33. Santo
Chapter 33
Santo
S ilence suffocates Angelo’s penthouse as I step inside, the weight of my rage pressing against my chest like a loaded gun. I barely made it through the drive from NovaRael without turning back around to confront them right then and there. The surveillance footage still burns behind my eyes— him with her —the easy way he touched her, the fucking way she let him. My hands clench at my sides, fingers itching for violence.
The image of her beneath me, writhing and gasping my name, the way she looks when she’s mine —it all gets drowned out by the sight of Angelo’s arm around her waist, his hand brushing her cheek. It festers like poison, fueling the inferno inside me.
The penthouse is pristine, every surface polished to a cold, soulless gleam. It’s fitting. This place reflects him—my brother, with his stupid snake’s grin. I stride to the bar, pouring myself a drink with steady hands that betray the storm inside. The whiskey burns as I take a slow sip, but it does nothing to extinguish the fire in my gut.
The elevator doors slide open.
Angelo saunters in, that lazy, knowing smirk on his lips, like he’s been expecting me. Like he’s already won. The fire inside me roars to life.
“Hello, little brother,” he drawls, arrogance dripping from every syllable.
I turn just enough to look at him, my grip tightening around the glass in my hand. “Why were you with her?” My voice is sharp, laced with the venom I barely restrain.
Angelo strolls to the bar, unfazed, and pours himself a drink. “Why wouldn’t I visit my cognata?” He smirks, swirling his glass. “She was all alone .”
My teeth grind together. “She had three guards. She was fine .”
“I sent them away,” he says smoothly, taking a sip. “Spent the day with her instead.”
The words crack something inside me. The thought of Vasilisa— my wife —alone with him shoves a knife into my gut. My fingers flex around the glass, my breath steady, measured.
“She’s a needy little thing,” he muses, taking another slow sip.
The whiskey in my hand nearly sloshes over the rim as my grip tightens.
In one swift movement, I throw back the rest of my drink, then slam the glass onto the bar before shoving him back. Hard. His own whiskey sloshes, spilling over his fingers as he stumbles back a step, his smirk deepening.
“Don’t talk about her like that.”
Angelo raises a hand in mock surrender. He eyes the whiskey dripping down his fingers and clicks his tongue before setting the glass down on the bar with exaggerated care. “Relax, Scythe,” he taunts. “I meant no disrespect.” He wipes his hand off on his shirt, then grins. “We had a great time— went for a swim .”
The breath I take is sharp, cutting. My vision tunnels.
“You didn’t swim with her.” The words scrape from my throat like jagged glass.
“Oh, but I did.” He grins, that same fucking grin that used to drive me insane as a kid—only now, it’s worse, because I know he’s doing this on purpose.
I think of the pool. I think of how they disappeared into the kitchen pantry and never came back for hours. Then, it hits me.
“You didn’t.” I sneer, my voice laced with fury and something I refuse to name—fear. “She didn’t have a bathing suit with her. Her clothes and hair were dry when she came back.”
Angelo shrugs, lazy as ever, settling onto the couch across from me. “Who’s to say we didn’t swim nude?”
The world snaps.
Before I even register moving, my hands are on him, fisting his shirt, dragging him forward until our faces are inches apart. My breath is ragged, my pulse a war drum.
“No. You. Didn’t.” The words are a growl, low and deadly.
Angelo doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t resist. His hand grips my wrist, squeezing just enough to remind me that he’s not afraid.
“We didn’t,” he finally says, prying my hands off him. He straightens his shirt, smooths it like this is just another night for him as he leans back.
Then he smirks. “But I am seeing her again tomorrow. And the next day. And the day after that. Until you pull your head out of your ass and go home to your wife .”
The rage inside me is molten, unbearable. I shove a hand through my hair, but there’s no relief, no comfort. Just the sickening truth that he knows—he sees the cracks in my armor.
“Why do you even care?” I grit out.
Angelo’s smirk fades. His eyes—sharp, unforgiving—pin me in place. “Because she’s a kind, smart, beautiful woman who doesn’t deserve to be abandoned in that house.”
“I’m keeping her safe,” I snap.
“By leaving her alone?”
“She’s safe in that damn house!” The words explode from me, raw and desperate.
