58. Santo
Chapter 58
Santo
T he mansion comes into view, its once-grand facade now scarred—bullet holes riddling the walls, windows shattered, the entrance marred by violence.
A wave of nauseating anger builds inside me, coiling tight in my chest.
Beyond the danger to my wife, beyond the bodies littering the driveway, beyond the thick, acrid stench of gunpowder and blood—
It’s this.
Our home.
Her sanctuary.
Defiled.
I barely register the corpses, the men swarming my property, my own soldiers flooding in. My focus is singular.
Vasilisa.
I stop the car and bolt, my gun already in my grip.
Behind me, Vaska’s tires screech against the pavement. Then Maksim. Then four more SUVs.
Armed men spill out, a swarm of reinforcements descending onto my home. Gunfire erupts, but I only hear my pounding heart.
“Santo!” Angelo’s voice snaps from behind me. Urgent.
But I don’t stop.
I can’t stop.
Not now.
Not when she needs me.
I sprint for the garage, breath sharp, lungs burning, I reach the broken garage door.
My stomach free-falls. I raise my gun and barrel forward.
I rush past my vehicles, my nerves blazing at the deafening silence.
Swallowing hard, I keep my gun ready as I step into the glow of the basement.
My heart pounds against my ribs, every pulse a countdown to whatever waits for me.
And then I see them. Two lifeless bodies. Both Armenian. My eyes sweep over the scene.
A bloodstained knife.
Dark, wet pools of crimson seeping into the concrete.
The squelch of my shoes pressing into the blood makes my stomach tighten.
Where is she?
My eyes scan the basement, frantic, searching for any trace of her, of what happened here.
A flicker of silver amidst the crimson splatters catches my eye.
My breath catches.
I crouch, my fingers closing around the delicate chain.
Her necklace.
My grip tightens around the tiny charm, a surge of panic roaring through me. If they’ve taken her. They couldn’t have gone far. There’s no way. Desperation claws at me, my lungs burning with the urge to shout her name, to demand she answer.
But I hold back.
If those bastards still have her, they must be close. I turn toward the elevator, and—
A sound.
A faint, shattered whimper.
A sniffle.
My pulse stalls.
The elevator doors are open, but from this angle, I can’t see anyone inside. I exhale slowly, tucking her necklace into my pocket, my gun raised, my body coiled. I creep forward towards the lift. I turn swiftly inside and she screams.
The gun slips from her hand, clattering to the floor, but she doesn’t move to retrieve it.
She’s curled up in the corner of the elevator, knees to her chest, hands raised in surrender.
Covered in blood.
Tears carve rivers down her pale cheeks, her eyes shut tight, as if she’s trying to disappear.
She’s shaking.
So violently that I fear she might break apart right in front of me.
“Vasilisa,” I gasp, securing my gun and lunging for her.
Then stop short and crouch down toward her, terrified that any sudden movement might shatter her completely.
“Dea, it’s me.”
Her body jerks at the sound of my voice.
Her eyes snap open.
Wide, frightened.
For a second, I see nothing but panic, until it ebbs away to recognition. Her body reacts before her mind does. She throws herself at me, crashing into my chest with enough force to knock the breath out of me.
I catch her, my arms wrapping around her trembling body, holding her so tightly that I feel the way her ribs shudder with every ragged sob.
“Shh,” I murmur into her hair, pressing my lips against her temple. “It’s okay. You’re safe now.”
My relief is short-lived. The blood.
So much blood.
A fresh wave of dread floods my veins. I jerk back, frantic, my hands moving over her arms, her waist, her throat, searching, hoping that it isn’t hers.
No wounds.
Nothing.
And then the realization slams into me. The blood isn’t hers.
It’s theirs.
The men she killed.
My courageous, unstoppable wife defeated them herself.
She fought them off.
I hold her closer. Her trembling lessens as she clutches onto me, burying herself into the crook of my neck, as if she can disappear into me.
“Come on, let’s get out of here,” I murmur hoarsely, lifting her into my arms.
She doesn’t resist. She just wraps her legs around me, tucking herself closer as I step out of the elevator.
I cast a sweeping glance around the room, taking in the carnage—the bodies, the blood, the absolute violation of our home.
A fresh wave of anger coils inside me. She had to fight for her life tonight. She’s no stranger to danger, but this… this is something else entirely.
