high gear. I’ve lived in this house for months. Months. And I had no idea this existed.
Angelo chuckles, the sound vibrating low in his chest as he nudges me forward. “Surprised, Piccola?”
I step inside hesitantly, my eyes flicking over the sleek interior. The control panel has five buttons, each labeled with a single letter.
Angelo presses the last one labeled ‘B.’
The doors slide shut.
We begin to descend.
The ride is eerily smooth, the silence stretching uncomfortably between us. I keep my arms tight around myself, my mind racing through every possible reason why this hidden place exists.
The doors open with a quiet ding, revealing something I never expected.
A sprawling underground space, brightly lit and expansive.
To the left, a fully equipped gym, glass walls encasing an arsenal of weight racks, punching bags, and machines.
To the right, a gun range, targets lined up at varying distances, bullet casings scattered like discarded confessions.
Further back, the entrance to a luxurious pool and sauna.
Angelo gestures toward a locked door. “That one’s for guy’s night.” His smirk deepens at my unimpressed expression.
Beyond that, a hall stretches into the unknown, leading toward what I assume is the underground garage.
Angelo watches me, his amusement evident. “You really didn’t know about this?”
I shake my head, unable to find words.
He laughs. “You really are Santo’s caged bird.”
The words sting, but I lift my chin. “What exactly are we doing down here?”
Angelo’s smirk lingers, but his gaze sharpens.
“You,” he murmurs, stepping closer, “are going to learn how to survive.”
***
Spending time with my brother-in-law isn’t as bad as I thought it would be. With expert care, he teaches me how to dismantle and clean a gun, emphasizing safety—keep my finger off the trigger, treat all guns as if they’re loaded. I practice with his Glock 17, and to my surprise, Angelo calls me a natural when I hit the bullseye.
Despite his intimidating exterior, I’ve come to see that Angelo is not what I expected. I try to remember his instructions, planting my feet shoulder-width apart, slightly bending my knees, and taking aim.
“Don’t tense up, Tiny,” Angelo says softly, pulling me from my thoughts. His body presses against mine from behind, his hands covering mine on the gun. The scent of his cologne fills the space between us, and I swallow hard, trying not to focus on the heat radiating from him.
“Relax,” he murmurs, his voice low and steady, guiding. “You’ll shoot better if you’re loose.”
My heart pounds. Santo wouldn’t like this—Angelo standing this close, touching me this way. Even though it’s innocent, I know exactly how it would look to him. A flicker of unease tightens my stomach, and guilt settles in my chest like a weight. I grip the gun tighter, more out of necessity than anything else.
“You got it?” Angelo’s finger curls around mine on the trigger, the question hanging heavy between us.
I nod quickly, forcing myself to focus. “Yes.”
“Good.” His breath brushes the top of my head. Together, we pull the trigger, and the sharp crack of the shot echoes in the air, striking the bullseye once again.
Angelo steps back, taking the gun from my hands as I exhale a shaky breath. “You’re a quick learner, Piccola,” he says, his tone softer than before, almost… approving.
I watch as he safely disassembles the weapon, his movements confident, precise. For the first time since we started, I allow myself to relax. He’s not Santo. Not even close. But if he’s here, it’s because Santo trusts him—and that has to mean something. Besides, he’s my brother-in-law, and I could use family.
I take a breath and glance at him. “Do you want to have lunch together?”
He smirks, lips curling up mischievously. “What are we having?”
“I have leftovers from dinner last night that I made,” I say with pride.
“Sure, I can stay for a bit, Tiny.” He winks. “But then I got to head out.”
He gestures for me to go ahead of him, and together, we step into the elevator, its metal walls gleaming under the soft lighting.
The ride is quiet. I catch myself watching Angelo from the corner of my eye. His usual smirk is gone, replaced by something distant, lost. His jaw clenches as he stares at the closed doors, lost in thought.
I wonder what he’s thinking, but I don’t dare ask questions I don’t want answers to.
The doors slide open with a soft chime. I shake off my curiosity and step into the kitchen. Julian glances up as we enter, his gaze flicking between me and Angelo.
“Are you two in need of a snack?” he asks with a smile.
“No, thank you,” I reply, heading straight for the fridge and pulling out containers of leftovers from last night’s dinner. “Just heating up some lunch.”
Angelo sits at the breakfast bar, his eyes following me as I pull the leftovers from the fridge, the faint aroma of garlic and herbs already making my mouth water. Julian steps in to help, carefully taking the containers from me.
