34. Vasilisa
Chapter 34
Vasilisa
T he month flies by, and my brother-in-law—or cognato , as he’s taught me—is surprisingly fun to be around. He visits every day, sending Luca and Romeo away, which saddens me because I miss them. And Nico? I never see him anymore, which hurts. The bond I had with my pseudo brothers wears thin, but time spent with Angelo is an adventure of its own.
He gifted me my very own Glock, and together, we work on my shooting skills. He forces me to spar, making me defend myself, teaching me how to use my speed and small stature to my advantage.
‘If you ever find yourself in danger, Tiny,’ he says, wiping blood from my lip after a particularly rough takedown, ‘make the fucker regret breathing. Go for the nose.’
We even use Santo’s gym, where we work out together—him lifting weights while I run on the treadmill. The endorphins from training are invigorating, a much-needed distraction.
Because Santo never calls me back.
Never answers my goodnight texts.
And with Luca gone, I don’t know what he’s doing, if he’s safe, if he’s thinking of me at all.
Angelo tells me that Santo gets to the penthouse late and leaves early, much like he did when he was here. I hate it. Despise it. But Angelo—though he doesn’t soothe me with pretty words or empty reassurances—distracts me. He has breakfast and lunch with me, pulling my thoughts away from the dangers my husband might be facing. He lets me in, tells me things I don’t think he tells anyone. About how his mother’s death effected him. About why people call him Sinner.
The story is brutal. Terrifying.
It makes my heart bleed for younger Santo.
When Angelo leaves in the afternoons, I paint. I paint every moment, every memory I have with my husband before I lose them all. As short and fleeting as they were, they are my most favorite.
As I slow down on the treadmill, Angelo drops his dumbbells with a heavy clank, wiping sweat from his face with a towel before walking over. He hands me my water bottle that Lila had brought down for me earlier, I take it, but it gnaws at my feelings that she refuses to look me in the eye.
I didn’t have any gym clothes, so Angelo called Cassandra during breakfast one morning to bring me a few outfits. Now I have seven brand-new running shorts with matching tanks, while Angelo sticks to his usual—sweatpants and no shirt. His entire torso is covered in intricate tattoos—not much of his skin is left untouched by ink. But his back…
His back is captivating.
A pair of large, black-and-red angel wings spread across his muscular frame.
Santo has a tattoo.
Santo has a better body.
I like that he only has one large tattoo instead of multiple ones. It lets me see his body better. The way his muscles shift. The way his skin looks when it’s damp. Like the night before he left…
The memory of his fingers between my legs hits me hard.
I can still feel him.
Santo makes me feel feral . I’ve never been so uninhibited in my life, never wanted like that before. But his body is a masterpiece—his smooth chest, his defined abs… those abs…
They’re to die for.
I don’t think I’ve ever gushed over a man like this before. I mean, before Santo, I’d never even been close to having sex.
Sex.
With Santo.
With his cock…
I don’t know how I’ll ever be ready to take it. It’s... big.
I figured, like Luna once said, men with great bodies were compensating. The bigger the man, the smaller the…
But I was so wrong.
So incredibly wrong.
Lost in my fantasies about my husband’s body, I don’t realize I’ve been staring at Angelo until he speaks.
“You like what you see, Tiny?” he smirks, the cockiness dripping from his voice.
Oh, no.
I can feel the heat rushing to my cheeks, but I recover quickly, forcing out a chuckle. I point to the red ruby tattooed on his chest.
“Actually, I like that one.”
He looks down at it fondly and smiles. “It’s one of my favorites too,” he says wistfully before shaking himself out of his reverie. “What do you want to do now?”
“Can we go for a swim?” I ask eagerly.
Angelo chuckles and shakes his head. “Not unless you want a Santo shaped hole through the garage door.”
“If it’ll bring him home, I say yes!”
“We can’t,” he says with finality. “Let’s go.”
We make our way to the elevator and Angelo lets us in, once inside, I watch him quietly.
“Go ahead with your question, Tiny. I know you have one.”
“Did Santo say I can’t swim?”
“No,” Angelo replies simply.
“Then why did you say we can’t?”
Without warning, Angelo stops the elevator and locks eyes with me. His shirtless form is intimidating as he traps me against the wall and his frame. His hot breath tickles my face as he speaks.
“Let me ask you something, Piccola. Do you think I’m a good man?” My heart races, unsure of how to answer.
I blink at him, caught off guard by the question. “I— being a good man is relative,” I answer carefully.