“You did good,” I whisper into her hair. I’m proud. Terrified. Both at once.
Footsteps.
Angelo rushes in, his sharp gaze flicking to Vasilisa’s blood-soaked clothes. His brows lift—
But I shake my head.
“There were about twenty of them,” Angelo says, voice clipped. “Most were injured or killed at the gate. Romeo took out nine before he got shot.”
Vasilisa gasps in my arms, her head jerking up.
“Romeo is—”
“No,” Angelo cuts in quickly. “Vaska’s taking him to the hospital, but he’s okay.”
He shifts his gaze to the two dead men on the floor.
“You did this, Tiny?”
A small, shattered whisper. “Yeah.” She buries her face against me again.
Angelo smirks. “Nice job, Piccola.”
I feel her body shudder at his words.
My grip on her tightens.
“Any alive?” I ask.
“One,” Angelo responds. “Nico’s bringing him to the warehouse. He can marinate for a few days.”
Vasilisa pulls away from me, her eyes frantic. “It’s over?” Her gaze locks onto mine, searching for reassurance, for something I can’t give her.
Before I can answer, Angelo speaks the truth. “No. Sarkisian wasn’t here, just his men which means he will send more.”
Vasilisa sobs, the sound breaking apart in her throat. Her breaths ragged, her voice shaking. “For me?” she whispers.
Her fear slices through me.
“No,” I tell her, voice unshakable. “No one will come for you, because I’m never leaving you alone. Ever again.”
Angelo gives me a look. A silent disapproval. A knowing gaze that tells me I just fed her a half-truth. Because she may still be a target. Until we end this, until we take down Arsen Sarkisian, this isn’t over.
But I refuse to let her live in fear. I refuse to let her spend a single moment without me by her side. She trembles, her eyes fluttering, her body giving out as the adrenaline vanishes from her bloodstream.
Her legs go limp as she faints in my arms. I adjust her, cradling her against me. “I won’t let her live in fear,” I say firmly.
Angelo nods. But he won’t meet my eyes.
“What is it?” I press.
“Nothing.” A small shrug. “We just need to find this piece of shit and end this once and for all.”
He turns, leaving the basement, and I follow.
I don’t buy it.
“That’s not just it,” I say as we step through the ruins of my destroyed estate. “I get that you’re the Don, that Maksim is the Pahkan. You have to keep things close to the vest. But I’m your brother . Eventually, I’ll find out.”
Angelo just nods, his silence weighing heavy.
Luca emerges from the broken shards of my front door, his sharp gaze immediately falling on Vasilisa in my arms.
His face darkens. “Is she—”
“She’s okay,” I cut in. “Just fainted.”
Luca’s worry is written all over him, his eyes flicking from her limp form in my arms to me. “What do you want to do?” he asks, his voice steady but edged with concern.
I hesitate. My eyes trail over her—the bruises already darkening on her skin, the smears of blood.
Some of it could be hers.
I don’t know and that not knowing makes my chest tighten, a swell of rage rising with the fear gnawing at me. I need to know she’s okay.
I need to be sure. “Take us to the hospital,” I say, my voice firm, leaving no room for argument. I don’t want to waste a single second. “I want her checked for injuries. Every damn inch .”
Luca nods, already moving to the car.
I adjust Vasilisa’s weight in my arms, cradling her closer, feeling the rise and fall of her breath against my chest—a faint, fragile rhythm. I grit my teeth, my rage simmering just beneath the surface.
I need answers.
I need to know if they laid a hand on her in any way I can’t see.
Luca pulls open the car door, and I slide into the backseat, never letting her go. The drive is silent. Tense. The city blurs by, unnoticed. All I can see is her. Every bruise. Every mark. I reach out, brushing a strand of hair from her face. My own hands are shaking.
Fury.
Fear.
Both coiling tightly inside me, suffocating.
They tried to snuff out my light.
I’ll make sure they never get the chance again.
When we reach the hospital, the staff is already waiting, alerted by Luca. As they approach, I tighten my hold on her, barely restraining myself.
“Full exam,” I growl to the lead doctor. “Every possible test. I want to know if she’s hurt— anywhere .”
