60. Santo
Chapter 60
Santo
Four months later
T he renovations on our estate are finally complete, but my wife prefers the penthouse now.
I’ve spoiled her—and myself —far too much, taking her to work at NovaRael every day. Having Vasilisa there has slowed my work and wrecked her grades, though I can’t bring myself to care when she’s sprawled out for me on my desk, moaning my name. I’ve taken every opportunity to have her—against bookshelves, over conference tables mere minutes before a meeting, and my personal favorite, in the elevator.
Vasilisa used to tremble with nerves every time we stepped inside one. Now, she trembles for entirely different reasons. One morning before work, I dropped to my knees, tasted her until she begged, and now? Now she gets wet the second those doors close.
When we aren’t at work, we indulge. Dinners at the freshly restored La Serenata, lunches at the Russian bistro she loves. But no matter where we go, she always ends up in my lap, my hands under her skirt, my mouth pressed to her ear, reminding her exactly who she belongs to.
Romeo and Luca have taken to different sectors of our family business since Vasilisa has been with me full time, choosing to continue online classes instead of in person.
They still steal her away for the occasional poker game.
My father is doing well in rehabilitative therapy, for an old man he’s well on his way to healing, his next venture is to retire in Italy.
As for my brother, I have yet to speak to him, it’s the longest we’ve gone and the fact that he hasn’t demanded I speak to him, further proves my suspicions that he has been hiding something.
At the penthouse, I watch Vasilisa paint as I go over details about Artemis and Athena for Zeus. Wesley Beaumont has a flagship on all things AI, and combining WesTech with NovaRael on this new endeavor is proving more difficult than we previously anticipated. I grab my notepad and flip the page where I sketch the design for my next gadget when the soft swish of her brush against the canvas pulls my attention.
She hums softly, lost in her own world, the sunlight catching in her hair as she tilts her head. There’s a small crease between her brows—the same one she gets when she’s focused, the one that makes her impossibly beautiful. I steal a glance before returning to my notes, but I don’t miss the moment when she turns to me, her hands on her hips.
“You’re not listening to me,” she complains.
I set my pen down, letting my gaze drift over her. That yellow sundress, the one that makes her look like the first day of spring, only makes her pout more devastating.
Gorgeous.
“Yes, Dea. What do you need, my love?”
“Someone is requesting access,” she says, hesitation flickering in her eyes.
Her fingers twitch slightly, a small tell I’ve come to recognize. Concern, but not fear. Still, I take her hand in mine, my thumb brushing over the faint streak of blue paint near her wrist before bringing it to my lips.
“I’m expecting someone,” I reassure her, pressing a kiss to her skin. “It’s okay, Dea. Why don’t you let them up?”
She huffs, clearly unimpressed with my calm demeanor. Pulling her hand away, she tugs off the smock she’s been wearing over that gorgeous sundress and tosses it into my lap, her lips pressed together in that way that tells me she’s trying not to smile.
I watch as she strides to the elevator, her movements full of reluctant curiosity. I hear her push the button and wait, anticipating the gasp or squeal of joy that will more than likely follow.
Vasilisa
I know Santo wants me answering doors to boost the confidence I lost when our home was destroyed. He thinks this will help me feel in control again, but I’ve told him time and time again—I’m not glass. Still, I sigh, pressing the access button on the elevator, waiting for it to arrive.
When the doors slide open, I expect Luca or Romeo, but instead, a woman stands there, her brown hair pulled into two playful space buns. She’s wearing a crop top and ripped jeans, a grin already tugging at her lips.
It takes a second for my brain to catch up. I blink, my mind struggling to place her in this moment—then it clicks.
“Luna!” I squeal, throwing my arms around her.
We jump in unison like two kids reunited after a long summer apart. I can hear Santo chuckling behind me, his deep voice a warm reminder of his constant presence.
When we part, Luna’s bright smile feels like a burst of sunshine on a cloudy day. “I’ve missed you so much,” I say, squeezing her once more.
“I missed you too,” she replies, her eyes sweeping across the penthouse. Her jaw drops slightly. “Damn, that husband of yours doesn’t miss . This place is gorgeous!”
