59. Vasilisa
Chapter 59
Vasilisa
M y eyes flutter open to the soft morning light filtering through tall windows, casting a warm glow across the room. The sheets beneath me are smooth, cool, not the sterile cotton of a hospital bed. I blink, my mind still foggy, trying to make sense of where I am. There’s a faint scent of lilies in the air, familiar, comforting. I push myself up slowly, wincing as I feel the tenderness along my neck, the memory of hands around my throat surfacing before I push it down.
Scanning the room, this definitely isn’t the hospital. It’s… it’s beautiful, warm, and somehow it feels like him .
Santo.
The mattress shifts slightly, pulling me from my haze, and my breath catches. There he is, sitting on the edge of the bed, watching me with that fierce, protective intensity that never wavers, never weakens. His hand reaches out to brush a stray hair from my face, his touch so gentle it nearly undoes me.
“You’re awake,” he murmurs. His voice is soft, but there’s relief there. Maybe even something like guilt, shadowing his expression.
My gaze drifts around the room again, struggling to place where I am. “Where?”
“Our home,” he says, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Our home.
I swallow, my throat tight, my voice rasping as I manage to ask “Our home?”
His gaze never leaves my face. “Our other home. Our penthouse,” he clarifies. “It was supposed to be a surprise for you, to have you close to me when I worked.”
His voice is steady, but there’s a flicker of regret in his eyes. “I had it all prepared. I wanted to lead you here with your eyes closed, just to see the surprise on your face when you opened them.”
His voice trails off and, his jaw tightens. I reach out, tracing my fingertips along the stubble on his cheek.
“You didn’t have to do this, Santo.”
His fingers twine with mine, holding my hand against his face. “It was more for me Dea, you get a nice new home and I get you.”
A smile tugs at my lips, “It’s for both of us then, because I love being close to you.”
He presses a kiss to my hand before letting it go and sighing deeply.
“Is everyone okay?” I ask quietly.
“There were some casualties, we lost some guards,” he admits, his gaze darkening at the memory. “But everyone else is safe.”
“Romeo?”
“Vaska sent word that his wound was a clean shot through the shoulder, he’ll be fine.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. “I remember Angelo was there, is he alright?”
His eyes narrow slightly, a flicker of discontentment flashes in his eyes. “Angelo... well, if I’m going to tell you this Dea then I need to tell you everything, but I don’t want to put any more on you then you already have.”
“Please,” I beg him, “I want to know.”
He shakes his head, and I want to protest, but my eyes start to flutter shut, my body demanding rest. I fight it, suddenly afraid of the nightmares that will come.
Santo seems to understand. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t hesitate. He just lays beside me, pulling me in, his arms wrapping around me, holding me together.
“Sleep, Dea,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble against my ear. “You’re safe. I’m not leaving you.”
His promise is the last thing I hear before exhaustion finally claims me, and everything goes dark.
I wake up alone.
Disoriented, my body feels heavy, my mind sluggish. Santo’s side of the bed is cold. Empty.
For a moment, panic gnaws at me.
Pushing off the covers, I scan the room, searching. The bathroom door is slightly ajar, and I step inside—only to stop in my tracks.
The mirror.
I freeze.
I’m clean, but it’s the marks on my skin that steal my breath. Angry purple bruises, scattered across my body like abstract art.
Tears bloom in my eyes as the memories hit, sharp and merciless.
Hands—grabbing me, touching me.
Soulless, dark eyes.
The lives I took.
Blood. So much blood.
I squeeze my eyes shut, shaking my head, trying to force the images away. Not now. Not now .
Reentering the bedroom, my chest still tight, I find Santo standing by the door. He’s dressed in nothing but sweatpants, his broad frame shadowed in the dim morning light.
His eyes find me—and I know. His eyes reflect raw pain as they skate over me, falling on each bruise with a quiet fury.
“I should have been there,” he says quietly, his voice heavy with guilt.
“No,” I whisper hoarsely.
I cross the space between us without thinking, my arms wrapping around his waist. My fingers grip him, as if testing the reality of him, before I let them relax—my touch now soft against the tension in his body.
I tilt my head up, my voice steady even as my heart aches.
“You found me.”
I feel him take a deep breath, his chest heaving. His arms encircle me, pulling me closer as he buries his face in my hair.
“What did they do to you?” He whispers desperately into my hair.
My body tenses.
Forcing my eyes to meet his, I change the subject. “I’m hungry.”
His brows furrow. Reluctance… hurt maybe reflects softly on his features before he nods. “I had food delivered, let’s feed you,” he says, attempting a tone of casualness that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He leads me to the kitchen, a simple yet modern space with all the essentials. Breakfast is laid out on the table; eggs, bacon, and fresh fruit.
I take a seat at the table while Santo serves me, his movements stiff, almost jerky—a stark contrast to his usual composed self.
He’s lost in his own thoughts, drowning in the guilt that’s eating away at him.
I watch him in silence, my heart aching for him.
“I promise you, Vasilisa,” he says suddenly, setting a plate in front of me, his voice low but firm. “This will never happen again.”
I flash him a small, grateful smile, but I don’t respond. Not because I don’t believe him—I do—but because words feel empty right now.
Instead, I pick up my fork and start eating. The food is delicious, but my mind isn’t on it.
It’s still there, lingering in the darkness of last night.
Santo takes a seat across from me, his gaze heavy, burning into me. His intensity is both comforting and unsettling, like he’s waiting for something.