“Will you be joining us for dinner, Don Amato?” Julian asks.
Angelo keeps his eyes on me and shakes his head. “No, I can’t tonight.”
When the microwave beeps, Julian grabs the containers.
“This is too hot for you to handle, Mrs. Amato,” he teases, offering a friendly grin. “Why don’t you sit down? I’ll plate it for you.”
I hesitate but follow his suggestion, slipping onto the stool beside Angelo. His gaze is still steady on me, and I can feel the weight of it even as I focus on the sound of Julian arranging our plates.
“So, tell me about Santo when he was younger,” I ask, breaking the silence with a small smile.
Angelo’s brows lift in amusement. “Younger Santo? He was a pain in my ass,” he says, chuckling. “Smart as hell, though. Always outthinking everyone, including me.”
I laugh softly. “I can’t relate. I’m the eldest, and clearly the smartest.”
His chuckle deepens, a low, rich sound that catches me off guard. “I’ll take your word for it, Piccola.”
Julian sets our plates down, nodding politely before excusing himself. Angelo watches him go, his gaze lingering, before returning to me. “I hear you’re a talented artist,” he says, his tone shifting to something softer.
“Yes,” I reply, surprised by the question. “Painting is… an escape for me.”
His eyes sharpen slightly, the teasing glimmer replaced by something more thoughtful. “Do you often need an escape?” he asks, his voice low before taking a bite of his spinach and feta ravioli.
I shrug. “Sometimes.”
“This is delicious,” Angelo says with appreciation. “You did a great job, Tiny.”
“Thank you,” I say with a smile. “Amelia helped me.”
Angelo nods and we continue to eat our meals in comfortable silence. Surprisingly, I am thoroughly enjoying my time with him. The simple act of sharing a meal and having an easy conversation makes me miss Santo even more.
I watch as Angelo roughly wipes his mouth with a crisp napkin, his light eyes sparkling with amusement. “What’s your favorite dish?” I inquire, genuinely curious.
“Pasta with vodka sauce, or any kind of rich red sauce,” he replies with a hint of pride in his voice. “I like the color.”
“Simple tastes,” I remark, surprised at his answer.
“I’m a simple man,” he retorts with a smirk, but there is a glimmer in his eyes that hints at a deeper complexity.
I scoff and playfully roll my eyes, “You are far from simple, Mr. Amato.”
“You call me Angelo, Piccola,” he teases, pointing a finger at me as if scolding a child.
Angelo’s phone begins to ring, and Luca enters the kitchen. Excusing himself, Angelo steps away to take the call, leaving me alone with Luca.
“Where have you been?” I ask curiously, watching him as he leans against the counter.
“After he took you away, I went to Santo,” Luca replies, his eyes scanning me intently, as though searching for cracks in my armor. “Are you okay?”
I nod, forcing a smile. “Yes, I’m fine. I actually had a great day. Is Santo okay?”
Luca’s posture softens slightly. “Yeah, he’s just working.”
Angelo returns, his expression noticeably harder than before. The shift in his demeanor sets me on edge.
“Piccola,” he starts, his voice lower, “Some business came up. I have to go.”
Unease prickles at my skin. “Is everything alright?” I ask, my voice quieter than I intended.
His gaze softens briefly, the hard edges of his face relaxing for just a moment. “Don’t worry yourself over it,” he says, stepping closer. His fingers brush against my temple as he tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
The gesture feels too intimate, too careful . Luca clears his throat loudly, his discomfort impossible to miss.
Angelo doesn’t even glance at him. “Maybe get some water for that throat, Cattaneo,” he says dismissively, his eyes still on me.
“Is Santo alright?” I ask Angelo with more urgency. My heart pounds at the weight of his gaze.
“He’s fine,” Angelo replies, his voice steady, but his eyes linger on mine too long, their scrutiny heavy and invasive. His thumb grazes my cheek briefly, a touch that makes my chest tighten with unease. Before I can respond, he drops his hand and strides toward the kitchen door. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Wait,” I call after him, a sinking feeling settling low in my stomach. “Is Santo coming home?”
For the briefest moment, something flickers across Angelo’s face—guilt, hesitation, or both. His eyes drop for a fraction of a second before he schools his features into a stern mask. “Not tonight,” he says shortly, and with that, he’s gone.
The weight in my chest grows unbearable, and tears threaten to spill. I quickly brush them away, refusing to let myself fall apart here. But I can’t shake the pressure in my chest, the lump in my throat.
Santo.