Angelo’s stare doesn’t waver. And then he delivers the killing blow.
“Like our mother was?”
The room drops into silence.
My breath stalls. My chest tightens.
“Don’t you dare bring her into this,“ I snarl, but it’s too late. The damage is done.
“Why not?” Angelo’s voice is ice. “You’re doing the same thing Dad did.”
I shake my head. No. No.
“I’m not,” I spit. “She has round-the-clock surveillance, guards, an entire staff. Our mom was truly alone.”
“And look what happened to her.” His voice is razor-sharp. “She was taken, tortured, sent back to us in pieces. Surveillance or not, she wouldn’t have stood a chance.” He leans forward, eyes burning into mine. “So I’ll ask again—why are you hiding from your wife?”
“I’m not,” I snap, but my voice cracks at the end.
Angelo’s smirk creeps back, but this time, it’s cruel. Knowing. “You are,” he murmurs. “And I know why. ”
I shake my head. My pulse pounds against my skull.
“You’re hiding Scythe.”
The name slams into me like a blade. My gut twists.
“No,” I deny, but it sounds weak even to my own ears.
Angelo scoffs. “You don’t think she can handle that?”
I open my mouth. Close it.
“She’s innocent,” I finally say, the words rasping from my throat. “She’s pure. She’s good. And I’m—”
“What she’s used to,” Angelo cuts in. “She grew up with Maks. He’s worse than you.” He chuckles darkly. “Hell, the son of a bitch is worse than me half the time.”
My hands tremble. I flex my fingers, forcing control back into them.
“I’ll go home to her,” I mutter. “Just... not right now. Not in the middle of all this.” I gesture vaguely, my chest tightening as I try to grasp something—anything—to make sense of this.
Angelo watches me for a long moment. Then he sighs, shaking his head in disbelief. “If you don’t want to protect your wife, then I will.” His voice is final. “Maksim entrusted you with her safety, and you just passed her off to your fucking guards.”
“She’s fine,” I repeat, but it sounds hollow.
“Whatever helps you sleep at night, little brother.” Angelo stands. “Get some sleep, you look like shit. I’ll take the meeting with Maks tonight and fill you in in the morning.”
And just like that, he’s gone.
I should go home.
But I don’t.
***
Restless and plagued by thoughts of Vasilisa, I spent the night watching surveillance footage of her sleeping peacefully. Now, I sit in my office, eyes locked on the live feed, my exhaustion barely registering beneath the tight coil of anger inside me. She’s at breakfast with Luca and Romeo, laughing—radiant.
It’s the kind of laughter that makes a man forget the world is cruel. The kind of happiness I should be giving her.
But I’m not there.
A sudden urge grips me—to call them away, to remind them they’re soldiers, not her damn entertainment. They should be watching the surroundings, not her face. But I stay silent, transfixed, caught in the sheer light of her.
And then he walks in.
Angelo.
He moves straight to her, his confidence so casual it’s infuriating. He leans down, places a kiss on her cheek— my wife’s cheek—and his hand settles possessively at her waist. My blood turns molten, burning through my veins as I watch him help her off the stool, leading her toward the kitchen pantry.
Before he disappears with my girl, he turns his head—eyes locking onto mine through the surveillance camera.
And the asshole grins.
A sharp, taunting grin that sends a white-hot surge of fury through me.
My fist slams against the desk. The impact echoes through the room, but it does nothing to quell the rage boiling beneath my skin. I curse myself for not installing cameras on the ground floor. It had never seemed necessary before—Vasilisa didn’t know about that floor, and only Angelo and I had access.
A mistake. One I’ll correct the second I return home.
But I can’t go home.
Not yet.
With my responsibilities as Scythe consuming every ounce of my time and energy, I can’t afford to take a fucking break. I push the anger down—lock it in a corner of my mind where it will simmer until I have the time to deal with it.
The intercom beeps. Evie’s voice fills the room.
“Marcus is ready for you.”
I exhale sharply, standing, rolling the tension from my shoulders before making my way to the cyber security floor.
As the elevator doors slide open, I expect good news. Maybe another breadcrumb leading to whatever deal Miroslav made with the Armenians.
What I don’t expect is to see him.
Wesley fucking Beaumont.