Once I’m done, he clears the dishes without a word.
But when he returns, reclaiming the seat across from me, his presence feels even heavier.
His jaw is tight. His fingers curl into fists on the table before he exhales sharply, his eyes locking onto mine.
“Tell me what they did.”
His words hang between us like a fragile thread, stretched thin, ready to snap.
With that request, he’s asking for more than just a recounting of events. He’s asking for my pain. My fear. My courage. Everything.
“I—” I start, but the words falter, catching in my throat as memories claw their way to the surface.
“So much blood,” I whisper.
Tears slip down my face, dripping onto my trembling hands. My hands—the ones that carry the weight of the lives I took.
“I have blood on my hands.”
Santo moves before I even process it, rounding the table, kneeling beside me. His hands find my face, cradling me like I might break.
“No, Dea,” he murmurs, his voice soft but unshakable. “This is not your fault. I wasn’t there. I should have been.” His thumb brushes away my tears. “The blood is on my hands.”
I look at him through my tear-blurred vision, wanting to believe him.
But the shadows of guilt and horror still dance behind my eyes.
“I—”
He shakes his head, firm. “The blood is on my hands, not yours, say it.”
My throat tightens. My voice cracks.
“The blood is on your hands, not mine.”
He nods, pressing a kiss to my hands.
“If I were there, I would have killed them.” His voice is rough with conviction. “I failed you. The blood is on my hands Say it again.”
“The blood is on your hands, not mine.”
“Good,” he whispers. His lips brush my hands again, reverent, sealing his promise.
And that’s when I break. I crumble into him, letting the sobs tear through me, no longer able to hold them back. Santo doesn’t say anything. He just holds me—silent, steady, unshakable.
My anchor.
My gravity.
The only thing keeping me from drowning.
And when my tears finally fade, when silence settles between us once more, Santo pulls away just enough to look into my eyes.
“I want to know what happened. Why did this happen?” My voice is steady, but inside, I feel like I’m splintering.
“I don’t want to be in the dark anymore,” I tell him.
Santo hesitates. I can see the war in his eyes, the battle between protecting me and telling me the truth.
Finally, he nods.
“All right,” he concedes, his voice low. His dark eyes lock onto mine, the intensity leaving me breathless. “I’ll tell you everything.”
We move to the couch, and Santo pulls me close, wrapping me in the warmth of his body before he begins.
His voice is calm but deadly as he tells me how he knows Angelo is hiding something with Maksim. His suspicions. His unspoken rage.
And then he tells me about my father’s role in my planned abduction.
The words shatter me.
A sob rips from my throat, raw and broken, my body folding in on itself. Santo tightens his arms around me, but it doesn’t stop the way my chest contracts under the weight of betrayal.
“No more,” he whispers against my hair, his grip firm, as if he’s trying to hold me together. “I won’t tell you more.”
But I can’t stop now. I need to know.
I force myself to breathe, to steady the ache inside me. My voice is small, pleading. “ Please , Santo. Tell me everything.”
He hesitates. And then, reluctantly, he does.
He tells me my mother was complicit—but ignorant to the deeper details. That her life is spared, but she’s being sent to Russia to live with her sister. That she’ll never set foot in our world again.
He tells me about the QUEEN file and how Varten Sarkisian indeed had sent the order to have me taken as a child. A cold, creeping dread seeps into my bones.
“They’ve had me on their radar since I was young.”
My stomach twists. The realization—how deep this goes, how long I’ve unknowingly been hunted—brings a kind of fear I wasn’t prepared for.
“What if—” My voice falters. I swallow the knot in my throat. “What will we do if they keep coming for me?”
Santo doesn’t even pause.
“I thought about this since the moment I knew your father was involved,” he says, his voice hard, resolute, the voice of a man ready to wage war for what he loves. “I’ll take you away. We have safe houses in Alaska. I’d bring you there.”
Alaska. Far. Cold . Lonely.
The thought of being alone in an unfamiliar place fills me with dread.
I shake my head. “No, I don’t want to be alone.”
His expression softens. But his resolve doesn’t.
“Then I’ll go with you.”
My breath catches.
“I would leave Cosa Nostra in a heartbeat if it meant keeping you safe.”
His words floor me.
“But it’s a part of you,” I whisper. “Your family—”
“Vasilisa,” he interrupts, firm. His eyes bore into mine, unflinching. “ You are a part of me. You are the only family I need.”
His voice carries no doubt. No hesitation. Just love. Pure, unwavering devotion.
With a small smile, I suggest, “Then maybe we should stay.”
Santo studies my face, searching for any hesitation. Any doubt. When he finds none, he nods.
“If you want to stay, then we will stay,” he says, firm. “But I am never leaving your side again.”
A small giggle escapes me at the thought of us being together at all times. “Santo, we can’t be together every moment of every day. I have courses to complete and you have work.”
He doesn’t even blink. “You can work for me.”
I stare at him.
“You can take your classes. We ‘ll set up a desk in my office, just for you.”
I arch a brow. “I guess you’ve thought this through then.”
His smirk is low and lazy, despite the exhaustion in his eyes “I’ve given it a thought or two.”
He watches me with that same quiet reverence, the look that makes my heart ache in a way I’ll never quite get used to. I exhale softly.
“Okay, then that’s our plan,” I whisper into the quiet room.
“That’s our plan.”