36. Vasilisa
Chapter 36
Vasilisa
E xile in the daylight is vastly different from its nighttime counterpart. The club transforms under the sun, its dark, electric energy stripped away to reveal elegance beneath. Large windows let in natural light, illuminating polished floors and carefully curated decor. The strobe lights and shadows are gone, replaced by a refined, sophisticated atmosphere. Tables are arranged for the charity auction—bidding on trips, artwork, and rare collectibles, all to support public schools. Maksim hosts this event once a year, though with everything happening, I half-expected him to postpone it.
Angelo returns to my side, tucking his phone away. His face is neutral, but something in his eyes is off—troubled.
“Everything okay?”
He flashes an easy smile. “Yeah, Tiny, all good. Why don’t you go say hi to your cousin? Bid on whatever you want, I got it if you win.” He nods toward a table where Katya is inspecting a painting, her lips pursed in thought.
I smooth out my dress and prepare myself. I love my cousin, but Katya has always made it clear that we are not equals. We’re only a year apart, yet she carries herself like she’s worlds ahead of me. She’s effortlessly put together, her rose-pink dress shimmering under the lights, her posture impeccable.
As I approach, she turns, and to my surprise, a wide smile spreads across her face. She glides toward me with practiced grace, looping her arm through mine as we move through the room.
“Mrs. Amato,” she drawls, her tone teasing, “how’s married life treating you?” Her dark blue eyes sparkle as her brows rise and fall.
“It’s treating me well,” I lie with a small smile.
“Where’s that husband of yours?” She scans the room until her gaze lands on Angelo, deep in conversation with Maksim. “I thought you married the other one.”
“I did. Santo had to work, so Angelo brought me.”
Katya rolls her eyes. “That’s all these men do.”
I huff a quiet laugh. “How have you been? Are you alright?” My voice softens at the memory of her near-abduction.
She waves a dismissive hand. “Please. If I locked myself away every time my life was threatened, I’d be a hermit.” She chuckles, utterly unfazed. I envy her—her fearlessness, the way she stands unshaken. Meanwhile, all I seem to do is worry. About Santo, about my pseudo-brothers, about Mishka. The weight of it is constant.
Before I can respond, we collide with someone, the woman’s drink spilling across Katya’s dress.
“What the hell?” Katya shrieks, stepping back and letting go of my arm, staring down at the spreading stain.
“I am so sorry,” the redhead gasps, grabbing a napkin and dabbing at the fabric.
Katya snatches the napkin from her and storms off toward the restroom, leaving me alone with the stranger.
She’s beautiful—striking, really. Her auburn hair cascades over bare shoulders, her black dress a little too tight, a little too casual for an event like this. Her cat-like eyes crinkle as she offers a sheepish smile.
“I’m so clumsy. Sorry about your friend.”
“She’s my cousin. And accidents happen,” I reply, keeping my voice light.
Her expression shifts, recognition lighting up her face. “Oh, you must be Vasilisa.”
Something in her tone makes my stomach turn.
She extends a hand, her voice syrupy sweet. “I’m Rachel. Santo has told me so much about you.”
My pulse stutters.
Santo told her about me.
I take her hand out of habit, my mind spinning. Rachel . The name clicks into place. The kiss mark on the card Rachel. The woman I brushed off as a past fling. But he spoke to her—about me.
“When?” The question comes out sharper than I intend.
She tilts her head. “When what?”
“When did he tell you about me?” My voice is even, but my heart pounds against my ribs.
Rachel’s lips twitch, as if she enjoys this. “Oh. This is awkward.” She bites her lip in mock sympathy. “Don’t be upset—that’s just how these men are.”
“When?” My patience snaps, my tone turning cold.
Her eyes flash. “The day before—and after —your wedding.”
The words slam into me, but she doesn’t even look apologetic.
“I don’t believe you,” I say stepping past her, intent on leaving, but she grabs my wrist.
“Was he home on your wedding night?” she murmurs, her grip tightening. “No? Because he was at Opulent. With me .”
A sharp pain blossoms in my chest.
“Everything okay?” Luca’s voice cuts in, his attention locked on Rachel’s hand around my wrist. She releases me instantly, all saccharine smiles as I feel my mind shut down, retreating from the conversation entirely.
“We’re good,” she says breezily before turning and walking away.
Luca touches my shoulder, snapping me out of my daze. “Vasilisa. What did she say?”
I barely register his concern. My throat is tight. “I want to go home. Can you take me home?”
His brows furrow. “What happened?”
I swallow hard. “What’s Opulent?”
Luca stiffens, eyes flicking away for half a second. A second too long.
He exhales. “It’s a strip club. Angelo and Santo own it.”
The air is sucked from my lungs.
I feel the tears pushing forward, but I refuse to let them fall. Not here. Not now.
“Take me home.”
I move toward the exit, but Luca steps in front of me, his voice low. “Vasilisa, what did she say?”
My hands curl into fists. “If you don’t take me home, I’ll ask Angelo to do it.”
Luca studies me, his jaw tight. Finally, he steps aside and follows me out.