His head tilts slightly, considering my words. “Do you think Santo’s a good man?”
I hesitate for a second, but the answer feels easier. “I’d like to think so.”
The pause lingers between us, heavy and expectant. I can tell he’s about to say something else, but the words catch in his throat. So, I speak first.
“It depends on who you ask and what you’re asking them.” I shift my weight and meet Angelo’s eyes. “For instance, Maksim. If you ask me about him, I’d say he’s a good man. I’ve only known him to be good to me; piggyback rides when I was younger, patching up a scraped knee. Maksim’s always been Mishka to me. But…” I trail off, biting the inside of my cheek. “It wasn’t until I got older that he started using me to date prominent people, to build alliances… or to marry me off to men like Santo.”
Angelo’s gaze lowers as he pulls away from me, but I catch the flicker of something else there, hesitation. It passes quickly, tucked behind the usual ease he wears so well.
“In order to swim with you, it would make Santo think I’m not such a good man.” His tone is light, but the words sit heavier than before. “And when it comes to my brother… I’d like to be a good man.”
I nod slowly, unsure why the sudden shift in his mood makes me uneasy.
But just as I think the conversation is over, Angelo’s eyes linger, watching me a little too intently. His next question catches me completely off guard.
“Has he hurt you?”
I freeze, my heart skipping. “In what way?”
Angelo holds my gaze for a long moment, but there’s something behind his eyes, as if he’s trying to fit together pieces of a puzzle I can’t see.
His silence stretches a little too long.
“Never mind,” he says eventually, but the dismissiveness feels forced.
I almost let it drop, but something about the way he asked lingers. Before I can think too much, Angelo speaks again, softer this time.
“If he ever does… let me know. I’ll remind him how lucky he is.”
I manage a faint smile, but I can’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t joking.
The elevator hums quietly as Angelo releases the stop button, resuming our ascent. I watch him out of the corner of my eye, catching the faint trace of a smile tugging at his lips as if he’s already shaking off the moment.
“Pack your things for tonight and a dress for the charity event tomorrow at Exile.”
“Where are we going tonight?” I ask nervously.
“To my penthouse,” Angelo replies, a hint of amusement in his voice.
The thought of seeing Santo tonight makes my heart soar with anticipation. Ignoring Angelo’s amused chuckle, I rush past him as soon as the doors open and head upstairs to pack.
“I have to shower first, Piccola,” Angelo calls after me. “You should do the same.”
I shower as quickly as possible, toss a robe around me, and rush to pack my things. My hands dig frantically through the closet, pushing aside clothes and shoes in search of my overnight bag. Frustration builds as I tug at the handle, knocking a shelf with my elbow so forcefully that it rattles.
A small white card flutters to the ground.
I stifle a cry, rubbing my elbow as I glance down.
Then my heart stops.
The name Rachel is scrawled in casual script above a red kiss mark, a phone number scribbled underneath.
I stare at it, my chest tightening as my mind races. Rachel. The name tastes bitter in my mouth. A past conquest, no doubt. This has been my room since our wedding. This…this thing shouldn’t even exist in our space.
A hollow laugh escapes me before I can stop it.
Of course.
It had to be from before me. Right?
Because the alternative—the thought that this was from after, from now, makes something curdle in my stomach. My fingers crumple the card before I even register the motion, crushing it into my palm before tossing it into the bathroom trash.
I inhale deeply, forcing down the sting beneath my ribs, and refocus.
Not tonight.
Tonight, I have one thing on my mind. Santo.
With renewed purpose, I hastily pack my bag—nightie, toiletries, makeup. For the charity event, I select one of my sexiest yet elegant dresses, slipping it into a garment bag to keep it pristine. It’s a calculated choice, one designed for a reaction.
A reminder.
He’s spent too long away. Let’s see how long he can keep resisting me.
Picking an outfit for tonight is easy, it feels almost liberating to shed the soft, simple dresses and the jeans-and-oversized-shirts I’d worn in his absence. The modesty, the restraint—it was for him. A silent gesture of respect.
But tonight?
Tonight, I want him looking.
Tonight, I want to be seen.
I descend the stairs slowly, my heart pounding in anticipation at the thought of seeing Santo soon. At the bottom step, Angelo waits, dressed in his usual all-black attire, his posture relaxed but his sharp gaze immediately locks onto my outfit. His dark brows lift in surprise.
“What are you wearing?”
