7. Vasilisa
Chapter 7
Vasilisa
S anto is intimidating.
In person, he’s magnanimous, besides his size, his presence takes up a lot of space, even in the expansive club I could feel him everywhere. I sensed his eyes on me before I saw him.
I recognized him as soon as our eyes met last night.
For the past week I have stared at his photo more times than I can count. I could pick those eyes out in a lineup. But last night those eyes stared into me as if I were prey and he was hunting my every move. I feel a chill roll up my spine thinking about it.
My husband to be is a force of a man.
If just being in his company in a room full of people stifled me, I can’t fathom being alone with him. I look down at his photo again; Santo Amato is handsome in a way that feels dangerous—like a man who could unravel you with a glance but wouldn’t care enough to piece you back together. There’s nothing in his eyes that gives away who he really is. Though after seeing him I should count myself lucky, I could have been arranged to Jude or worse, someone much older, less fit and hateful. I hope Santo isn’t hateful. I trace my fingertip over his photo and startle at a knock on my door. Mimi pokes her head inside.
“Someone is here to see you,” she says quietly.
“Who?” I ask, my heart stuttering in my chest. I place the photo down hastily and smooth out my skirt.
“I don’t know, some hot guy,” Mimi says her eyes lighting up.
Confused, I follow her to our front door where my mother stands with a man I haven’t seen before. He’s well built, his red shirt stretching over his chest, he’s wearing a harness with his guns strapped securely. His dark hair is gelled keeping his curls neat, his warm brown eyes meet mine, and he gives me a kind smile. “Vasilisa?”
I nod and my mother steps away giving me some space with the stranger in our foyer.
“My name’s Luca Cattaneo, I work for Santo,” he says simply, and I notice a plain brown box in his hands my heart thrums at what it could possibly be.
“Nice to meet you,” I say extending my hand, instead of giving me his hand, he places the box in mine.
“Santo wanted you to have this, I’m supposed to collect your old one while I’m here,” he says plainly his eyes leaving mine and going to Mimi.
“Hi,” she says with a giggle.
“Hey Kid,” he acknowledges with a nod. I open the box and inside is a cellphone. Hesitantly, I remove the phone and hand the box to Luca.
“Why? I have a phone.”
“You need a new one,” Luca explains, “and this one has Santo’s number in it and mine, just in case you can’t reach him.”
I stare at Luca uncertain and he stares right back at me unmoved. “Is that all?”
“If you could just get your old phone I can be out of your hair.”
My eyes widen, but I say nothing, my brain unable to compute what is happening, I glance at my mother who furrows her brow at me and nods vigorously, shooing me to go, I take that note and leave with my new phone in hand.
I head back upstairs to retrieve my old one, my fingers tightening around the new phone. It’s sleek, expensive. Beautiful. But it’s also a leash, isn’t it? A way to control what I see, what I say, who I can talk to. And yet, I go through the motions, handing over my old one without protest. Because that’s what’s expected.
I return shortly to where Mimi is doing cartwheels in front of an unimpressed Luca.
“And that’s how easy it is,” Mimi says breathlessly, “you just have to practice.”
“Mimi, leave him alone,” my mother scolds from the other room and Mimi reluctantly leaves.
I hand Luca my old phone. “Are you going to... is he going to keep my old phone?” I ask uncertain.
Luca shrugs, “I don’t know, I’m just doing my job.”
I nod, “I guess I’ll see you at the wedding then?”
Luca smiles, “Of course, text me if you need me.” Luca leaves and I lock the door behind him.
Still bewildered, I turn to look at Mimi hiding in the hall. She grins from ear to ear, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Well, he was charming,” she says, stretching out the last word in a whimsical tone. “You think he’ll come back?”
I roll my eyes at her antics and head back to my room, my new phone still clutched tightly in my hand. It’s beautiful and sleek, gleaming under the sunlight spilling through my bedroom window. I switch it on, and sure enough, his number is there.
A sudden surge of anxiety floods me. I’m marrying into a world far more intense than mine. I keep staring at the blank screen, the reality of it all sinking in.
