Chapter 3 Ringless and Ruined
Ringless and Ruined
She looks up at me, those bright eyes stare deep into mine and she lies.
“I’m cleaning it. Got… dough on it yesterday,” she says, nodding.
Nodding.
Agreeing with her little lie as she brushes by me and sits at the kitchen island and grabs her snackcake.
I narrow my eyes. “I thought you had lady things to take care of.”
She stuffs the cake into her mouth and mumbles through it.
I would force her to spit it out, answer me clearly, but she’s too adorable when she’s frazzled. I’ll let her have this one.
I press a kiss to the crown of her head, breathing in her scent. Calm washing over me.
“I have some emails to send, want to sit in the office with me or do you have… things to handle?” I ask teasingly.
She swallows roughly and gasps slightly. “I’m good here, going to watch a Christmas movie, maybe make some hot cocoa.”
“Sounds perfect,” I say. “I’ll join you after my emails.”
“She nods noncommittally, grabbing another pastry.
I watch her eat, suspicion and amusement warring within me. My clever, beautiful wife is hunting for her ring, and I’m enjoying her panic a little too much.
“Enjoy your movie, Dea,” I say, dropping another kiss on her head before heading to my office.
Once inside, I close the door and pull out my phone, two rings and he answers.
“Santo,” my brother drawls.
“Angelo.”
A pause as I sit and lean back into the leather.
“Christmas?” I ask.
“Florida,” he grumbles.
“Disgusting.”
“Yup.”
“Wife?”
“Here, you?”
“Kitchen, when do you leave?”
“Two days.”
“Tomorrow?” I ask.
“Opulent or Serenata?”
“Serenata.”
“Alone?”
“Alone,” he agrees.
“See you then.” I hang up, satisfied.
With Luca in Italy, maybe Angelo will let me borrow Nico. This task is far too important to hand off to Romero or Enzo. I shudder at the thought, pulling up my security feed to take a peek at my bride.
Not in the kitchen. I switch the feed.
Not in the living room…Where is she watching movies?
Our bedroom, empty.
I grab my phone, it rings twice.
“Boss?”
“Eyes on my wife?” I ask Romero as I continue to scan through feeds.
“She’s not on the grounds, so she’s inside still.”
I hang up and leave my office.
“Vasilisa!” I call out. Panic clawing at my throat.
“Vasilisa!” I bound the steps two at a time making my way to our bedroom.
A crash sounds.
The kitchen.
I run back downstairs.
“Dea!” I reach the kitchen and hear a soft groan from the pantry.
I freeze. The world narrows to the sound of my own heartbeat thundering in my ears as I move toward the pantry.
The door is partially open, light spilling from inside.
“Vasilisa?” I push the door wider, finding my wife on her hands and knees, surrounded by fallen cans and jars. A step stool has tipped over beside her.
“Santo! I was just...” she trails off, looking at the mess around her.
“Looking for something?” I ask, crossing my arms as I lean against the doorframe. My heart rate slows now that I’ve found her safe, though the panic leaves a bitter aftertaste.
She quickly blows hair from her face as she scrambles to gather the mess. “Just looking for... um... cinnamon.”
“Cinnamon?”
“Yes.” She nods vigorously, not meeting my eyes. “For my hot chocolate.”
“The cinnamon is on the spice rack,” I say, pointing to the wall-mounted rack clearly visible from where she kneels. “Where it always is.”
Her cheeks flush pink as rubs her elbow. “Well, I thought we might be out.”
I crouch down beside her, gently taking her arm to examine it. “Are you hurt?”
“Just my pride,” she mutters, finally looking up. Her cheeks are flushed, blue eyes guilty. “And maybe my elbow a little.”
“Dea,” I say softly, tilting her chin up so she has to look at me. “What are you really looking for?”
Those gorgeous eyes widen, and for a moment, I think she might tell me the truth. Then she bites her lip. “Christmas presents,” she whispers. “I was trying to find where you hide them.”
“In the pantry?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “With the food?”
She shrugs, a sheepish smile tugging at her lips. “You’re unpredictable.”
“Not that unpredictable.” I help her to her feet, steadying her when she wobbles. “Are you sure there’s nothing else you want to tell me?”
She sighs, shoulders slumping. “My ring,” she whispers. “I can’t find it anywhere, Santo. I’m so sorry.”
I brush a strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. “Dea, it’s fine. When did you last have it?”
“In the kitchen, by the sink and I think maybe it went down the drain and if that happened then—”
“Dea, shh,” I murmur, stepping in close.
I lift her light frame until her legs wrap around my waist and her arms wind around my neck like second nature.
She exhales into the curve of my throat, soft and warm.
I hold her there, grounded against me, one hand under her thigh, the other at her back.
