Chapter 8 Ready for Her
Ready for Her
Vasilisa’s finally asleep.
I’m not proud of how many bribes it took, two slices of peppermint cheesecake, a gingerbread macaron, warm milk with honey, and a foot rub. But she’s curled beneath the throw in our bed now, soft breaths rising and falling, glitter still clinging to her cheekbone like it doesn’t know how to quit.
Warm milk, for some reason, knocks her out every time.
I brush a kiss to her temple before slipping from the room.
Downstairs, the foyer looks like a shipping depot.
Romeo stands beside the front door, arms crossed. Enzo is arguing with a shipping label. Marco’s kneeling by a fragile box labeled Twinkling Ivy Co. Handle With Care. There’s a clear trail of snow across my marble floors.
“I thought it was four boxes,” I say as I step into the chaos.
Romeo shrugs. “These were all the ones with her name on it.”
Marco glances up, clutching a crushed wreath with the expression of a man who’s seen combat. “This one died bravely.”
“She said she wanted velvet ribbon!” Enzo calls out, dragging a bin the size of a toddler. “This is a ribbon library, Santo.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose and exhale slowly. “Let me see the damage to the wreath.”
Marco holds it up like he’s presenting evidence at a crime scene. One side is completely flattened, gold baubles hanging precariously by threads.
“It got crushed under the garland boxes,” he explains, looking genuinely distressed. “I tried to reshape it, but...”
“It’s fine,” I assure him, taking the mangled wreath. “Just put everything in the living room.”
“All of it?” Enzo asks, eyeing the mountain of packages.
“Yes. And quietly. My wife is sleeping.”
“Uh, Boss,” Romeo says hesitantly, “should we wake Mrs. Amato to ask where she wants everything?”
“Absolutely not,” I reply, my voice firm. “She’s finally asleep. We’re doing this ourselves.”
The three men exchange glances that speak volumes.
“What?” I demand.
Enzo clears his throat. “With all due respect, Santo... none of us know how to... decorate. At all.”
I stare at them. Three of the most dangerous men on the Cosa Nostra payroll, looking utterly defeated by the prospect of hanging garland.
“I don’t either,” I admit. “That’s why I have Luna coming.”
The door opens and sure enough Nico enters, coat dusted with snow, taking in the chaos.
Luna follows behind him like a winter breeze, long coat, snowflakes in her dark hair, expression alert and curious.
I nod toward her. “Thank you for coming.”
Luna lifts a brow. “He said you needed help making something look like Vasilisa. You mean the tree?”
“I mean all of it.” I gesture at the mountain of boxes. “She had a vision. You know her holiday taste best. You’ll know how to make it look the way she dreamed.”
Luna smiles softly, already moving toward the nearest bin. “Leave it to me.”
Her gaze sweeps over the mangled wreath in my hands, then to the faces of my men who look like they’ve been assigned to defuse bombs rather than hang decorations.
“Where’s Vasilisa?” she asks, already shrugging off her coat.
“Asleep. Finally.” I hand the crushed wreath to Luna. “Can you fix this?”
She examines it critically, turning it in her hands. “Maybe. But why am I here at ten o’clock at night to decorate your house?”
“Because Vasilisa wants everything perfect for tomorrow, and her garland shipments were delayed.” I gesture to the mountain of boxes. “I had them retrieved, but now I need to make sure everything is hung correctly before she wakes up.”
Luna stares at me for a long moment, then bursts into laughter.
It’s sharp and sudden, like the sound cracked the tension in the room.
“You—” she starts, still chuckling. “You actually did send made men to intercept boutique garland shipments in a snowstorm, I thought Nico made that up. And now you’re running a midnight decorating operation because Vasilisa might wake up disappointed?”
I blink. “Yes.”
She wipes a tear from under one eye. “Wow, she really did get arranged to the right man.”
“She did,” I agree without hesitation.
Her smile softens. “Okay. Let’s make magic.”
She starts giving orders—sharp, efficient, terrifying. Within minutes, Romeo’s untangling lights like he’s solving a puzzle, Enzo is color-sorting ribbon piles, Marco is organizing ornaments by size and Nico is fluffing artificial snow garland with a delicacy I didn’t know he possessed.
I move beside Luna and lower my voice. “There’s something else.”
She looks up tilting her head.
“The garden. I want it decorated too.”
“Why?”
“I’m proposing to Vasilisa tomorrow after dinner.”
Luna squeaks with excitement the men freeze.
“Shh,” I hush her looking up toward the stairs. “You’ll wake her.”
“Sorry, sorry,” she says with a sheepish smile, “but she will love that, it’s like the one big thing she’s sad she never got.”
I nod slowly, my jaw tight.
I know.
She’s never said it directly, not in a way she thought I’d catch.