Confused, I glance down at my ensemble. “Clothes.”
Angelo raises a hand as if to stop me. “I know what clothes are, and that’s not it. You’re basically in a bra.”
“It’s a bustier,” I clarify, still unsure of the issue. “And nothing is showing,” I add confidently, handing him my overnight bag.
“Those pants are too tight.”
“And yet they fit me just fine,” I say, gesturing toward the leather that clings to me perfectly.
“Do you always dress like this around the house? Around my brother?” His tone shifts, amusement curling at the edges of his words, his light smoky eyes glinting with mischief.
I stiffen slightly, trying to gauge whether or not he’s actually serious.
“Sometimes,” I answer nonchalantly. “Why does it matter?”
Angelo lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “He’s stronger than I thought.”
My brows knit together. “Excuse me?”
But before I can press for an explanation, he shifts gears, nodding toward my feet. “What’s with the heels?”
I glance down at my three-inch stilettos. “What do you mean?”
“They’re too high for you. You’re going to snap an ankle,” he teases, though I catch the slight edge of concern.
I roll my eyes playfully. “Thank you for your input on my fashion choices. But don’t worry, these heels are quite comfortable.”
Angelo smirks, his teasing unwavering. “Alright, Tiny, do you need anything else before we leave?”
I shake my head, relieved by the easy banter. “Nope, I’m all set!”
The SUV moves smoothly through the bustling city streets, headlights reflecting off the wet pavement. Inside, the conversation flows naturally, Angelo’s voice warm as he shares little pieces of Santo’s past.
“He used to take apart household appliances just to see how they worked,” Angelo says with a chuckle. “Our mother would always hide the blender.”
I smile, picturing a young Santo with an insatiable curiosity, something so deeply him that it makes my heart ache in the best way.
“He was always buried in a book too,” Angelo adds, his tone shifting slightly. “I used to tease him about it, but honestly? I admired it. Still do.”
My chest tightens at the rare glimpse of affection he lets slip.
I tell him about Mimi—how much I miss her, how she’s always been my anchor. We talk, we share, and soon the conversation lulls into a comfortable silence.
Then Angelo breaks it.
“I have to know—were you really trained to be a made man’s wife?” His voice is even, but there’s a layer of something beneath it.
I shift uncomfortably. “Not trained... just never really had a choice. I was always told I’d marry a powerful man. It wasn’t necessarily limited to the syndicate, but it was a high probability.”
“Did you have to learn anything?”
I exhale, mentally sifting through the years of conditioning Maksim forced upon me. “CPR. First aid—glass wounds, knife wounds, bullet holes. Accounting, spreadsheets. Etiquette classes for formal events. Oh, and how to withstand verbal interrogations.” I give Angelo a pointed look. “Guess that one came in handy.”
He laughs. “Who made you take these classes?”
“Maksim.”
Something unreadable flickers across Angelo’s face. “He was grooming you to be the wife of someone like him.” His voice holds no judgment, just understanding. Then his expression darkens slightly. “Although, not teaching you how to use a gun, let alone defend yourself was an idiot move.”
“I don’t think he ever thought I’d be alone or need to use a gun,” I admit quietly.
Angelo’s lips press into a firm line. “I understand. We never taught our sister either.”
I blink, caught off guard. “How is Elena?”
“Stubborn as ever,” he says with a smirk. “She won’t leave until she finishes finals.”
“I get it,” I nod. “I had to defer my studies for this... arrangement.”
Angelo glances at me. “You go to school?”
I lift my chin slightly. “I do.”
“And Santo is okay with you being on campus where other men can see you in that bra you call a shirt?”
Heat rises in my cheeks. “Not exactly,” I admit. “But he agreed to online classes. Hopefully, that’ll be enough for the school. I really don’t want to drop out.”
Angelo’s voice is smooth, certain. “You won’t have to. They’ll accept your terms.”
I narrow my eyes. “You seem pretty sure.”
He smirks. “Let’s just say I’m owed a favor almost everywhere. I’ll cash them in if needed.”
Something about the way he says it makes me believe him.
We pull into a dimly lit parking garage, the soft glow of LED lights reflecting off sleek cars. Angelo maneuvers the SUV into a reserved space near a reflective elevator. The moment we stop, my eyes catch on a figure standing by the doors.
Nico.
Excitement rushes through me, and before I can think, I’m out of the car, crossing the space between us in a heartbeat.
“Nico!”
I throw my arms around him, holding tight, feeling a sudden wave of relief at being in his presence again.
