Page 8 of Ruins
Maksim is reckless to let this slip through his fingers. The alliance feels too simple, almostcarelesson his part. The thought nags at me, but I push it aside.
His loss. My advantage.
Before I leave, I fire off a quick text to one of my men.
‘Tail her.’
I want eyes on my future wife long before she realizes I exist.
Chapter 3
Santo
Inmyhomeoffice,plans to take over NovaRael are already in motion. The wedding is still weeks away, but the contract? That can be signed now.
I call Maksim to set up a meeting with Miroslav Popov, ready to push the deal through. He doesn’t hesitate.
“Popov can be at your estate within the hour,” he says.
Good.
As I hang up, the door swings open without a knock—like it always does.
Mrs. Keen, my housekeeper, steps in, a pitcher of iced tea in her hands, the same way she has for the last fifteen years. I barely glance at her before making a mental note to install the Athena lock system once the surveillance data finishes uploading.
She moves through the room like she owns it. Maybe, in her own way, she does. There’s something grounding about her presence—soft, familiar, like she’s always been a part of this house. A part of my life.
The tea is homemade, just like my mother used to make when Angelo and I were boys.
She hesitates. Just for a second. But I don’t miss it.
I lean back in my chair, raising an eyebrow, waiting.
She sets the pitcher down at the office bar, pours me a glass, then finally meets my gaze.
I exhale, already knowing.
“Who told you?”
She lowers her head slightly, carefully choosing her words.
“Luca,” she admits. “But don’t be upset with him. I overheard him… something about ordering a tail on your—”
She pauses, and I see it—the care she’s taking not to overstep.
It doesn’t matter.
I already know exactly who she’s talking about.
I nod, unfazed. “I’m not upset. You’d have found out soon enough. I’m getting married in two weeks. She’ll be living here.”
Mrs. Keen’s entire face lights up, her joy sogenuinethat it almost catches me off guard.
“Oh, Santo, this is wonderful!” she exclaims, hands clasping together. “I can’t wait to meet her.”
She starts pacing, rattling off ideas—changes to the house, dinner menus, accommodations—already planning for a bride she’s never met. Her excitement is relentless, spilling into every word until, mid-sentence, she freezes, brows knitting together.
“I leave for vacation next week,” she says, disappointment heavy in her tone. “I won’t be here for the ceremony, and I won’t meet your wife until after... I can reschedule—”