I giggle, taking her hand and leading her toward the living room where Santo stands with his notepad in hand. “I know,” I reply, glancing back at her with a grin.
“Welcome, Luna,” Santo says kindly, striding toward me. He presses a chaste kiss to my lips, his hand lingering briefly on my waist before stepping back. “Why don’t you take her to the kitchen? If you need me, I’ll be in the study.”
He disappears down the hall, and I guide Luna to the kitchen, my heart still buzzing from the joy of her arrival.
The moment we step into the kitchen, my heart warms. The table is set with pastries, snacks, and a carafe of freshly brewed coffee, steam curling into the air like an invitation.
“Santo must have done all this,” I say, gesturing toward the spread as I watch Luna’s eyes widen in disbelief.
“He’s a keeper, isn’t he?” she says with a wide grin, taking a seat and immediately reaching for a muffin.
“He is,” I reply with a giggle, sitting down beside her.
Our laughter fills the kitchen as we dive into stories of old and new, moments shared and moments missed. We talk about Mimi and her reluctance to return home, her newfound popularity at Andras, and everything in between. For the first time in what feels like forever, I feel a sense of normalcy returning to my life.
With Luna here, it’s as if nothing has changed.
Eventually, the conversation takes a more serious turn. Luna’s gaze lingers on me a moment longer than usual, her smile fading slightly. She reaches across the table, her hand warm as it covers mine.
“How are you really doing?” she asks, her voice soft but insistent.
“I’m good,” I reassure her. “We’re good.”
“I mean with what you had to do,” she says quietly. “Santo told me.”
I nod, understanding now why my husband set this up. I won’t speak to him about the lives I took.
“I know I did what I had to in order to survive, but I hated it,” my eyes well with tears and Luna wraps her arms around my shoulders. “I hated it.”
The sob that wretches out of me is cleansing as my friend holds me,
“We don’t have to talk about it anymore,” she whispers softly. “We can let it fall in the back recesses of our mind, okay?”
I sniffle and nod. “Santo says I’ll never have to do that again.”
She nods seriously, “With a husband like that, I believe it.”
I giggle at that, and she chuckles wiping the tears from her eyes that haven’t fallen. “Want to hear something weird?” she asks, letting me go.
“Of course,” I say, grabbing a napkin and wiping my tear-stained cheeks.
“Nico’s downstairs,” she says, her lips tucked between her teeth.
“What?” I ask, both confused and shocked.
She shrugs, “He’s circling the block, he doesn’t realize that I know he’s there, but the man’s been following me for months .”
“Why?” I ask and Luna’s face turns mauve, she shrugs again.
“I don’t know, but having a beastly stalker isn’t the worst thing that’s happened to me.”
We laugh and continue our conversation; I can’t help but feel grateful for this moment of respite from outside worries. As hours pass by and evening bathes the city in its soft glow, Luna finally takes her leave. I walk her to the elevator, promising to see her again soon.
I find Santo still in his study, drowning in stacks of blueprints, his laptop blinking with unread emails. His sleeves are pushed up, his fingers tangled in his hair, the weight of the world sitting heavy on his shoulders.
"You're working too hard," I say quietly, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his forehead.
He looks up at me with tired eyes, but there’s a smile—small, lingering, the kind that always makes my heart skip a beat.
"And you're distracting me too much," he counters, his voice edged with amusement as his hands find my waist, pulling me onto his lap.
"Then I guess I should leave," I tease, feigning an attempt to get up.
But Santo is quicker. His arms lock around me, pulling me back down, his lips chasing mine in an onslaught of kisses—cheeks, jaw, the corner of my mouth—until I’m gasping with laughter, unable to catch my breath.
Then, something shifts. His kisses slow, turning deliberate. His teeth graze my neck, his hands dragging up my thigh, fingers slipping beneath the hem of my dress.
"Santo," I sigh, threading my fingers through his dark hair.
His gray eyes smolder as he gazes up at me—not just with desire, but with something deeper. Something that always tugs at my heart.
