54. Santo
Chapter 54
Santo
F inally. I am finally myself; I can be both monster and man and still have her love. In my arms I look down at my wife, bloody smears are all over her beautiful body. I cradle her gently and her eyes flutter open, her perfect face marred by my blood, her neck and shoulders bruised by the bites I left on her skin, she’s bathed in my blood as if in a ritualistic binding, the possession I feel for her... at having her filled and covered completely with me is overwhelming .
I want her again.
But she needs rest.
I turn on the shower and feel for the warmth of the water before bringing her under the rainfall with me. I place her on her feet and watch as the blood washes away from both of us as if clearing our souls from everything that once tainted our love.
I kiss her—soft, reverent, worshipful. Her eyelids. Her nose. Her cheeks. Her forehead. Her lips. Each touch a vow, each breath a prayer.
She sighs against me, her hands gliding down my back, soothing, accepting, embracing every part of me. The man, the monster, the reaper, the husband.
I’ll spend the rest of my days thanking her. Worshiping her in every breath, every touch, until there is nothing left of me that isn’t hers. The water continues to rain down on our bare bodies each touch from her, washing away my past mistakes and every kiss echoing promises of forgiveness and a shared future.
I am reborn in her love.
She takes refuge in my darkness, and I bask in her light.
***
The bedroom is dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of us, residual blood, and something deeper, something unchanging. Vasilisa sits cross-legged on the bed in my button-down, the fabric draping over her bare thighs. The sleeves are too long, swallowing her delicate wrists as she rolls them up, preparing to tend to me.
She looks soft, ethereal, even with the bruises from the bites I left blooming along her neck, that mark on her cheek from that bastards hands.
I’m glad I shattered them.
I sit on the edge of the bed in nothing but sweatpants, watching her work.
She doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t flinch as she takes my arm and dabs at the slashes along my skin.
“You’ve done this before.” It’s not a question.
She nods, focused, her fingers steady as she presses gauze to a deeper wound on my chest. “Maksim made sure I knew how to handle wounds. I had to be prepared for anything.”
I exhale through my nose, my eyes tracing her features. “He made you a soldier.”
She finally glances up, her expression unreadable. Then, with a small smile, she says softly, “No, he made sure I was the perfect, dutiful wife.”
I scoff, shaking my head. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”
Her lips twitch. “Why would I? It was the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever said to me.”
I huff, but there’s no real irritation behind it. She’s right.
“I take it back,” I murmur, my fingers brushing her thigh. “You’re not perfect.”
She raises an eyebrow, waiting.
I smirk. “You’re mine . That’s what matters.”
A satisfied hum leaves her lips as she continues working. “Still perfect though, you say it every time you touch me.”
I can’t help the chuckle that escapes me.
Then her expression shifts, her brows drawing together. “You need stitches.”
She’s right. “I’ll do it.”
“No.” Her voice is firm but soft. “I will.”
I arch a brow. “Since when do you stitch wounds?”
She sighs, shaking her head. “Since always. You think Maksim wouldn’t have trained me to do that too? He was always injured, always up to something,” She reaches for the suture kit, already threading the needle like it’s second nature.
“Of course he is.” I exhale, bitterness washing over me. But then I watch her. “I learn something new about you everyday.”
She tilts her head, smirking. “And here I thought you already knew everything about me from watching me twenty four-seven.”
The sharp pinch of the first stitch barely registers. She watches me, waiting for a reaction, but I don’t give her one.
“You don’t even flinch,” she murmurs, almost to herself.
“I’ve been through worse.”
Her hands hesitate for half a second, but then she keeps going.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say, quieter now.
“I do.”
There’s no hesitation in her voice. She keeps her focus on my skin, finishing the last stitch with a deft, practiced movement before tying it off.
“Santo,” she says softly.
I tilt my head down, meeting her gaze.
“Are you going to finish it?”
I already know what she’s asking.
“Of course I am,” I say simply.
Her throat bobs as she swallows. “I don’t think Jude is worth it.”
I study her, my expression blank. “Why?”
“Because you already won. Because he’s nothing. And because I don’t want blood on your hands for something so insignificant.”
My jaw tightens. “He touched you, Vasilisa. Left a mark. That makes him very significant.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t want anyone dying because of me. ”
I exhale slowly, my fingers grazing her knee before I tilt her chin up.
“Dea, you don’t seem to understand.” My voice is low, steady. “Anyone who touches you dies; and I relish having that kind of blood on my hands.”
She holds my gaze, searching. She knows me. She knows I am not a good man. That I will never be merciful. But still, she asks. Still, she tries.
Because she is light.
Kindness.
Love.
“ You are everything,” I murmur, my grip firm against her jaw. “The way I love you, the way I belong to you—it’s far more dangerous than simple obsession or devotion.”
Her breath catches.
I brush my thumb over her bottom lip, tilting my head slightly. “Remember, I don’t just devote my life to you, Dea.” My smirk darkens, slow and possessive. “I own you. And you own me right back, both sides of me.”
Her lips part, her pulse fluttering against my fingers.