The car ride is long, suffocating. The silence is only broken by the occasional sound of Luca typing on his phone at red lights. My own phone sits useless in my lap—I have no one to call. No one to turn to.
By the time we arrive, I barely register the guards ignoring me, Amelia’s wary gaze as I pass her, the quiet stillness of the house that has felt more like a prison than a home.
I should pack. I should leave.
But I have nowhere to go.
My parents are fugitives. My sister is far away. My phone, stripped of all contacts, is a cruel reminder of my isolation. Every friend I’ve made here? Loyal to Santo. And more than likely, every single one of them knew .
I am utterly and completely alone.
I push open the door to my bedroom—and stop cold. Santo sits at the edge of my bed, waiting.
“Santo, what are you doing here?” My voice is sharper than I intend, but I don’t bother hiding it.
His jaw tightens. “What? Home ?”
“In my room is what I meant. But yes, also home,” I fire back, bristling at the audacity in his tone—like I’m the one intruding. “I’m surprised you aren’t working. Or at Opulent .” The venom in my voice is undeniable.
His brow furrows. “Opulent?”
I cross my arms. “Yes. Weren’t you there on our wedding night?”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even move. His gaze stays locked onto mine, unreadable.
But I see him—disheveled, tired, a far cry from the put-together man I met months ago. His shirt hangs open, his knuckles are scabbed, dark circles shadow his eyes, and the stubble on his jaw is more than a couple of days old. He looks wrecked.
Good.
I refuse to let that sway me.
“You don’t have to answer,” I say breezily, striding past him toward the closet. “Rachel already let me know you went to see her.”
I yank out a suitcase and toss it onto the bed beside him. Still, he doesn’t react.
“Not going to deny it?”
“No.”
That’s all he says. No.
I see red.
My fingers curl into fists at my sides, but I don’t let them shake. Instead, I turn, standing in front of him, meeting his storm-dark gaze with fire.
“I didn’t realize this arrangement was an open one.”
His jaw flexes. His eyes narrow. “Didn’t you?”
“No, Santo, I didn’t,” I bite out.
His gaze sharpens, and then he reaches behind him, pulling out a delicate blue nightie, dangling it between his fingers. “Then explain this.”
I frown, thrown off. “What?”
“This was on the living room floor at my brother’s penthouse.”
A laugh bursts from me—harsh, bitter. “That’s not even what you think it is.”
“Isn’t it?” He tosses the nightie onto the bed as he stands stalking toward me.
I instinctively step back, fury burning through me, licking up my throat.
“You think that low of me? That I would sleep with your brother?”
“I think if he commanded it, your duty to the family would force you to.”
The sheer audacity of it sends my control snapping. I shove at his chest, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t budge. Instead, I force my way around him, nearly shaking with rage.
“I have a mind of my own, Santo!”
His head tilts. “Do you?”
My breath stutters in disbelief. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
Santo crosses his arms over his chest, his jaw locked tight, eyes dark as a storm. “Are you just polite to every man you meet, or are you being the dutiful, proper wife of the underboss?”
I stare at him, my pulse roaring in my ears. “I’m not going to apologize for being kind and wanting to make friends.”
His eyes flash. “You’re always making friends. You’re too friendly.”
I shake my head with a scoff and head to the bathroom, grabbing the stupid card I found and toss it at him, he ignores the paper ball as it falls to the floor. “You act like I’m out here parading myself around!”
“You think I’m wrong?” He grabs the paper off the floor, “Explain Ivanov.”
“Pietro is my friend ,” I say, my voice firm.
Santo opens the paper, rolls his eyes and tosses it back on the ground before continuing his interrogation, “What about the way you went to touch his face?”
It takes me a second to even remember what he’s talking about. Then it clicks—the morning the war was announced, Pietro’s bruised face in the kitchen. “He was injured. ”
“And the way he looks at you?”
I throw my hands in the air. “I can’t control how others look at me, and neither can you!”
His voice drops, lethal. “Yes. I can .”
Santo tilts his head, a dark chuckle leaving his lips. “You think my brother won’t die for fucking you?”
My breath catches.
“Then I’d be in charge.” He steps closer, voice a quiet threat. “And what would happen to you then?”
I lift my chin, refusing to back down. “What would happen to me, Santo?”
He shrugs, “Depends on how many more friends you decide to make.”
A sharp, bitter laugh rips from me. “I can’t make friends, Santo. As soon as I do, they all magically disappear on ‘vacations.’ ”
I storm forward, and for the first time, he steps back. But I don’t let up.
I stab a finger into his chest. “You deleted Luna from my life.” Stab. “Lila came back and won’t even speak to me.” Stab. “You send guards away like they’re disposable pawns.” Stab. “You force the staff to ignore me like I don’t even exist.” Stab.
The last words rip from me, raw and aching. “And then you leave me for months at a time.”
Santo’s expression flickers—his shoulders tense, his mouth parts like he’s about to say something, but I don’t let him.
“I feel so alone, Santo.” My voice cracks, the tears breaking free. “This doesn’t feel like a marriage. It doesn’t even feel like a real relationship.”