"Just one more minute," he whispers against my skin, his lips sending a tremor down my spine.
Then his fingers slip past lace and silk, slipping inside me, parting me with ease. My head tips back as a soft moan escapes me, pleasure sparking through my veins.
"Alright," I breathe, surrendering.
The rest of the world blurs as Santo expertly unravels me with just his touch, his mouth, his whispered devotion. And even as my body hums with pleasure, my thoughts drift—to his promise.
That I will never have to experience what happened again. That he will protect me. Always.
He anchors me with that vow. And now, that same certainty is the fire burning through my veins, pushing me closer, higher, until I can barely breathe.
"I love you, Santo," I murmur against his ear, my heart swelling with something almost too big to hold.
A low growl rumbles from his chest—deep, possessive—before he captures my lips, stealing my breath.
"I love you more, Dea," he murmurs, his hands gliding over my body, leaving fire in their wake.
I whimper at the gentle scrape of his teeth, at the way his fingers trace lazy, devastating curls inside me, pulling pleasure from me like it belongs to him.
The space feels too confined, too warm—I want more.
I pull away slightly, breathless, watching the flicker of concern in his eyes, but he doesn’t protest when I stand up and reach out for his hand.
“Let’s take this somewhere more comfortable,” I suggest with a sultry grin.
Santo’s gaze darkens, anticipation sharpening the edges of his features as he rises, his fingers curling possessively around mine as he follows me.
The setting sun filters through the windows, casting him in gold, illuminating the sharp planes of his face, the hunger in his eyes.
By the time we step inside our room, I barely have a moment to turn before he presses me against the wall, his mouth claiming mine, his hands sliding beneath my dress, peeling away the last barriers between us.
His lips taste of mint and coffee, of warmth and home.
His hands deftly unbutton my dress, while mine fumble with his belt. He chuckles, pulling away to help me, his gaze never leaving mine. His touch is like a balm to my soul, erasing the haunting memories of the past and replacing them with joy and pleasure.
We shed our clothes like we’re shedding layers of ourselves, revealing more than just our bodies. We’re unveiling our hearts; all of our fears, hopes, dreams, everything that makes us who we are. And as I collapse onto the bed under Santo’s weight, I know that this is where I belong.
With him.
To him .
Always.
Santo
She grips the covered canvas like it’s the last thing in the world and she can’t bear to part with it, her knuckles white, she still won’t let me see it, not until we get back to the estate. Lucky as I am that she’s agreed to go back, at least to see Mrs. Keen, she’s insisted we bring the painting she’s been holding as a surprise for me. I suggested she put it in the trunk, but she refused, so now I drive my wife back to our newly renovated home canvas snugly in hand.
Her phone rings and I try to feign confusion as to who could be calling when I already know who it is. She scrambles to hold on to the canvas while she digs her phone out of her purse one handed, she hands it to me to answer.
“Put it on speaker please,” she asks, her hands going right back to the canvas. I answer the phone and put it on speaker.
“Vasi?” Pietro’s voice comes through and my wife all put tosses the canvas between her legs and reaches for the phone. Normally this would cause a ping of jealousy, but my Vasilisa has lost so much, she needs as much family as she can get.
“Pietro, how are you?” she asks concern etched on her perfect face.
“I’m well. Santo told me about what happened, and I wanted to apologize I wasn’t there,” his voice apologetic through the phone.
“It’s okay, I’m okay,” she says softly.
“No, you’re like my sister Vasilisa, I owe you an explanation. After guarding Elena, I went to see the sister of my friend I told you about.”
“Oh,” Vasilisa breathes, “Is she okay?”
“She’s doing alright, I’ll be here with her for a bit and check in on my family, I’ll be back in a few months’ time.”
“Okay, you be safe.”
“Of course, you, too.”
She ends the call her eyes flicking toward me, a soft smile tugging at her lips. “Thank you.”
She slips her phone back in her purse, so I take her hand and intertwine our fingers before she can death grip the canvas again.
The rest of the drive is silent, save for the occasional hum of some passing vehicle or the wind rustling the leaves along the road. Vasilisa stares out the window, deep in thought.
