55. Vasilisa
Chapter 55
Vasilisa
T he house is quiet in the morning. Santo and I have breakfast together, the silence stretching between us, thick but not uncomfortable. Later, he trails beside me in the garden as I pick flowers for the vases around the house, his movements slow, almost hesitant. In the library, he lounges on the chaise, watching as I paint. His eyes never leave me—not once, not even when I glance at him.
It would be romantic if it didn’t feel like goodbye. As if he were committing me to memory.
The afternoon leads us to our bedroom. I sit cross-legged on the bed, scrolling through my laptop, looking up the classes I’ll have to retake and the new ones I’ll need to add to my roster. Across the room, Santo lingers in the closet, pretending to busy himself with something, but I can feel his gaze, searing into me.
Burning a hole right through me. I snap the laptop shut. My eyes meet his. He doesn’t even bother to look away. Doesn’t pretend.
He just stares.
“What is it?” I huff, frustration creeping into my voice. “I know tonight is big, but you’re acting like you’re going to die, Santo.”
He strides toward me, his expression masked, but I don’t stop.
“Are you not confident in the plan you guys made?”
Instead of answering, Santo takes the laptop from my lap and sets it on the nightstand with careful precision. Then, without hesitation, he climbs onto the bed, pressing forward until I’m forced to fall back.
He moves over me, his body settling between my legs, caging me in. The weight of him, the heat, the way his forearms press into the mattress on either side of my head—it should feel suffocating, but it doesn’t. It feels inevitable.
His eyes rake over my face, scanning, memorizing, before his hands cradle my cheeks, his touch almost reverent. My fingers trail along his back in soft, soothing strokes, but the tension in his muscles remains rigid beneath my touch.
“Santo, what is it?” My voice is softer now, pleading. “What aren’t you telling me?”
His only answer is his lips.
He crashes into me, his mouth urgent, devouring mine with a desperation that sends a shiver down my spine. His tongue slips past my lips effortlessly, taking, claiming, as if salvation lies in my kiss and he’s desperate to steal it from me.
“Santo,” I gasp when his lips break away, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down my neck. I arch beneath him, my breath uneven. “ Please , tell me.”
But he doesn’t.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t hesitate. He only moves, pressing his lips, his tongue against my skin, setting fire to the need pooling low in my stomach. His fingers slip beneath my blouse, pushing it up and over my head with quiet efficiency. My own hands reach for him, tugging at the hem of his shirt, desperate to feel him, to take from him as much as he’s taking from me.
If he won’t talk, I suppose I’ll just have to give in.
And satiate us both.
Santo
Something about tonight doesn’t feel right. There are too many missing pieces to this puzzle, too many unanswered questions, and a creeping fear gnawing at my chest—the fear that I won’t see her again. I can’t shake it. I need to immerse myself in her, to feel her, touch her, take her.
It’s her .
It will always be her and I cannot—I will not leave this earth without once more being a part of her. I remove our clothes in a rush, desperate to feel her skin against mine. Her breath hitches, sending a wave of heat through my body. Every sound, every movement she makes, is amplified.
Her hands find their way through my hair, urging me closer. I trace the curve of her collarbone with my lips, savoring the feel of her. She moans softly, sending a rush of adrenaline mixed with an insatiable desire through me.
I pull back for a moment, looking into her eyes. They’re filled with love and a hint of confusion, and it pulls at my heart because I can’t answer her questions right now. The love I have for this woman is so fierce it’s sometimes overwhelming. I kiss her softly, feeling the tremor in her body beneath mine. Her eyes flutter shut, and I drink in the sight of her—the woman who has etched herself into my soul, the woman whose eyes, those eyes that I adore, remain closed as if savoring the moment.
“Vasilisa,” I whisper into her ear, my voice a soft rasp.
Her eyes open wide, filled with that innocent curiosity that pulls me deeper.
“I need you.”
The desperation in my voice is unmistakable, and she understands. Her hands cradle my face, pulling me down to her, pressing her lips to mine once more.