“You still don’t understand Dea,” my voice drops, my thumb pressing lightly against her throat, feeling the soft, rapid beat of her pulse. “If I ever let someone live after touching you... it wouldn’t be for them, it would be for you.”
She shudders slightly exhaling, “Santo—”
I shake my head, silencing her with a kiss, her soft lips part, but I pull away. Her eyes flutter open meeting mine, “But I can’t do that this time, not even for you Mia Dea. No one is allowed to take my light.”
I pull back, watching the way her lips part, her breath uneven.
She blinks up at me, searching my face, her fingers tightening against my forearm as if trying to hold onto something—onto me.
My final words hang between us, thick and unchallenged.
Her brows furrow slightly, and for the first time tonight, there’s something different in her expression—not fear, not hesitation, but determination.
Slowly, she moves, shifting forward on her knees, her weight pressing against my thighs.
“Vasilisa—”
I don’t stop her.
Her small hands press against my chest, her nails lightly dragging over my skin as she moves deliberately, pushing me back until my spine hits the mattress.
I let her.
Because after everything, after being struck, after almost being taken, after being made to feel powerless—she deserves this.
She deserves to reclaim herself.
Her thighs settle on either side of my hips, her knees pressing into the mattress, straddling me.
And for the first time since she touched me tonight, she is the one in control.
I exhale through my nose, watching her. My hands settle against her waist—not guiding, not taking, just grounding her, letting her breathe in her own power.
Her fingers slide up my jaw, her touch delicate but firm, as if tracing every shadowed part of me, reminding herself that she owns all of me.
“Santo,” she murmurs, her voice barely a breath.
I tilt my head back slightly, allowing her touch, letting her take whatever she needs.
“You have me, Dea,” I murmur, my grip tightening on her waist. “Take what you want.”
***
Spending my day with Wesley Beaumont was the last thing I wanted, not when Vasilisa was home waiting for me.
Last night, with my wife, was everything. And now, the ache of not being with her is a constant throb at the back of my skull.
I can still taste her on my lips, feel the warmth of her body pressed against mine. Wesley prattles on about code words and the dock deal, but my mind is somewhere else—with her, always with her .
I want to be home. With my Dea.
Her asking for mercy on that bastards life weighs on me. My sweet girl, always filled with compassion and light. But I couldn’t give her that mercy on his behalf, and I won’t. She doesn’t understand—she is everything .
If she wanted to leave this all behind, I’d pack up and go. No hesitation. No second thoughts.
I meant it when I said she was my world.
Nothing matters but her.
Wesley’s voice breaks my thoughts and I grimace. He advises that so far, no one has gone after Vasilisa’s sister at Andras we still don’t know what Miroslav is dropping off at the docks, but Wesley has figured out how to intercept Sarkisian’s messages with Miroslav. Wesley is nothing like his brothers—less arrogant, more methodical. We wouldn’t have gotten this far without him. I may just have to give the son of a bitch the collaboration he’s been after.
Everything for tomorrow night is set, from how many men will be at the dock to who we leave with Vasilisa, Katya and Elena, instead of keeping the women together, we decided it’s better to keep them apart. There’s less risk of the Armenians attacking three separate places, plus maintaining their army at the dock. They have to have an inclination that we are on their trail. If they’re smart, they’ll plan for it, but with Wesley intercepting messages, we are one step ahead.
The day stretches on— long , tedious, but productive. Every piece is falling into place. We have the upper hand now.
Tomorrow, this war ends.
After Wesley leaves to prepare, and our men disperse with their orders, I’m left with a weary Angelo and an aloof Maksim. He leans back, feet kicked up on my conference table, his posture relaxed, but I know him better than that. For a man accused of starting this war, he’s keeping his usual cool, calm, collected demeanor.
But his eyes betray him.
They flick toward Angelo in passing glances, but nothing more. Angelo, on the other hand, is easier to read. His tension is obvious, jaw tight, shoulders locked. Something unspoken lingers between them, a weight neither of them wants to acknowledge.
And I feel it too.
“What is it you two aren’t telling me?” I ask.
Angelo meets my eyes for a fraction of a second before smirking and shrugging.
“Nothing little brother. Just preparing Sinner for the take down tomorrow.” He lies through his teeth.
I shift my gaze to Maksim, who meets me head on, unflinching.
“We have this, Amato, the Armenians will be yet another name on the list of enemies who dared to cross us and failed by tomorrow night.” He chuckles, “Why don’t you get home to my cousin and send her my love.”
I glance at Angelo again. My instincts scream at me, they’re hiding something.
“If I find out there’s more to this… if my wife’s life was put on the line because of something you’re keeping from me—” I turn back to Maksim, who raises an eyebrow. “I will kill both of you.”
“Santo—” Angelo starts.
“Big words for a man with so much to lose,” Maksim sneers smirking.
I lean back in my seat, holding his gaze. “I dare you to harm my wife, Korsakov.”
His eyes flicker— fear, just for a second before he covers it up with a tight smile.