As we pull up to our estate, she finally lifts her gaze from the scenery and looks at me. Her blue eyes swim with unshed tears, and I give her hand a gentle squeeze.
“Are you ready?” I ask her softly. She nods and takes a deep breath that sounds dangerously shaky but gets out of the car, nonetheless.
Our home looms over us as we walk towards the front door. It’s been a while since we’ve last been here–too busy running from our memories and horrors of the past.
Mrs. Keen, opens the door before we even get to the first step. She looks tired, but her eyes still hold that same warmth they always did as she beams at me, my heart softens.
"Welcome back," Mrs. Keen greets us the moment we step inside.
Vasilisa rushes forward, throwing herself into the woman’s arms, her small frame trembling with emotion. Mrs. Keen holds her just as fiercely, her eyes damp as she strokes my wife’s hair.
We retreat to the kitchen, settling into the warmth of familiarity—hot tea, quiet laughter, the comfort of home. Mrs. Keen and Vasilisa clutch onto each other like family, and for a brief, bittersweet moment that makes me wonder how my wife and mother would have been if they had the chance to meet.
When we finish catching up, we move toward the pantry. Vasilisa clutches the canvas tightly between her trembling hands, her nervous gaze darting to the elevator. Her body shakes slightly, and I feel the anger rise—that something so simple has become a fear she has to conquer.
I wrap my arms around her shoulders, my grip firm but gentle. "It’s just like the one at work," I remind her, rubbing slow circles into her back, trying to soothe her.
She shakes her head, tears brimming in those beautiful eyes that still undo me every damn time.
"I can’t go in there, Santo," she whispers, voice raw, breaking something inside of me.
I can’t have that.
Determined to help her overcome this hurdle, I hold her face gently between my hands, forcing her to look into my eyes. “Will you do this for me Dea?” I ask, pleading with her.
She tucks her lower lip between her teeth, her eyes filled with both weariness and love as she shakily nods her head.
I release her face and press my thumb on the call button, the elevator doors slide open. I take the covered canvas from her trembling hands and place it against the wall inside. Standing between the doors, I wait for her to enter. She looks at the elevator hesitantly before taking a tentative step inside. I nod encouragingly at her and feel anger boiling inside me at the thought that she has to overcome something so simple because of those bastards.
Feeling Vasilisa’s warm hand grasps mine, I catch her gaze and notice the concern in her furrowed brow.
“Are you okay?” she asks, now standing in between the doors of the elevator with me.
I smirk at her small success and nod, squeezing her hand and pulling her the rest of the way in. The doors slide closed behind us and I feel her hand shake slightly in mine. I glance at her, noticing the paleness of her face and the wide-eyed look she gives to the floor.
I push the button for our bedroom before pressing Vasilisa against the elevator wall. A gasp escapes her lips, confusion flashing through her eyes before I kiss her—hard, deep, taking everything she gives me and demanding more. She melts into me instantly, moaning softly as her body relaxes, arms wrapping around my neck. I lift her up, and her legs wrap around my waist, where she belongs.
I swallow every breathless sound she makes, my hands already skimming up her thighs, pushing her dress higher and higher, impatient.
I groan as my fingers find thin silk; the only barrier between me and what’s mine. My girl always makes it so easy for me. Hooking my fingers beneath the fabric, I push it aside.
Vasilisa gasps against my mouth at the first stroke of my fingers over her clit, her body arching into mine.
She tries to stifle her moans, but she’s never been good at that, her lips latching onto my neck instead, biting down to contain the sounds.
"Is this what you wanted?" I murmur, voice low against her ear as I press a finger inside her, feeling her pussy tighten around me immediately. "For me to touch you?"
She muffles another gasp, her teeth grazing my throat, and it only makes me hungrier.
"Answer me," I command, my voice dark, even as my fingers keep teasing, stroking, pushing her further.
She nods frantically. "Yes," she gasps, voice shaky. "Yes, Santo."
"That's my girl."
I slide a second finger inside her, stretching, stroking, working her into a frenzy. Her hips roll, desperate, chasing what only I can give her.
