35. Santo
Chapter 35
Santo
A month away from Vasilisa is torture.
Thirty fucking days , and I’m unraveling.
If I hear one more word from Angelo about how much of an idiot I am for leaving her, I will commit fratricide. I don’t need my brother cataloging every damn thing I’ve missed—her habits, her moods, the way she’s been waiting for me. I know .
Instead of going home, I steer toward Luca’s, telling myself I’ll take a nap, shower, and then go to that stupid charity event. It’s not avoidance. It’s not cowardice.
It’s fear.
Fear of what I might find when I walk through that door.
But as I drive through the city, my grip tightens on the wheel, my pulse hammering louder than the engine. I think about her . About Vasilisa in our bed, curled up, her hair spread across the pillow. About crawling in beside my gorgeous wife, burying my face in her neck, whispering apologies against her skin; begging for forgiveness for abandoning her while worshiping her body for days on end.
To hell with the event. To hell with everything.
I jerk the wheel, making a sharp, reckless turn. My foot slams on the accelerator, sending the car flying down the street. I need to see her. I need to be home.
By the time I hit the winding drive leading up to my estate, my pulse is a thunderstorm in my veins. The tires screech as I slam on the brakes, barely putting the car in park before I throw the door open.
I take the steps two at a time. I don’t care if I wake her. Dio, let me wake her. Let her be in bed, warm and waiting. Let me see those sleepy, confused eyes as I pull her into me. Let me hold her.
The house is silent.
The kind of silence that feels wrong.
My stomach clenches as I reach her bedroom door and shove it open, flicking on the lights.
Empty.
My breath catches.
I step inside, moving fast, searching for anything—some sign that she’s still here. The bed is perfectly made, the sheets undisturbed. Her things are scattered across the room, her clothes tossed aside—but the closet— I yank it open.
Her overnight bag is gone.
A sharp, jagged breath rips from my lungs.
No. No. No.
She wouldn’t leave me . She couldn’t.
Without thinking, I bolt from the room, ripping open the door to the guest bedroom.
Empty.
My pulse roars in my ears, drowning out the stillness.
My phone is in my hand before I even realize it, my fingers dialing on instinct.
Luca.
He picks up on the second ring.
I don’t let him speak. “Where is she?”
There’s a beat of hesitation. “Angelo said he told you.”
My breath turns sharp. “Told me what?”
Impatience coils like barbed wire in my chest.
“He took her to the penthouse. I thought she was with you when you didn’t show up here.”
I don’t bother responding. I hang up and immediately dial Angelo.
It rings.
And rings.
And rings.
Voicemail.
I try again.
Same fucking thing.
A growl rips from my throat as I shove my phone away and bolt down the stairs, my body a live wire, my head pounding with a single, blinding thought—
I need to see her. I need to get to her. Now.
I don’t remember the drive, only that I press my foot to the floor, weaving recklessly through traffic. The city blurs past, nothing existing outside of my singular goal.
By the time I tear into the parking garage of the penthouse, it’s eight in the morning and Nico is not at his post.
Something in my gut twists.
I shove the feeling aside, storming toward the elevator. Tapping my access card on the panel, the doors sliding open as I step inside, my pulse hammering in my ears.
The moment the doors open, it hits me.
Her scent.
Warm. Sweet. The unmistakable perfume that clings to her skin, the scent that has haunted me since I met her.
She’s here.
My breath leaves me as I move, following the faintest trace of her. I need to see her. To touch her. I rush toward the guest room, her scent strongest here. My heart slams against my ribs as I grab the handle and turn—
Empty.
The room is void of her presence.
My relief evaporates.
“Vasilisa!”
Her name bursts from my throat as I whirl around, heading for the master bedroom. My mind spins, my blood hot with rage, my vision already darkening at the edges.
If she’s in his bed—
I will rip her from his arms and kill my own brother with my bare fucking hands.
I shove the door open—
Empty.
My stomach churns.
She isn’t here.
I stagger back into the living room, frustration, jealousy, and an all-consuming rage rolling through me in violent waves.
Then I see it.
Two mugs of coffee.
Empty plates.
My hands curl into fists as I reach for one of the mugs, my fingers brushing over the ceramic.
Warm.
Still fucking warm.
My heart stumbles in my chest as my eyes flick to the delicate lipstick print on the rim.
She was just here.
The realization slams into me like a freight train. I sink onto the couch, my lungs dragging in uneven breaths.
Then something else catches my eye.
Blue.
On the floor, crumpled by the couch, is a silk nightgown.
Hers.
Vasilisa’s.
The delicate lace trim, the fabric that usually frames her body skin tight, softness that I’ve traced as I carried her up the stairs...
And now it’s discarded.
Here.
In his living room.
A roar builds in my chest, my vision blurring as red creeps into the edges of my mind.
He took her.
Brought her here .
Without my knowledge.
Without my permission.
The betrayal cuts through me, jagged and merciless, and before I can stop myself, my fingers are dialing again.
This time, he answers.
He doesn’t speak.
Neither do I—not at first.
I force the words out, my voice dangerously low, barely contained. “Where. Is. My. Wife?”
There’s no hesitation. No guilt. Only that cool, fucking infuriating calm.
“We’re at Exile. Charity event.” A pause. Then, smoothly, “Get your shit together and get here.”
The call disconnects before I can respond.
I stare at the phone in my hand, my pulse hammering, my blood still boiling—
But one thing is certain.
I’m not taking orders from Angelo .
I’m not going to Exile.
I’m going home.
And when she walks through that door, she’s going to face her husband.