I loathe the rich bastard. The entitled smirk, the effortless wealth, the arrogance that oozes from him—he’s the kind of man who thinks power is bought, not taken. A bullet between the eyes would be an immediate solution to my irritation.
Problem is, it would also be impulsive and stupid. Not to mention, hiding the death of a billionaire would be a logistical nightmare.
Still, my fingers twitch at my side.
“What the fuck, Marcus?” I demand, my voice sharp enough to cut glass.
To my surprise, Marcus looks genuinely taken aback. “You said to use all resources and anyone available.”
“Anyone who works for us ,” I grind out, my glare shifting to Wesley.
The smug bastard raises his hands in mock surrender. “I come in peace.”
“The Beaumont’s weren’t enemies of Mr. Popov,” Marcus continues, his eyes flickering between Wesley and me. “But… are they enemies of your organization?”
“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” I mutter under my breath before locking eyes with Wesley. The fucker smirks like this is a business deal and not an insult to my very existence.
“It’s common knowledge that you’re mafia, Santo,” Wesley says, extending a hand.
I don’t take it. Instead, I glare at him in silent warning.
He drops his hand with a shrug. “I couldn’t care less about that. It’s War’s issue, not mine.” His smirk widens. “If anything, I want an alliance. A truce. To work together.”
“You shouldn’t be touching my shit, let alone be in my business.”
“But I found something.” He turns back to the computer, fingers flying over the keyboard. “See?”
He pulls up images. Myself. Luca. Nico. Angelo. Maksim. Vaska.
I move before I can think, shoving him aside to take control of the computer. I scroll through document after document, each one confirming a truth I don’t want to fucking believe.
Miroslav has been embezzling from his own company. From NovaRael.
Using my NovaRael as his own personal piggy bank.
The transactions are right there, money funneled into offshore accounts under his name. Years of betrayal buried beneath careful accounting.
But that’s not the worst of it.
My fingers tighten on the mouse as I click through more files. And then I see it.
A date. A time. A location.
“A drop-off.” The words leave me in a whisper.
Wesley leans in. “Looks like Miroslav is supposed to make a delivery at the docks.”
I barely hear him, my mind already moving miles ahead. What the hell is he delivering? What’s valuable enough to risk making a deal against the Bratva? Against Maksim?
He has a death wish. And soon enough, it’ll be fucking granted.
I force myself to step back, inhaling deeply before turning to Wesley.
His stupid, square-jawed face is set in satisfaction
“What do you want?” I ask.
His grin widens. “A collaboration.”
“Of what?”
“I don’t know yet,” he admits, far too fucking casual for my liking. “But I’d like to schedule a meeting in the near future to discuss it further.”
I don’t trust him. Not even a little.
But I can’t deny that he’s just handed me exactly what I needed.
Reluctantly, I nod. “Fine.”
We shake on it, and I resist the urge to break every damn bone in his hand.
As Wesley leaves, I shift my focus to Marcus. He’s tense, watching me carefully, as if bracing for my wrath.
“We gained a lot more with his help than we ever could have alone,” Marcus says, voice cautious.
I watch him for a long moment, then exhale sharply, clapping a firm hand on his shoulder. “You’re forgiven this time. But never again.”
Marcus nods, understanding the weight behind my words.
Without another glance at the computer, I leave, retreating back to my office. As soon as I’m behind the door, I pull out my phone, typing a quick message to Maksim.
‘Found something. Miroslav’s been using NovaRael to funnel money. Deal at the docks. Date, time attached. Also, fucking Beaumont’s involved. Will explain later.’
His response comes instantly. ‘Got it.’
I exhale, sinking into my chair, running a hand down my face.
The truth settles over me like a storm cloud.
Miroslav played us.
But that isn’t what weighs on me the most.
It’s the upcoming drop-off.
What the hell is he moving?
And more importantly—who else is involved?
The remaining days of the month blur into a cycle of intel gathering by day, bloodshed by night. The weight of each kill presses against my soul, but I push it aside.
Instead, I drown myself in my work.
I spend sleepless nights at Angelo’s penthouse, his taunts about his time spent with my wife pushing me further into the darkest recesses of my mind.
Vasilisa is beacon.
And I?
I am nothing but a shadow.
I don’t deserve her light while I can offer nothing, but darkness.