9. Santo
Chapter 9
Santo
G rand gestures are not my thing, I don’t date women; I don’t bring them home to meet family, I’m never exclusive.
I meet a woman, we fuck for a few weeks and I move on.
Keeping a woman is a liability, a responsibility and a weakness, one that my enemies would use against me. Now, I’m forced to take a wife, one that I thought I could easily keep in my fortress of a home, and that I could have followed by guards if she wanted to go out. We would make appearances when needed and she would then be safely tucked away, no affection, no love, no fairy tales, no weakness.
Instead, I get Vasilisa. I read her file, she’s young, trained, dutiful and knows the rules of being part of this life. What wasn’t in the file is that she and I have things in common, she’s smart, she likes books, art and she’s breathtakingly beautiful up close.
But she lacks the softness of rounded curves that line a woman’s body, the bountiful breast and the voluptuous ass that comes with a fuller figure; one that could handle a man like me and knows it’s nothing more than physical, no love, no expectations, no marriage, no happily ever after.
Vasilisa is the opposite of that. She’s small, breakable, vulnerable, and full of hope .
Those eyes, like ice shimmering under sunlight, searing into mine with interest and an unspoken longing for a prince.
I wanted her.
I want her.
Her texts replay in my mind. The endless stream of photos—dresses, bouquets, shoes—each one paired with a quiet hope that I’d respond.
And I did, against my better judgment.
Just a few words here and there. Beautiful. Elegant. Stunning. I told myself it meant nothing. That I was humoring her, keeping things civil.
But it wasn’t nothing.
Each photo was a glimpse into her world, a world I’d soon be a part of, whether I wanted to or not. And with every response I sent, I felt her pulling me closer, breaking through the walls I’d built around myself. She’s supposed to be just a name on a contract, but now she’s becoming real— too real .
I lean back in my chair, the faint trace of her perfume lingering long after she’s gone. Vasilisa . Though she’s as delicate as I imagined, she’s also somehow… strong. Strong enough to walk into my office without hesitation. To smile, despite the weight of what this life means for her.
I thought my biggest fear would be wanting her. But now, that’s not what grips me. No, the real fear coils deep inside me—what happens when she meets Scythe?
She’ll fear him.
I tell myself she should. Maybe it would be easier that way. Maybe it would stop whatever this is inside me from turning into something I can’t control.
I scoff at the idea, but in that moment, in this room with her and her intoxicating scent of sweet cashmere—a warm, amber softness that wraps around me like a forbidden caress filling my senses, all I wanted was to give her exactly what she needed and everything that she desired.
That’s dangerous for a man like me, wanting her. It would be one thing to just want her body, consummate the marriage and play our roles, but Vasilisa managed, in a moment , what other women could never achieve in weeks. She stirred in me a desire, an equal longing.
I hate it.
Why isn’t this simple?
Physical. Monetary. No, this… this feels like something else. Something harder to walk away from.
Vasilisa isn’t supposed to matter.
I drag a finger along the edge of the glass desk, stopping at the rough curve of the initials I carved. I shouldn’t have done it.
I don’t do things like that.
Before I can dwell further, the phone on my desk buzzes and Sandra informs me I have a visitor.
The wedding planner.
A woman steps in hesitantly, clutching a tablet, her shoulders stiff like she’s preparing for war. She lingers near the entrance, nerves practically radiating off her.
I glance up, barely masking my irritation.
“Mr. Amato,” she starts, shifting the tablet nervously in her hands. “I just have a few questions regarding the wedding.”
I sigh quietly, leaning back in the chair.
“Make it quick.”
She nods, pressing the tablet closer to her chest. “Do you know if your bride has a preference for flowers or food?”
“Julian can deal with the food,” I reply, brushing it off. “Talk to him. He knows what I like.”
Her stylus glides across the screen, but she pauses again. “And the flowers?”
“Lilies,” I say without hesitation. “And roses.”
I glance up to find her staring at me, waiting for more.
“Small ones,” I add, watching as confusion flickers across her face.
“For the tables?”
“No.” I drum my fingers against the glass. “For her hair.”
Her eyes widen slightly. “Real roses?”
I let the silence stretch just long enough for her to realize it wasn’t a suggestion.
“Why would I ask for fake ones?” I reply flatly.
“Oh-” she stammers, eyes flicking down to the screen. “It’s just… sometimes faux flowers are easier for styling. They stay in place longer.”
I level her with a look, one that clearly shuts the thought down. “Real ones.”
She nods quickly, scribbling the note. “I’ll have them sent to the estate.”
“Send them to Cassandra.”
The stylus halts mid-stroke.
“Cassandra?”
“Her team is styling Vasilisa’s hair.”
The planner nods again, lips pressing together as if that should’ve been obvious. As she writes, her brows pull slightly together in thought, “Vasilisa… beautiful name.”
I still.
Her name hangs there, soft but heavy, cutting through the space in a way I wasn’t prepared for.
I shouldn’t care that she said it. I shouldn’t care, but something about hearing her name, spoken out loud by someone else, settles in my chest uncomfortably.