Her hands trail down to my back, her fingers tracing patterns as if memorizing every inch of me—just as I am doing with her. It’s like we’re saying a silent goodbye, but the words never leave our lips. We’re afraid that if we speak them aloud, they’ll become a self-fulfilling prophecy.
For now, this is all I have—Vasilisa beneath me, her warmth seeping into me, chasing away the cold dread that has settled deep in my bones. Her love wraps around me, a blanket against the harsh realities of the world outside these four walls. I kiss her urgently, pushing inside her, swallowing the gasp that escapes her lips. The feel of her, the connection, is like nothing I’ve ever known. Her body responds to mine in ways that make every second of this moment feel eternal. Her legs wrap around me, pulling me deeper, and I groan at the sensation. The world narrows down to her. Just for a while, all my fears about tonight slip away, and all that remains is Vasilisa.
Her breath hitches as I deepen our connection, my movements slow, deliberate, savoring every inch of her. I want to remember her like this—beautiful, glowing, beneath me, offering herself to me without reservation.
I feel a sting behind my eyes for the first time in over a decade, but I blink it away, refusing to let it form. Not now. Not here.
A knot tightens in my chest as the realization hits - everything after this moment is uncertain; a nebulous void of possibilities that could lead me away from her.
“Santo,” she says urgently. Her hands clutch at my back, nails leaving half-moon imprints on my skin, her body arches beneath me, a silent plea for more and I willingly oblige. My movements become more deliberate, driven by an insatiable need to connect with her, to tether our souls together indelibly, so that no matter what may come, I will forever be a part of her. I kiss her intensely as I continue to lose myself in her.
“Santo,” she whispers against my lips, her voice trembling with emotion. “I love you.”
I pull back slightly, enough to gaze down at her face and see the euphoria mirrored in her eyes. Her cheeks flushed a rosy hue, a thin sheen of sweat covers her body making her glow under the lights. She looks at me with those achingly beautiful eyes that give up the secrets of her soul, filled with longing and unwavering love for me.
Everything inside me shatters. The last remnants of restraint dissolve, leaving nothing, but raw, aching devotion. I can see it in her face—her eyes tell me it’s okay, that even if this is our last night together, it’s worth every moment of pain that may follow. I hold on to that thought while I surrender myself completely to her - body, mind and soul intertwined with hers.
I would die for you.
I want to say, but the words get stuck in my throat. Fear and regret prevent them from leaving my lips. Instead, I pour all the love, all the pain, all the unsaid words into every kiss, every touch, every movement, hoping she understands what language fails to convey.
As I reach my peak, Vasilisa trembles beneath me, her climax shaking through her body. Her eyes meet mine, and in that moment, I see it—a flicker of fear in her gaze.
I pull her close against me. Our hearts beat erratically in rhythm, a symphony of love played out on the canvas of our bodies. If this is the last moment we have – this, right here, then I hope she will remember it for eternity.
Tonight may bring uncertainty, but right now, in this moment, all that matters is Vasilisa and the bond we share. I pull her against me, our breaths still mingling, our bodies still entwined, as if holding on tight enough can stop the inevitable.
Wrapping her in my arms, I hold onto what feels like the last semblance of peace before the impending storm.
***
The drive to the dock is suffocatingly silent. Not the calm kind—the kind that sits heavy in the air, thick with unspoken tension. Even the rumble of the car’s engine feels muted beneath it. Armored SUVs flank us on either side, our men ready for war. Maksim grips the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles go white, jaw locked, eyes fixed ahead. Angelo sits in the passenger seat, just as quiet, just as tense. His gaze stays glued to the darkened city streets, watching them slip by like shadows.
I lean my head back, closing my eyes, letting my mind drift—to her.
Vasilisa.
I can still feel her, the warmth of her skin beneath my fingertips, the softness of her lips, the way she clung to me like I was her only tether. The scent of her perfume lingers on me, a cruel reminder of everything I’ve left behind and everything at stake tonight.