The elevator jolts slightly as it stops, and her eyes fly open in surprise.
I don’t stop.
Instead, I press my thumb against her clit, rubbing in tight, precise circles that have her clutching onto me, nails biting into my shoulders.
"You’re close," I whisper against her ear, watching every flicker of pleasure play across her face. "Let it happen."
As the doors slide open, her pussy clenches around my fingers, pleasure rippling through her in waves.
She gasps against my throat, soft, breathless, so fucking perfect as she shatters in my arms.
I stroke her through it, dragging out every last tremor until she sags against me, boneless, spent .
Slowly, I slide my fingers out of her and set her down on shaky legs.
She leans against me, catching her breath, and I take my time—licking the taste of her from my fingers, savoring every last trace of her pleasure.
She watches me, flushed and dazed, strands of hair clinging to the dampness on her forehead. I reach up, brushing them away, smoothing my thumb along her temple.
She's so fucking beautiful, I smirk. "Welcome home."
I grab the canvas, pressing it into her hands before leading her toward our bedroom.
She smiles at me following behind, I watch as she stands the canvas on the dresser and turns to me expectantly.
“Now?” I ask softly.
She nods and unveils the painting with bated breath.
My heart drops to my stomach, and a lump grows in my throat as I take in what my wife has created. It’s a portrait of my mother. Vasilisa has captured the light in my mother’s eyes so well, it’s as if I’m face to face with her right now.
“I... I...” I stutter, struggling to find the words. The room feels like it’s spinning around me.
“Do you like it, Santo?” Vasilisa looks up at me through thick lashes, her eyes wide and filled with concern. Her hands fidget together.
“Like it?” I echo, my voice hoarse. “Vasilisa... this... I don’t know what to say...”
“I wanted to do something nice,” she tells me in hushed tones, “A gift. I wanted to give you something that would mean a lot to you.”
I take in another deep breath, forcing down the lump in my throat. My hands reach out for the painting gently, tracing over my mother’s portrait reverently.
My wife has somehow managed to bring life back to a woman who is no longer with us. Every curve of my mother’s face, every crinkle at the corner of her eyes, every strand of her hair - it’s all there on the canvas.
“It’s perfect,” I whisper, my heart swelling with love for this incredible woman before me. “You’ve brought her back to me.”
Vasilisa looks relieved at my words and allows herself a soft smile. She moves closer towards me and slips an arm around my waist while resting her head against my chest.
“Thank you,” I tell her sincerely, wrapping an arm around her and pulling her closer into me. “Thank you for this and for coming back home.”
Her fingers trace over the fabric of my shirt as she says quietly, “This is our home, Santo. No matter where we go or what happens, this will always be our home.”
I press a tender kiss on top of her head, my other hand still holding onto the portrait of my mother. “I know the perfect place for it.”
***
I hang my mother’s portrait in the dining room, its presence a quiet reminder of the past, of everything that shaped me into the man I am. But when I turn, my gaze lands on the present—on my future.
Vasilisa stands beside the table, her delicate hands adjusting the final details, ensuring everything is perfect. The table is beautifully adorned, not just with the meal she and Mrs. Keen worked on with Julian, but with the subtle touches of her love woven into every piece. Fresh flowers in a delicate vase, folded napkins with precise creases, a warmth in the setting that never existed here before her.
She beams at me, proud of her display, her expression expectant—seeking my approval, my appreciation. But she should know, she has it. She always has it.
I take a long look at my mother’s portrait, and for the first time in years, a sense of peace washes over me. A peace I never thought I’d find. A peace that exists only because of the woman before me.
I look at my Vasilisa, truly look at her, and awe anchors deep in my chest. At the love she shows me so effortlessly, so openly. She is my light, my peace, my salvation.
The constellation of my entire existence.
A love like this should be celebrated—not just today, but every single day for the rest of my life. And I will. I will honor her. Protect her. Worship her.
For now, I take a seat beside my wife and do what I do best—
I watch her.
Because there is no world worth living in where she is not beside me.