51. Vasilisa
Chapter 51
Vasilisa
W hen I wake up, Santo is already gone. I half-expected to feel the warmth of his body beside me, but instead, I find only the soft imprint of where he was. His absence lingers, but his text is waiting for me.
‘Be home early’
The house is alive again, filled with staff bustling in and out, the air thick with the weight of too many armed men. I know why they’re here; Angelo, Maksim, and my husband are planning something, and whatever it is, it requires an army.
I should probably be paying more attention to the rising tension in the house, but instead, I decide to spend the morning in the library, painting.
It’s a gift for Santo. A small thank you for yesterday, for all the surprises, for making me feel like something precious. I want it to be perfect.
I angle my easel carefully, just out of view of the security cameras. I know Santo watches them constantly, and I don’t want him to see the painting until it’s finished. Just as I lift my brush, Elena flings herself onto the chaise like a starlet in distress.
“I’m bored, and the house is filled with men who ignore me,” she announces with a dramatic sigh, throwing her head back like she might faint. “Let’s go out for lunch.”
I put down my brush and wipe my fingers on my smock. I don’t particularly want to leave since Santo will be home soon, but the pleading look on Elena’s face makes me cave, “Alright, just let me text Santo.”
Elena immediately perks up, flashing a triumphant grin. But when I pull out my phone, there’s already a message waiting for me.
‘ Take Romeo and Riot with you, only go to La Serenata and back home.’
I frown. A second later, another text pops up.
‘Please.’
I give a knowing look at one of the cameras and blow a kiss before relaying Santo’s instructions to Elena.
***
Lunch at La Serenata is wonderful as I indulge on an extra helping of tiramisu. It’s perfectly creamy, melting on my tongue in decadent bites. I take my time savoring it, ignoring Elena’s teasing look as I scrape the last of it onto my spoon.
“It’s a crime how much you love that dessert,” she comments.
“A crime would be leaving any behind,” I reply smoothly, washing it down with my third glass of water.
I quickly realize that was a terrible mistake. My bladder is now achingly full. I stand, excusing myself from Elena’s chatter. Romeo gives me a pointed look, but I shake my head before he can insist on escorting me.
“I think I can survive the ladies’ room alone,” I tease.
He doesn’t look convinced, but after a tense second, he lets it go.
I slip inside, sighing at the quiet. The cool air is a relief, a break from the warmth of the crowded restaurant. By the time I finish washing my hands, my body is more relaxed, the pleasant heaviness of a good meal settling over me. The door swings open; I glance up in the mirror, expecting some stranger, but instead, I freeze.
Jude.
The name screams through my mind, but my lips don’t move. His blond hair is unkempt, dirtied and tangled in a way that speaks of neglect. His once sharp, piercing blue eyes are sunken, hollow, filled with something dark and wild. The patchy stubble along his jaw makes him look like a man who’s been running for far too long. My heart slams against my ribs.
The Bratva and Cosa Nostra are hunting him.
My husband is hunting him.
I can’t be in here with him. There’s nowhere to run, except past him, and he knows it. I can’t stay here either. I can’t be trapped with him.
Jude’s eyes follow me, predatory and cruel, as I take slow, measured steps backward toward the wall. A sick grin spreads across his face as he steps forward.
“Stay away from me, Jude,” I say, my voice shaky but strong. “Whatever it is you think you want… you don’t want to do this.”
I brace for him to lunge, but he doesn’t. Instead, he leans against the door, his grin widening. The color drains from my face as his hand dips into his pocket and pulls out a syringe. The light from the fluorescents above catches the needle, and I blink back the sharp sting of fear.
“You’re right, Vasilisa,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough. “I don’t want to do this. But sometimes in life, we don’t get a choice.”
My breath shudders. I should scream, but I know no one will hear me over the chatter outside.
Think.
I reach for the calm demeanor Angelo drilled into me. Control under pressure, never letting an enemy see fear.
“But Jude,” I manage, keeping my voice even, “you do have a choice. You can walk away now, and no one would ever know.”
For a second, something flickers across his face. Uncertainty.
I take my chance.
I lunge, my fist colliding with the syringe, knocking it from his grip. It skids across the bathroom floor. Jude lunges, wrapping an arm around my waist as I scramble for the door. His hold is tighter than Angelo’s when we spar—but I remember my training. I drive my elbow up, aiming for his nose. It lands hard. His head snaps back, his grip loosens, and I twist free, sprinting for the door.
Before I reach it, pain explodes at my scalp. Jude yanks me back by my hair. I cry out, tears springing to my eyes as he spins me and slams me against the wall. “I told you,“ he snarls, rage distorting his face. “You don’t have a choice.”
His backhand cracks across my cheek, and sharp pain snaps through my skull. The iron taste of blood fills my mouth as I bite down on my tongue. My head swims, but I fight to stay upright. Jude grips my arm and wrenches me toward the door. But before he can make another move, the restaurant erupts. Screams. Shattering glass. Gunfire.
Jude’s grip is ripped from me, and I barely catch a glimpse of Romeo slamming his fist into Jude’s face before the room fills with smoke. Gunfire rings out, rapid pops cutting through the chaos.
Jude lunges toward me. I drop to the floor. Another shot fires—closer this time. Jude staggers, clutching his shoulder before collapsing.
The gunfire ceases. The sharp screech of tires peels into the distance. Hands clamp around me and then I’m lifted; panic flares. I scream, my limbs swinging, disoriented by the smoke and the ringing in my ears.
“Shh.” A voice, warm and steady. His scent—spicy vanilla and something deeper, something safe.
Santo.
I cling to him, my hands fisting into his shirt as I blink through the haze, my eyes locking onto his face.