“I’m sorry, Santo,” she mumbles, voice muffled in my neck. “I know that ring is irreplaceable.”
“Not everything that’s irreplaceable is lost,” I whisper, walking us out of the pantry and toward the living room.
She clings tighter, her cheek against mine, as I lower onto the couch with her still wrapped around me, straddling my lap where she belongs.
“The ring isn’t in the drain and if it was lost in this house then it isn’t lost, just hiding, we’ll find it,” I say softly brushing her hair back through my fingers, the golden strands glistening under the low light of the room.
Her eyes mist over, and I brush away the tear that escapes before it can make its way down her cheek.
“I just... it was your mother’s, Santo. I know how much it means to you.”
I press my lips to her forehead, breathing in the scent of her shampoo. “The ring is precious to me because it’s on your finger, Dea. That’s all.”
She pulls back, studying my face. “You’re not disappointed?”
“Why would I be disappointed over an accident?”
“Because you’re Santo Amato,” she says, a hint of a smile returning. “You get angry when the dry cleaner presses your shirts wrong.”
I laugh, the sound rumbling in my chest. “That’s different. They do it on purpose.”
“No one deliberately ruins your shirts, Santo,” she says, rolling her eyes.
“You don’t know that.” I brush my thumb across her lower lip. “But I’m not angry. Or disappointed. Not about the ring.”
She melts, her lips press to mine soft, but sure.
I wrap my arms around her, savoring her warmth, her weight, her presence.
“I could never stay mad at you, Vasilisa. Not when you look at me with those eyes,” I murmur against her lips.
She chuckles pulling back. “My secret weapon.”
“The most effective one in your arsenal.”
We sit in comfortable silence, the Christmas tree lights twinkling in the corner, casting colored shadows across the room. Outside, snow begins to fall again, soft flakes drifting past the windows.
“What time is your call with Luna?” I ask, remembering her plans for the day.
“Not until two.” She snuggles closer. “Why? Are you trying to get rid of me?”
“Never.” I press a kiss to her temple. “Just wondering how much time I have with you before you abandon me for girl talk.”
She laughs and it lights up the room. “As if you don’t have business to attend to.”
I tense slightly, hoping she doesn’t notice. “Nothing that can’t wait.”
But she does notice, she always does. She searches my face. “What business?”
“Just a meeting with Angelo,” I say casually. “Nothing important.”
“Angelo,” she repeats, clearly unconvinced. “The brother you said you were fine with?”
“We’re working on our relationship,” I say, keeping my voice light. “Just like you wanted me to.”
She narrows her eyes. “I’m canceling my plans with Luna.”
“Dea…”
“I am, you’re not allowed to leave the house today.”
I laugh. It bursts out of me, her defiant little face, frown between her brows, telling me—no demanding I don’t leave the house.
“Well, Dea, my meeting with Angelo isn’t until tomorrow so sure I will stay inside today.”
Her mouth opens then closes, she goes to push off of my lap, but I keep her straddling me.
“No, no, you can’t be mad, Dea. You demanded I stay in today, and I’m obeying.”
“Fine,” she smirks shifting herself slightly, her hands reaching for the hem of my shirt, “then we’ll have to find something to do with all this time.”
Her hands slip under my shirt, cool against my warm skin. I don’t stop her, watching those gorgeous eyes darken as she explores. Doesn’t matter how often I’ve felt her touch it still sets me on fire.
“Santo,” she whispers, leaning in to press her lips to my jaw. “What are you and Angelo really up to?”
I chuckle, tilting my head to give her better access. “Trying to seduce information out of me, Dea?”
“Is it working?” She nips at my earlobe, and I growl, my hands tightening on her hips.
“Not a chance.” I flip her suddenly, laying her back against the couch cushions. Her hair fans out beneath her, golden against the dark fabric. “But I appreciate the effort.”
She pouts up at me, but there’s heat in her gaze. “One day, your resolve will break.”
“Never.” I lower my head, capturing her lips in a kiss that quickly deepens. My hand slides beneath her sweater, finding the warm skin of her stomach. She arches into my touch.
“Santo,” she breathes against my mouth. “The cameras...”
“Are being monitored by men who know better than to watch,” I murmur, my lips trailing down her neck. “Besides, I own the footage.”
She gasps, half outrage, half desire, and shoves at my chest.
I don’t budge.
“You’re impossible,” she breathes.
“And you’re irresistible,” I counter, sliding my hand higher. My palm settles beneath her ribs, where she’s still all delicate lines and soft skin. Her sweater lifts with the motion, revealing the narrow slope of her stomach—those gentle, fragile-looking contours she used to be so insecure about.
She's still small, thin, tiny, all the words she didn’t like. She’s still unmistakably Vasilisa.
But she’s also stronger now, more grounded in herself, more certain of her place; in my life, in this family, in her own skin.