But I saw it. In the way she looked at Mimi’s online mood board when she thought I wasn’t paying attention.
In how she lingered over proposal videos.
In the way her voice went quiet when someone mentioned the word fiancée, and she had to skip straight to wife.
I never gave her that moment. I took it. For strategy. For alliance. For control.
And she never held it against me.
But I do.
“I would’ve hired someone,” I murmur, almost to myself. “But it felt wrong. Felt like she deserved more than a team of strangers making things beautiful for her. I wanted to be the one who did it.”
Luna doesn’t speak right away. Then gently: “She’ll see all of this and know. She already knows, Santo. But this? It’ll seal it.”
I nod once, swallowing the knot in my throat. “She deserves effort. Not just money. Not just power. Me. My time. My hands on every garland strand.”
She smiles. “Then let’s get to work.”
***
Four hours later, I stand in the center of the garden, hands raw from the cold, exhaustion weighing on my shoulders. But it’s done.
The house is transformed, garland drapes every banister, wraps around every column, frames every doorway. The foyer tree stands proud and perfect, adorned with ornaments that catch the light just right. Wreaths hang on every door, and twinkle lights cast a warm, golden glow throughout.
But the garden...
The garden is where I’ve poured my soul. Where I’ll propose to my wife tomorrow night. Where I’ll finally give her the moment she deserved from the beginning.
Luna approaches, her breath visible in the cold night air. “It’s perfect,” she says softly, looking around at our handiwork. “She’s going to cry.”
“Good tears, I hope,” I mutter, adjusting a strand of lights for the hundredth time.
“The best kind.” Luna smiles, then shivers. “We should head inside. It’s freezing out here.”
I nod, taking one last look. The archway stands ready, draped in lights and winter roses. The path is lined with candles in glass lanterns, waiting to be lit. The bench where I’ll propose sits beneath a canopy of twinkling stars; both real and man-made.
Inside, the men are gathering their coats, looking exhausted, yet oddly proud.
“Thank you,” I tell them, voice low but firm. “This stays between us until tomorrow night.”
A chorus of phones chimes at once.
The air shifts.
Everyone pulls theirs out. My eyes land on Romeo just as he freezes, screen aglow. He lifts the phone to his ear, face draining of color.
“Go,” I order, already moving. “The jet will be waiting.”
He nods once and bolts, no questions asked.
“What just happened?” Luna blurts, eyes wide.
Nico takes her hand. “We’re getting you home.”
“Home? Am I in danger?”
“No,” he says sharply. “But we’re leaving. Now.”
He glances at me.
I nod.
He takes Luna and disappears through the door just as my phone buzzes again.
Angelo.
“I heard,” I say, answering.
“All of them dead,” he clips. “It’s a fucking massacre.”
I exhale. “This wasn’t the Armenians, was it?”
“No. There’s been something brewing in Chicago for a while.”
“I sent Romero on the jet.”
“Send Marco too.”
I turn to Marco. “You’re with him.”
He doesn’t hesitate. He’s gone within seconds.
“I’m cutting the trip short,” Angelo starts, but I cut him off.
“No. Finish Christmas with your wife. We move on the twenty-sixth.”
He pauses. “Romeo Romero as Capo in Chicago?”
I shrug, jaw tight. “The line of succession, father dies, son takes over.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
The line goes dead.
Enzo stands by the door, tense but calm. “Did the Don need anything from me?”
I study him, then shake my head. “Go home. Be with your family.”
“But—”
“Nothing will happen tonight,” I say, quieter now. “We’ve got eyes on every corner. If I need you, I’ll call.”
He hesitates, then nods. “Merry Christmas, Santo.”
“Merry Christmas,” I answer, already drifting back into my own mind.
Once the house is empty, I lock it down, security feeds, alarms, panic buttons. I check everything twice. The war in Chicago shouldn’t reach us. But I won’t bet on shouldn’t.
Not with my pregnant wife asleep upstairs.
My pregnant wife.
The thought still knocks the breath from my lungs. After everything, after all the blood and pain; the universe has given me this gift. This miracle. And I will kill any man who threatens it.
I climb the stairs quietly, pausing at the threshold of our bedroom. Vasilisa is still asleep, curled on her side, one hand tucked beneath her cheek. She looks so young like this, impossibly vulnerable. My heart clenches painfully in my chest.
Moving carefully, I slip into bed beside her, pulling her gently against me. She murmurs something unintelligible and nestles closer, her body automatically seeking mine even in sleep.
“I’ve got you,” I whisper into her hair. “Both of you. Always.”
I don’t sleep. I hold her, watching the moonlight shift across our ceiling, my mind cycling through threats and safeguards until dawn breaks.
Tomorrow I propose to my wife.
Tomorrow, I give her the moment she deserved.
And not even war will stop me.