“I have you, Dea.”
Santo’s stormy gray eyes pierce into mine, grounding me. I bury my face against his chest, inhaling deeply, desperate to reclaim even the smallest semblance of calm.
I wrap my legs around him, clinging tightly as he carries me out of the restaurant. Blood and glass stain the floor, and I shut my eyes. I don’t want to know who’s been hurt. Or worse—who’s been…
I can’t stomach it.
Santo lowers me into the backseat of an SUV, and as my eyes flutter open, I meet Luca’s gaze in the rearview mirror. His eyes widen in shock before his brows knit together in anger. I don’t understand why.
Santo slides in next to me, then, without hesitation, lifts me onto his lap.
“You should probably let her—” Luca starts, but Santo cuts him off.
“She stays on my lap. You’ll have to drive slow,” he grits out, his arms locking around me like a shield. His fingers brush over my cheek, circling gently. I wince. The fury in his eyes is instantaneous. When he swipes his thumb over my lip, I see what’s upset them both.
Blood.
My blood.
As the adrenaline wears off, the pain sets in. My face throbs, my arm aches, and exhaustion pulls at my bones. I just want to go home, sink into a warm bath, and forget.
“We’re almost there, Dea,” Santo murmurs, his lips brushing my temple. As if he can hear my thoughts. As if he knows exactly what I need. The low rumble of his voice is a comfort, a steady hum beneath the sharp, pulsing ache that follows every beat of my heart.
Luca takes a sharp turn, and my breath hitches. But Santo’s grip tightens, anchoring me. His hand finds my cheek again, his thumb gliding back and forth in slow, soothing strokes.
Out of nowhere, the tears come. Hot and heavy, they spill down my cheeks, disappearing into the fabric of Santo’s shirt. His body stiffens beneath me at the first splash of them.
“Hey,” he murmurs, softer now. “Don’t cry, Dea.”
But it’s too late. The dam has already broken. My sobs come fast and violent, shaking my body so hard that Santo has to tighten his hold just to keep me from falling apart.
“We’re here,” Luca announces gruffly as the car jerks to a stop. He shuts off the engine, then exits, slamming the door behind him without another word.
Santo doesn’t move. He stays there, holding me, letting me unravel against him, soaking his collar with my grief, my fear, my pain.
“I’m sorry,” I hiccup between sobs. “I shouldn’t have told Romeo not to come with me, I—”
“It’s not your fault.” Santo’s voice is sharp, leaving no room for argument. He grips my chin, tilting my face until our eyes meet. His stare is raw, burning, filled with something so intense it sends a shiver down my spine. “You have nothing to apologize for. No matter what you do , no matter where you are, no one is allowed to touch you.”
I cling to him as he carries me inside, as if letting go might send me spiraling. Maybe it would.
Maybe Santo knows it, too.
Because he doesn’t put me down. Not as he strides up the stairs. Not as he carries me into our bedroom. Not even as he draws a bath, placing me on the counter for only a moment before stripping off his clothes, then mine.
Then he settles into the water with me, pulling me against his chest.
He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to.
He just worships.
A warm, sudsy washcloth glides over my skin, slow and careful, as if I’m something fragile. His lips find the back of my neck, pressing soft, lingering kisses between each stroke.
His fingers trace the bruises on my arm, heat radiating from his body as if his very anger might burn them away.
He kisses me then, a quiet press of lips that tastes like devotion, like rage barely restrained, like the silent promise of mine.
And then, as if I’m made of glass, he lifts me from the tub.
He dries me, slow and gentle. Dresses me in my clean pink cotton shorts and tank. Then places me in bed, tucking me beneath the covers before pressing a kiss to my forehead.
I watch as he dresses as if he’s going for a ride sans jacket.
“Where are you going?” My voice comes out dry, my throat raw from hours of silence.
Santo tightens the laces of his boots, his movements precise, deliberate. Lethal. “We have work to do,” he says simply. “We’re assembling our men. This attack was a warning and we’re not waiting for another.”
My stomach twists. “Elena?” I ask, fear creeping into my voice.
“Safe.”
I hesitate. “Vincenzo?”
“Safe.”
Relief floods through me, loosening the tight coil in my chest. They’re okay.
I swallow hard, then whisper, “Will you please be careful?”
Santo finishes tying his boot and stands, striding toward me. His hand slips into my hair, fingers threading through the strands in a gesture so tender, so at odds with the storm brewing behind his eyes.
“I’ll be careful.” His lips brush against mine, soft, fleeting, before he steps back. Then he reaches for something on the nightstand. “Here. For the pain”
I blink as he hands me a pill and a glass of water I hadn’t even noticed was there. I take the pill, washing it down with a slow sip, my eyes never leaving him, before I can say anything else; he’s gone.
***
When I wake, the room is pitch black.
The last time I checked, it was four in the afternoon. I reach blindly for my phone, the screen glowing harshly in the dark.
2:00 AM.
There’s no way I slept for ten hours.
My body feels heavy, sluggish, my stomach twisting with hunger. I need to use the bathroom. Maybe even grab a snack cake, something simple to ease the weight of the day pressing down on me. I slip out of bed, padding toward the bathroom. When I flick the light on, I freeze.
I gasp.
The mirror reflects someone I barely recognize.
A shadow of a bruise blooms high on my cheekbone, the faint mark of a backhand that shouldn’t have landed. My arm is marred with deep, purple fingerprints. His fingerprints.
I lift a trembling hand, brushing my fingers over the bruises. The moment I press against my skin, a sharp sting shoots through me. I hiss in pain. My breath comes shallow, uneven.
Jude.
Jude did this to me.