My heart clenches in my chest.
the dock looms—a grotesque silhouette against the moonless sky. Maksim kills the lights, parking far enough to stay unseen, close enough to see our men flood in like a silent storm.
One of Maksim’s men steps forward. “Dock’s clear, except for one. Miroslav.”
Miroslav.
They drag him forward, and he doesn’t fight.
That’s the first thing that feels wrong.
Maksim, Angelo, and I approach as they force Miroslav to his knees, binding his hands behind his back. Maksim doesn’t hesitate.
His fist collides with his uncle’s face, the sickening crack echoing through the air.
“Where are the Armenians?” Maksim demands.
Miroslav doesn’t feign innocence. He spits blood, smirks, then starts talking.
He spills what we already know—how he embezzled money from NovaRael, sold out to the Armenians, then ran when they demanded more.
Another punch to the ribs. A kick to his stomach. He grunts, coughs and then the bastard laughs.
His eyes find mine.
“Did she tell you?” he asks, voice drenched in amusement.
Something in his tone makes my blood run cold.
“Did she tell you she was taken?”
The world narrows.
“Yes,” I snap. “And you paid them off like a coward. We know more than you think. It’s pathetic that you offered your other daughter afterward and sent Jude after my wife.”
Miroslav grins through bloodstained teeth.
“My other daughter?” he scoffs. Then he laughs, full-bodied, like this is all some fucking joke.
“You shit stains think you know everything.”
I don’t like this.
The unease claws its way up my spine.
“Jude went rogue,” Miroslav continues. “Had a conversation with Sarkisian, thought he could take Vasilisa for himself. But my deal? That was set in stone.”
“What deal?”
Miroslav shakes his head.
Maksim doesn’t wait. He delivers another vicious blow, sending Miroslav’s head snapping to the side.
“You’re dead either way, old man.” Maksim’s voice is like ice. “Might as well spill it all.”
Miroslav groans, spits more blood. Then, finally, he mutters the words that shatter everything.
“I offered Vasilisa.”
The words don’t register at first.
They can’t.
There’s no way he just said what I think he did.
He offered my wife
Miroslav spits blood onto the ground, shaking his head like we’re all fools. “I offered her when she came of age, but then you,” he glares at Maksim, “Married her off to the Italians and I was back on the hook. It was her or me, and I don’t plan on dying.”
Something about the way he says it—the casual finality of it—snaps something inside me.
“You spineless bastard,” I seethe. “You gave up your own daughter just to save your miserable fucking life?”
Miroslav chuckles, coughing up blood. “You think this world cares about sentiment? About family ?” He tilts his head mockingly. “You’re not that na?ve.”
Rage claws at my throat, threatening to consume me whole.
Angelo slaps a hard hand against my shoulder.
“Your phone,” he says, the vibration of my phone bringing me back.
I tear it out of my pocket, Wesley’s name flashing across the screen. I put him on speaker.
“Go for Santo.”
“The code word went out, and a response came in.” Wesley’s voice is clipped, urgent. “The Armenians sent back ‘The Queen is in the Castle.’ Does that make sense to you?”
Miroslav smiles a bloody smirk. Something heavy settles in my stomach. I turn to Maksim, but he’s already staring at Miroslav, realization dawning in his expression.
Maksim goes still.
Then he moves. Fast. He grabs Miroslav by the collar, yanking him forward. “You have got to be fucking stupid,” Maksim growls. “Tell me you didn’t do it!”
Miroslav laughs, low and knowing.
Something inside me fractures. “Maksim?” My own voice barely chokes out.
He meets my gaze, and for the first time all night, there’s fear in his eyes.
“Vasilisa’s name,” he mutters. “Her name means Queen.”
The weight of it drops like a guillotine.
“This whole thing was a bait and switch.” Maksim’s voice is sharp, furious. “They’re going after her.”
The world stops.
Then it detonates.
I turn and run.
I don’t remember hanging up on Wesley, but I do. I don’t remember dialing Romeo’s number, but it goes straight to fucking voicemail.