He pats my back, stiff at first, before finally allowing the hug. When I step back, his eyes flick past me toward Angelo, his expression sharpening.
“You brought Santo’s wife here?” His tone is laced with disapproval.
Angelo’s jaw tightens as he steps forward. His voice is smooth, but there’s an unmistakable edge to it. “Yes, Nico. She’s spending the night.”
Nico’s gaze flickers between us before he exhales sharply, pressing the elevator button.
The doors slide open, and I step inside with Angelo. He pulls a black card from his wallet, taps it to a sleek panel, and we ascend.
To the penthouse.
When the doors glide open, my breath catches.
The living room is stunning—two plush black couches, elegant glass end tables, and a state-of-the-art television descending from the ceiling. Maroon curtains frame massive windows, the city skyline stretching endlessly beyond them, glittering like scattered diamonds against the night sky.
A slow exhale leaves my lips.
Angelo’s home is gorgeous, my eyes are immediately drawn to the sleek, modern stainless-steel appliances in the large kitchen I can just make out to my left. A hallway leads off to my right, and I can see a room at the end of it. Angelo turns to me with a warm smile.
“Your home is beautiful,” I say, my voice soft as I take it all in.
“Thank you, Piccola,” he replies, a ghost of pride in his tone. “I’m going to put your things in the guest room. Make yourself at home.”
I sink into the plush couch, my fingers running over the smooth fabric as I glance out the massive windows. The city sparkles below, stretching endlessly into the night. My gaze drifts to the bar against the wall—two glasses sitting on the counter, a quiet remnant of Santo’s presence.
I wonder when he will return. Nervous energy flits about my body at the thought of seeing him again after so long without any contact.
I hope he isn’t upset with me for showing up unannounced.
Angelo’s company has been a welcome distraction, but I can’t shake the ache of not knowing what Santo is thinking and feeling like an afterthought in my own marriage.
Angelo returns, phone pressed to his ear. His voice is calm, laced with that ever-present authority. “Yeah, be here around six in the morning… Yeah, the charity’s at eight. See you then.” He pockets his phone before turning his attention back to me.
“So, Tiny, I made a few calls. Isabella will be here in the morning to do your hair and makeup.”
I blink. “I can do my own hair and makeup, that’s not an issue.”
“I’m sure you can. But this is my treat. Consider it a gift from your cognato.”
The generosity catches me off guard. I offer him a small smile. “Thank you.”
I pause for a moment, trying to keep my voice steady. “When will Santo get here?”
Angelo hesitates, just long enough for the dread to creep in as he takes a seat beside me. “He won’t be coming back here tonight.”
The words hit harder than I expect. My heart drops.
“Where is he?” I ask, my voice thinner now. “Is he going back home? Maybe I should go back there—”
I move to stand, but Angelo’s hand closes around my wrist—firm, grounding. “I don’t think he’ll be there either.”
A knot tightens in my stomach.
“Let’s order a pizza, watch a movie,” he suggests lightly, pulling me back onto the couch. “You’ll see Santo tomorrow at the charity.”
I should nod, should smile, should accept the casual reassurance. But my mind is already spiraling.
Why isn’t he coming?
Is he… angry?
Or is it worse?
A thought claws its way to the surface, sharp and poisonous. Is he with someone else?
My throat tightens. I hate that I even let the thought cross my mind. I don’t want to be that woman—the insecure, jealous wife. But the doubt is there, growing like a vine wrapping around my ribs, squeezing tighter.
“Where’s the restroom?” I manage, my voice quieter now.
Angelo gestures toward the hall. “First door on the left. Guest room is right across from it.”
I nod, forcing my limbs to move, to escape before the emotion overwhelms me.
The cool marble countertop grounds me as I brace against it, staring at my reflection. My face is pale, my lips pressed into a thin line. Get it together.
I splash water on my face, letting the icy bite drag me back to reality. But it doesn’t erase the image in my head—the idea of Santo with someone else. The betrayal I shouldn’t even assume, but can’t help but feel.
Would Angelo tell me if he was?
Or is this whole night meant to distract me?
I hate this.
I step back, inhaling deeply, and head into the guest room. The moment I open my bag, I realize my mistake—I only packed a nightie. No robe. No cover-up.
I stare at the delicate blue silk in my hands, frustration bubbling beneath my skin.
I’d picked this outfit for Santo. What a waste.
Maybe I can just spend the night in this room and avoid any further interaction with Angelo.