The doctor nods, keeping his eyes low, sensing the edge in my tone. I finally let them take her, my hand lingering on hers until they take her away, and I’m left in the hallway, fists clenched, every muscle tense, waiting. If they touched her, if she’s hurt, I swear on everything I’ll make them pay tenfold.
As the hours tick by, I remain in the cold, sterile hallway, my mind reeling with torturous thoughts. Every few minutes, I replay the scene of Vasilisa fainting in my arms, her body going limp with exhaustion and fear. Her fear. My failure.
I keep pacing, my steps echoing on the linoleum floors, each one tightening the coil of anger and worry wound up inside me. Every minute feels like a lifetime, every second I’m not by her side grates on my nerves like sandpaper. A voice breaks through my thoughts.
“Santo.”
I glance up to see Luca striding toward me, a plastic hospital bag in his hand. His gaze flicks over me, and his expression darkens.
It’s only then that I register it.
The blood.
It’s on my hands, my clothes, dried in dark streaks across my shirt, my arms, my knuckles.
Their blood. On my wife. On me.
Luca exhales sharply, shaking his head as he hands me the bag. “Change. You look like you just walked out of a damn war zone.”
Because I did.
I take the bag from him without a word, my jaw tight, my hands clenching around the fabric.
“I don’t care how I look,” I mutter.
“I know,” Luca says evenly. “But she’s gonna wake up, and you’re the first thing she’s gonna see. You want her to wake up to this ?”
His words hit like a fist to the gut.
No. The last thing she needs is to see me like this, covered in blood, in the evidence of what she just survived.
Without another word, I step into the nearest bathroom, stripping out of the ruined shirt, the stiff, dried fabric sticking to my skin.
I scrub my hands, my neck, everywhere she touched with her blood stained hands, watching the blood swirl down the drain, but no matter how much I wash, I still feel tainted.
Like I didn’t do enough.
Like I failed her.
Because I did .
I pull on the clean shirt Luca brought, rolling my shoulders, forcing my breath to steady.
Then, I walk back out, still restless.
Finally, The doors swing open. The doctor steps out, his expression steady as he approaches.
“She’s okay,” he says. And those two words ease something deep in my chest. “She’s just dehydrated, and there’s significant bruising around her neck, but no internal damage.”
I bite back the questions still swirling in my head, forcing myself to focus.
But there’s one thing I need to know. The question lodges in my throat, burning like acid.
“And…” I struggle to say it, my fury sharpening at the mere thought. “Did they…?”
The doctor meets my gaze, understanding the weight of what I’m asking.
“No signs of forced sexual assault, Mr. Amato.” His voice is calm, carefully controlled. “She’s physically unharmed in that regard.”
A quiet, cold relief rushes through me, settling deep in my bones. I nod, trying to keep my composure, feeling the weight lift, even as the anger remains.
The doctor hesitates. “We had to give her a mild sedative,” he says, shifting uneasily. “She woke up looking for you, and she… she wouldn’t allow us to continue the exam until she saw you.”
His eyes flick to mine, wary of my reaction.
“We did as you requested, but she was… understandably shaken.”
A fresh wave of fury burns through me, my jaw tightening.
She fought for her life— alone —and then she had to wake up to this? Without me there?
I exhale, forcing myself to stay in control, even as my blood boils beneath my skin.
“You can see her now,” the doctor says quickly, gesturing to the door.
I nod, then push past him without another word because nothing else matters.
Not the wreckage.
Not the war still looming.
Not the men I still have to hunt down.
Only her.
Inside the room, she lies beneath a blanket, her face soft, her breathing even in sleep.
The blood has been washed away, her bruises cleaned and tended to. For a moment, I just stand there, absorbing the sight of her like she’s my lifeline.
She’s safe.
I still have her.
She’s here, but it’s not enough.
I step closer, lowering myself onto the bed beside her, moving carefully. I don’t care about the machines, the wires, the IV drip at her side.
I can’t be away from her.
Not after seeing her like that. Not after knowing what could have happened. I brush a hand over her cheek, my fingers ghosting over her skin, needing to touch her to remind myself she’s real.
That she’s here .
That I didn’t lose her.
Her breathing is steady, her presence soothing—a faint, fragile rhythm against my chest as I pull her closer.
I grit my teeth. Rage still simmers beneath the surface.
No one will ever come near her again. Not while I breathe.