His storm-dark eyes soften, guilt creeping into the lines of his face. “I don’t know how to be in a relationship,” he mutters, voice low.
I let out a hollow laugh. “Oh, please. Yes, you do.”
His brow furrows. “Casual sex doesn’t equal a relationship.”
Casual sex. The words are a slap to the face.
“Yet you have the nerve to complain about me being ‘friendly’ ?”
His jaw ticks. “I haven’t been friendly with anyone since we were arranged.”
I meet his gaze, unflinching. “And I’ve had two relationships and no sex.”
His nostrils flare. “I’m supposed to believe that?”
I shake my head, done. “I don’t care what you believe anymore.”
Santo exhales sharply, his frustration mounting. “I just find it hard to believe, given the way you’ve thrown yourself at me.” He steps closer, his voice dropping. “Or is that part of your duty as a wife?”
“Enough, Santo!” I snap, my voice shaking.
But he doesn’t stop, his accusations cutting deep. “You’re jealous of women who meant nothing to me, yet you have active relationships with every man you meet.”
“I do not! ” My throat tightens. “You’re jealous because I smile or laugh or banter with anyone.”
Santo’s gaze darkens. “Because all those things should be reserved for me. ”
I let out a sharp, exhausted chuckle. “My God, Santo, you have to reel that in. I’ve tried for you.”
I lift my chin, meeting his gaze head-on. “I stayed up late waiting for you. I made dinners you never ate. I had doors slammed in my face. I tried to make something out of nothing—because I’m your wife.”
Santo’s jaw tightens. “And what a dutiful wife you are.”
The words are a blade.
His tone is bitter, dismissive, and it lights a new fire in my veins.
He turns, heading toward the sitting room, but I chase after him.
“Why do you keep using that as an insult?” My voice quivers with anger, frustration—pain.
Santo stops, turning slowly. “Because you were born into this.” His voice is sharp, controlled, but beneath it, something breaks. “You were bred to be the perfect, obedient wife.”
His eyes flicker, his fists clenching. “You don’t feel anything for me. You don’t love me.”
I take a step back, stunned. “Oh, and you do?” My voice wavers, the words daring, bitter. “Santo, you tolerate me at best.”
Santo steps closer, fists clenched at his sides, but his expression softens, raw and unguarded.
“You think I tolerate you?” His voice is low, rough, weighted with frustration and something far deeper. “You think I can just tolerate the woman who consumes my every thought? My every breath?”
I freeze. His words are thick, vibrating with an intensity that makes my pulse stutter.
“You don’t understand, Vasilisa.” His jaw flexes, his dark eyes burning into mine. “I don’t need air when you’re near because you are the air. You fill every space, every moment, with light. Without you, there’s nothing . No life. No meaning.”
His chest rises and falls sharply, his control slipping.
“From the moment I saw you at Exile, everything changed. I couldn’t breathe—not because you suffocated me, but because I needed you more than anything . Every time you’re in a room, it’s like nothing else exists but you .” He swallows hard, his voice a rasp. “When I said ‘I do,’ it wasn’t because I had to. It was because, in that moment, I knew —I couldn’t spend another day without you tied to me. Without you being mine. ”
His voice cracks, exposing the depth of what he’s held back, what he’s fought against.
“I tolerate you?” He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “No, Vasilisa. I’ve loved you in ways I never thought possible, and it terrifies me. If love means losing control—if it means needing someone so much it burns a hole through my heart—then yes, I love you more than I can handle.”
He steps closer, the air between us charged, suffocating. “But it’s you—” his voice lowers to something dangerous, something aching, “ you are the one who tolerates.”
The silence that follows is thick, stretching between us like something tangible. My lungs forget how to work, my pulse hammering so loudly I can barely hear.
He loves me.
The words linger, refusing to settle, refusing to make sense. My body feels weightless, my mind at war with itself. I want to believe him.
I want to desperately.
But I can’t move. I can’t speak.
Santo doesn’t push. Instead, he exhales, forcing something down before he murmurs, “I want to show you something. Get dressed—something suitable for outdoors.”
And just like that, he turns to leave.
“Wait,” I breathe, my voice barely above a whisper.
He stops.
I turn my back to him indicating the zipper of my dress. “Can you?”
For a second, he doesn’t move. Then, slowly, he steps behind me.
His fingers graze my spine as he pushes my hair aside, knuckles trailing heat down my skin. My breath hitches, goosebumps rising in the wake of his touch. When he finally tugs the zipper down, the brush of his fingers feels different—not just intimate, but deliberate. Meaningful.
My heart stumbles, my throat tight.
He loves me .
His breath lingers near my neck, the space between us humming with the weight of everything unsaid.
This is what I wanted.
But I hesitate. I can’t afford to believe in fairytales. Not yet.
Still… my heart is already slipping. Hoping. Yearning.
His voice is low, smooth, a quiet vibration against my skin. “Meet me in the kitchen. Bring a jacket.”
And then he’s gone, leaving me standing there, undone, my mind a tangled mess.