I undress and slip into the blue nightie before crawling into the bed. I press my face into the pillow inhaling deeply. It smells like Santo. Like the remnants of something I miss so badly it aches. A single tear escapes, then another.
A sharp knock breaks the moment.
“Are you alright in there, Tiny?”
Angelo.
I swallow the lump in my throat. “I’m okay.”
“Are you coming out or not?”
With a quiet groan, I push myself out of bed, rubbing away any trace of tears before opening the door. I pass by Angelo quickly entering the living room, keeping my gaze averted to hide my redden face, but the moment I face him his expression shifts.
“Do you own anything that covers more than half your body?” His tone is incredulous, laced with amusement.
Heat floods my face, and I wrap my arms around myself. “I forgot my robe at home.”
Without another word, Angelo disappears down the hall and returns moments later, tossing me sweatpants and an oversized shirt. “Wear these.”
Grateful, I hurriedly pull the pants on, cinching the drawstring tight and rolling up the legs to fit. I pause, glancing up at Angelo, who has, thankfully, turned away to give me some privacy. I discard my nightie and put on the burgundy shirt with Stanford written across the chest.
“You went to Stanford?” I ask, surprised.
Angelo shakes his head. “No. Just Santo. Those are his clothes.”
A strange feeling washes over me—bittersweet. I’m wrapped in his scent, his belongings, but not him.
The elevator chimes.
“Pizza’s here,” Angelo announces turning around as the doors slide open to reveal Nico, two boxes in hand.
The moment he sees me, his face hardens. His gaze flicks to Angelo, something dark in his expression as he hands over the pizza.
“I didn’t know what you wanted on yours, so one has pepperoni, and the other is just cheese,” Angelo explains as he sets the boxes down on the coffee table in front of the couch.
Nico remains at the elevator door, his intense gaze fixed on me with an angry glint in his eye that makes my blood run cold.
“You’re really going to keep her here?” He directs at Angelo.
Angelo’s jaw tenses. “Say what you got to say Nico.”
The weight of whatever’s unsaid hangs heavy between them. Their exchange shifts into rapid Italian, their voices sharp, controlled. My name is mentioned more than once, but I can’t piece together what’s being said. Then Angelo’s voice lowers, the final words clear.
“Se vuoi vivere, te ne andrai.”
Nico exhales sharply before turning on his heel and leaving.
I let out a slow breath. “He’s angry at me.”
“He thinks I’m going to fuck you.”
Shock slams into me. “He—what?!”
I barely recover before another wave of panic hits. “He wouldn’t tell Santo that, would he?”
Angelo shrugs, utterly nonchalant. “No. I’d kill him if he did.”
His words should be a joke. But they’re not.
Angelo sets down the pizza, grabbing two plates. “One or two slices?”
The night winds on, we eat more pizza than I thought I possibly could and watch a cop show that Angelo jokingly tells me has taught him all he needs to know about law.
At some point, I end up sprawled across the couch, my feet resting on Angelo’s lap. His arms are thrown over the back of the couch and I’m fully engulfed in the story playing out on the screen that when Angelo grabs my foot, I can’t control the shriek I let out.
I try to pull away, but he keeps a firm grip on me.
“Do you love Santo?” His voice is quiet.
He begins to expertly massage my foot with his skilled hands. Each touch sends waves of relaxation through my body.
I watch him, his intense gaze still focused on my foot as he continues to work his magic.
“I don’t know... I think I could, I want to, but he,” I take a deep breath and will myself not to cry. “He just left me.”
Angelo studies me. “I was in love once.”
I sit up at this confession, pulling my foot away and crossing my legs in front of me.
“What happened?”
His eyes darken. “She left.”
Something in his gaze unsettles me.
“I’m sorry. Do you know where she is now?”
“Florida,” he answers immediately.
“Why did you bring her up now?” I lean forward as if the closer I get to him the more I can read.
He looks away, his eyes shadowed.
“When we first met, we spent a week together. We ended up on a couch like this, with her feet in my lap.” He looks at me again, the intensity of his stare penetrating me. “This moment just reminded me of her.”
A chill runs up my spine.
“Don’t worry Tiny, I don’t want you. “You look nothing like her,” he shrugs nonchalantly his familiar grin plastered on his face.
I let out a breathless laugh. “Good. Santo would maim you.”
“He could try.” Angelo smirks. “Now, time for bed, it’s getting late, and we have an early morning tomorrow.”