I try to distract myself by tidying up my room, but the new phone buzzes in my hand. A text message. My heart skips a beat when I see his name.
‘Vasilisa, hope you’re settling well with your new phone. Just wanted you to be able to reach me directly if needed.’
I read through his message several times, unsure of how to respond. What do I even say to a man who just took my phone?
I type out a simple thank you and hover over the send button, hesitating. The blank screen stares back at me, taunting me. A plain thank-you feels too impersonal, too stiff for the man I’m about to marry.
Before I can overthink it, I switch to the camera, aim it at myself, and snap a quick photo. Nothing fancy—just me sitting at my desk, sunlight spilling through the window, my hair loose around my shoulders. I stare at the picture for a long moment, debating whether he would even want this.
But I send it anyway. A leap of faith.
The message shows as delivered. I wait, my heart thrumming in my chest. But nothing comes. No response.
Minutes stretch into hours. Then into an entire evening. Still, nothing.
I shouldn’t care. It’s just a text .
A simple photo.
But when I finally set the phone down for the night, something in me deflates. Like a foolish, fleeting hope just got snuffed out.
***
The weekend passes in a blur of fittings, final touches on the wedding dress, and endless back-and-forth with my mother about traditions I’m apparently supposed to uphold as Santo Amato’s wife. I try not to think about the selfie.
Or the fact that I followed it up with more photos—each dress, every accessory, even the simple pink heels I picked out.
He doesn’t respond to any of them.
Each photo disappears into silence, met with nothing but a read receipt. No acknowledgment, no reaction, just a blank void. I tell myself it doesn’t matter. That I shouldn’t care.
But when my phone buzzes Sunday night, the single word on my screen nearly steals my breath.
‘Beautiful.’
I stare at the screen, my heart doing an embarrassing little flip.
That’s it.
One word.
And yet, it feels like so much more.
From that point on, I find myself sending him more photos—another dress, a set of earrings, a bouquet my mother insists on. Sometimes, his responses come hours later. Sometimes, they’re immediate. Always brief.
‘Perfect. It suits you.’
‘Elegant.’
‘That’s stunning.’
But with each reply, something warm and unfamiliar sparks inside me. Like maybe this isn’t just about tradition and duty. Like maybe, just maybe, we’re beginning to find a way to meet in the middle.
The phone buzzes, breaking me out of my thoughts. I grab it off my nightstand, a small smile sneaking onto my face.
‘Sleep well.’
It’s the first time he’s texted without me sending a message first.
This is strange territory—planning to marry someone I barely know, wrestling with the idea of sharing a life with him. But each text from Santo feels like an outreached hand, a small gesture telling me it’s alright to take the leap. And with each day that passes, I find myself more willing to grab onto it.
I decide to take a leap when my father mentions the retirement party set for this morning. It’s a Monday—early in the week and early in the day, so Santo is certain to be there. Maybe we can talk in person, despite his initial insistence that we not meet before the wedding. His texts say otherwise. They have sparked something in me, a small hope that maybe he wouldn’t mind seeing me there after all.
I choose an off-the-shoulder pink dress, one of my favorites because of the way its skirt flows gracefully with every step. It feels like me—soft and a little romantic—a far cry from the tight dress and smoky makeup Luna coaxed me into at the club. She meant well, but that bold look felt like an act, and today, I want Santo to see me as I am.
I pin my hair half up and go lighter on makeup—I want him to see my face today, not one hidden under layers. Finally, I slip on my highest heels, a necessity now given how tall Santo is. My shorter frame would look even more prominent without a little boost.
With a steadying breath, I smooth my dress and glance at my reflection one last time. My heart thrums with nerves, but I push them aside. It’s just a meeting. A conversation.
And yet, as I reach for the door, my fingers tighten around the handle, the weight of what I’m about to do settling deep in my chest.
I exhale slowly. I’m ready for this. I have to be.
With that, I head downstairs, determined to speak with my groom face-to-face.