Angelo calls Luca—he’s with Elena—“Get to Vasilisa. Now.”
I hear Maksim barking orders, telling Vaska to leave Katya and head to my estate.
The panic is searing, suffocating. This is my worst fear come to life. I can’t relive this nightmare.
They’re going to take her. Torture her. Send her back to me in pieces.
Her delicate hand in a box with that damn ring on her finger.
The same fucking ring my mother had when they sent her back to me. The same ring my grandmother died in. The curse, real or not, has found her too.
If they take her, I will burn every city to the ground until I find her.
Vasilisa
Santo left with an army of men. He left me here, safe with a group of guards at the gate and Romeo to keep me company. My nerves are frayed.
I could feel my heart racing as he walked away.
I longed to plead with him, to make him promise that he would return to me.
Promise that we would take countless vacations together, read endless books side by side, and make a family of giant babies. But I swallowed back the words and instead pressed my lips against his, silently conveying my love and trust as I watched him leave.
Romeo distracts me with stories and jokes about his family in Chicago. We sit in the library, and I continue my painting for Santo. I paint with hope—hope that when he comes home, I can gift it to him. I just have to keep positive thoughts.
Santo will come home.
“That’s how I ended up here,” Romeo says, and I realize I haven’t been paying attention. Guilt prickles at me, but I smile politely and decide to ask questions—anything to keep my mind occupied.
“Will you be a Capo someday, then?” I ask, continuing to paint. A drop of red splatters onto my shirt, blending into the fabric. I now regret wearing a white sweater over my leggings.
“I won’t. I’m the third son—not the heir or the spare,” he chuckles. “It’s why I was easy to send away.”
“Would you rather be in Chicago?”
“Honestly, no. I like it here. Plus, I have Lila.”
“Wait, you and Lila are—”
The deafening crack of gunfire erupts outside, shattering the fragile peace of the mansion.
I whip my head toward the windows, my breath catching as three cars barrel onto the property. Santo’s guards open fire, bullets flashing in the night. Romeo jumps to his feet beside me, every trace of humor gone.
“Vasilisa, we have to get you somewhere safe,” he says, snapping me from my frozen panic. He grips my arm, dragging me down the stairs to the master bedroom. We burst inside, and he slams the door shut, locking it behind us.
“Romeo, we need to call Santo, or Angelo, or Luca,” I gasp out in a panic.
“Vasi, calm down,” he urges, his voice low and sharp, but laced with urgency. He crouches, gripping my shoulders so I’m forced to meet his eyes. “You’re going to lock yourself in the elevator and wait for Santo to come get you.”
I shake my head frantically. Everything in me screams that I can’t leave him.
“Romeo, you have to come with me. We could both—”
“No,” he cuts me off firmly. No hesitation. No room for argument.
“You go alone and stay there. Only you, Santo, and Angelo have access to that elevator. If it opens, it will be one of them.”
Tears blur my vision as the gravity of the situation slams into me.
“Romeo,” I whisper, pleading.
Before he can respond a loud banging echoes through the mansion’s front door followed by the sound of boots stamping inside. Chills run up my back and arms.
They’ve broken in.
“Go, Vasilisa,” Romeo rasps, his voice harsh with urgency.
My feet move on instinct, my hands trembling as I snatch the box with the gun from my window nook. I rush into the closet, slamming the button for the elevator just as another wave of gunfire erupts outside. The doors slide shut, sealing me in steel and silence.
I lean against the cold metal walls, my breath ragged, my pulse hammering.
Dawning realization hits. My phone. I don’t have it.
I left it in the library.
Panic rises, ice-cold and suffocating. I have no way to call Santo. No way to warn him.
And if these men are here… does that mean Santo is—
I can’t finish the thought.
Pressing my back against the smooth metal, I try to steady my quivering body. I wait.
For rescue.
Or worse.
For the Armenians to find me.
And all the while, I wonder if Romeo will survive.