“Yes, it is,” I say, quieter than I intended.
The planner seems oblivious to the shift, tapping notes into her screen like this is just another job to check off.
“Thank you, Mr. Amato,” she says, offering a tight smile. “I’ll handle the arrangements.”
I give a brief nod, eyes fixed on the edge of the desk.
She starts to leave, but before she reaches the door, I add, “Make sure the roses are white.”
Her head bobs in agreement before the door clicks softly behind her.
The room falls silent once more, but the weight of Vasilisa’s name lingers like an echo I can’t quite shake.
I press my thumb to the carved initials, the rough edges catching against my skin. The grooves are deeper than I remember. Permanent.
I don’t do things like this.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
And yet, she’s everywhere, even when she’s not here.
***
Sandra efficiently lines up potential secretaries for me to interview. The process goes seamlessly, with three candidates surpassing my expectations, any one of them could potentially become a permanent fixture in my office. I’ll take the week to carefully consider my decision.
Just as I am about to call Marcus, the head of the cyber department, for an update on our progress with the QUEEN file, a loud commotion erupts outside my door. Without warning, a woman bursts through the door, her chestnut curls are disheveled, the papers in her hand wrinkled.
She’s dress in business attire for sure, but the way the pencil skirt and blouse cling to her curves should be a crime. This woman is a sexy, curvy, brunette, with big brown eyes and cherry red lips, but I can’t find it in myself to stir any sort of desire as my mind travels to the svelte golden ray of light that was in my office earlier.
Sandra follows behind the woman with a deep scowl on her face.
“I’m sorry Mr. Amato, I told her the interviews were over .”
I lift my hand and gesture for Sandra to give us a moment. She hesitates, but leaves.
The brunette steps forward.
“I’m so sorry I’m late, my name is Olivia. Olivia Baker.”
She extends her hand and I ignore it.
“You are late Ms. Baker, and the position has been filled, thank you.”
Her eyes widen and she deflates, “Already?”
“Yes already, you’re over fifteen minutes late, do you always lack punctuality? It won’t bode well for you if being a secretary is your preferred job.”
She sighs defeated, “Are there any other positions? I would do anything, and I mean anything.”
I raise an eyebrow in disbelief as a wave of shock rolls over her face.
“No!” She says her face turning mauve, “Not like that, I meant I would clean toilets if it meant I could have a job.”
“Unfortunately, Ms. Baker this was the only position, and it has been filled.”
She takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders.
“Thank you for your time,” with a polite smile Olivia Baker gathers herself and leaves promptly.
The rest of the day passes in a whirl of emails, phone calls, and meetings. As the sun begins to dip below the horizon, I lean back in my chair, pinching the bridge of my nose to stave off an impending headache. From the corner of my office, I hear a soft knock.
Looking up, I see Sandra peeking around the door. “Mr. Amato, your six o’clock canceled. Your evening is free.”
“Thank you, Sandra,” I say, but the relief in my voice unsettles me.
As the door closes behind her, I stand, turning to the window. Hands in my pockets, my gaze sweeps over the city.
I shouldn’t be thinking about her.
I shouldn’t still feel the ghost of her presence in my office—the way her soft perfume lingered in the air, the way her gorgeous, hopeful eyes searched mine like I was something more than I am.
I shouldn’t be doing this.
And yet, before I can stop myself, I pick up my phone and dial.
It rings twice before she answers.
“Hello?”
“Vasilisa,” I mutter quietly, I should have more control over my voice. I don’t. “It’s Santo.”
There’s a slight pause before she replies, soft, almost teasing. “I know. Your number is saved, remember?”
I falter.
I don’t falter.
But I do now.
Something shifts inside me, something I don’t know how to name. My fingers tighten around the phone, my jaw locking, my body suddenly too warm, too aware.
Why did I call her?
I shouldn’t be doing this.
“Right.” The word is clipped, an attempt to regain footing. “Good.”
It’s not good.
None of this is good.
And yet— “Join me for dinner tonight.”
The words are out before I can think them through, before I can measure or weigh or anticipate.
Another pause. I almost expect hesitation, resistance.
“I’d love to.”
I exhale.
I shouldn’t feel satisfaction. I shouldn’t feel anything.
“I’ll send a car in fifteen minutes.”
“Fifteen?” Her voice is quiet, like she’s already calculating, already adjusting.
“Do you need more time?”
I can almost hear her smile. “No, I can be ready.”
The ease of her acceptance settles something in me, even as it unravels everything else.
“Excellent. I’ll see you soon.”
I end the call, already texting Marco to pick her up.
Then I dial Vincenzo, my restaurant manager. “Shut down La Serenata for the night. Only one reservation... for two”
“Understood, Mr. Amato.”
I open my desk drawer, fingers automatically reaching for the small velvet box. It was meant to be delivered through Miroslav or Luca.
That plan no longer sits right with me.
Tonight, I’ll give it to her myself.
I slip it into my breast pocket, straighten my jacket, and head for the door—before I can talk myself out of this.