“You’re mistaken, Santo. Family is important to me,” he replies smoothly, but there’s an edge to his voice that wasn’t there before.
I let the silence stretch, watching as Maksim shifts, just slightly in his seat.
Angelo clasps his hand on Maksim’s shoulder, his grip firm, grounding. A warning, or reassurance… I can’t tell.
They’re both keeping something from me. And I promise myself, I’ll find out what it is for Vasilisa’s sake.
I push back from my seat. “I’m going home.”
I level them both with a final, cold stare.
“I have a fucker in my basement to kill, and a wife to tend to.”
***
A clean shot between the eyes. That’s what Jude Olsen got after a full day of rotting in his own filth and blood, writhing in pain from his shattered bones. A quick death—the closest thing to mercy I could give. A mercy that wasn’t mine, but my beautiful wife’s request. I call Luca and Romeo to handle the body and take the stairs to my goddess.
I find her in the library, paint smudged on her nose, an adorable contrast to the ethereal beauty of her face. She startles when I step inside, immediately covering her easel from my view.
With a sly smile, I prowl toward her. “You shouldn’t hide things from me, Mia Dea.”
She scrunches up her nose, shaking her head. “It’s a surprise, Santo.”
She presses her tiny hands against my chest, trying to push me back. I let her.
“Please let me show you when it’s done.”
“Alright,” I cave, holding my hands up in surrender before stealing a quick kiss from her lips.
She smiles, and I bask in it.
“You’re home early,” she notices, tilting her head. “Everything ready for tomorrow?”
“Yes. But the less you know, the better.”
She scoffs. “Santo, I’m not made of glass, remember?”
“I know, Dea. But I want you safe in every way—” I step closer, tapping her heart. “Especially here.”
She wraps her arms around me in a tight embrace.
“I love you,” she whispers.
“And I love you,” I press a kiss to the top of her head. “Have you had dinner?”
She buries her face against my chest, mumbling, “I had snack cakes.”
I step back, tucking my fingers under her chin until her eyes meet mine. “That’s not dinner Vasilisa.”
She huffs, but gives in. “Let’s have dinner then, I’m sure Julian made something delectable.”
Rubbing her palms together in excitement, she removes her paint-smudged smock and tosses it on the chaise. I grasp her hand, leading my wife downstairs.
As we reach the bottom step, I take a moment to drink her in.
Her golden waves cascades over her shoulders, her favorite short skirt hugging her hips with those damn pantyhose-the ones that only serve to get in my way. But instead of her usual button-down blouse, she’s wearing what I can only describe as a corseted bra.
It accentuates every delicate curve, her silhouette more sinful than I have any right to handle.
I stop in my tracks. “You can’t wear a bra around Julian.”
She blinks up at me. “I’ve been wearing this all day and its a bustier! ” She shakes her head. “You and your brother know nothing about women’s fashion.”
My brows lift. “My brother has seen you in that?”
She giggles, scurrying into the dining room before I can react. That sound forces the love to well up within me and it is as powerful as ever, if not more so.
In one swift motion, I grab her and turn her to face me, her giggles die at the look on my face.
Her mischievous eyes narrow playfully. “Something on your mind?”
I consider that question sincerely, grasping her hand in mine,
“Just thinking about how lucky I am,” I murmur, squeezing her fingers.
A soft smile plays around her lips as we enter the dining room together.
Julian has prepared a feast, roast chicken, perfectly seasoned, sautéed vegetables, and for dessert, snack cakes with ice cream. Vasilisa’s favorite.
We sit down to eat, and the weight of the day slowly ebbs away. For a little while, there’s no war, no threats, just us . She talks about her new paints, her next piece, always brimming with creativity. We plan vacations, books to read together, ideas I want to bring to life once my latest innovations at ZEUS, Athena, and Artemis roll out. It’s natural, peaceful, real .
As we finish our meal, a rare calm settles over me.
This is what it’s all about—coming home to Vasilisa after a long day of work and strife. The thought of losing this. Losing her because of Miroslav and the Armenians stirs up a quiet fury deep inside me.
Before the darkness can take hold, Vasilisa reaches across the table, her fingers wrapping around mine, grounding me. “Where’d you go just now? What’s wrong?”
I squeeze her hand, shaking my head at her concern. “Nothing, Dea. Just tired from today.”
She lets go of my hand, reluctant, hesitant, but changes the subject to the manuscript I gave her, giving my raging thoughts a moment of respite.
Once dinner is over, I escort Vasilisa back upstairs. She changes into one of my shirts, oversized on her small frame, quickly becoming her favorite nightdress. I follow suit, shrugging out of my suit and pulling on a pair of sweats.
When we settle into bed, she curls against me, head resting over my heart, where she belongs. I wrap my arms around her, holding her close, keeping her safe. As her breathing slows, her body softening into sleep, I make a silent vow. I will do everything in my power to keep this war from touching her. Our future rests in the balance, but I am ready to take down anyone who dares to threaten it.
Tomorrow, it all ends.
For now, though, I let the rhythmic sound of Vasilisa’s breathing lull me into a fitful sleep.