Page 103 of Ruins
And to make it worse, my husband is nowhere to be found, while his brother, Angelo, lingers.
I avoid him just like everyone else avoids me.
It’s not that I’m incapable of introducing myself, but by the time afternoon rolls around, I’m drained. The constant movement, the sharp glances, the unspoken weight of my presence—it’s too much.
Seeking an escape, I slip outside and lay down on the bench beneath the shade of the magnolia trees. The air is warm, thick with the scent of flowers, and for the first time today, I let myself breathe.
I close my eyes.
It doesn’t last long.
A shadow falls over me, pulling me from my moment of peace. My eyes snap open, and I’m met with the sight of a young man. Sunlight catches in his light brown hair, forming a halo around his head. His pleasant smile disarms me instantly.
I scramble to sit up, smoothing my dress down my thighs, forcing a polite smile.
“Is this spot taken?” he asks, nodding toward the bench.
I shake my head, shifting over. “No, please. Sit.”
“I’m Romeo Romero,” he introduces himself, offering his hand.
“Vasilisa.” I take it, his grip firm but careful—a contrast to the world we live in.
For a while, we sit in silence. It’s comfortable, something I didn’t realize I was craving.
Then a voice shatters the peace.
“Romero.”
The warmth in Romeo’s face disappears as he stiffens and rises to his feet. His eyes meet Angelo’s.
“Don Amato.” His nod is respectful, but the tension in his jaw betrays him.
Angelo barely acknowledges him, his sharp gaze fixed on me.
“Vasilisa,” he greets, voice cold. His eyes flick down, assessing me. I know that look, scanning for any hint of impropriety.
I swallow hard. “Don Amato,” I say, forcing my voice steady.
He studies me for another beat before shifting his attention back to Romeo. His lips curl into something that isn’t quite a smile. “I hope Romero isn’t bothering you.”
A veiled threat. Areminder.
“He’s been very kind,” I answer quickly, trying to keep whatever this is from escalating.
Romeo shoots me a brief appreciative glance before straightening.
“You’re needed inside, Romero,” Angelo says coolly. “Santo’s looking for you.”
A flicker of something crosses Romeo’s face—dread? But he nods and heads toward the house, leaving me alone.
With him.
“Are you settling in?” Angelo asks, his voice still icy.
“Yes,” I manage, my fingers curling into the fabric of my skirt, as if that will ground me.
Angelo starts pacing, hands clasped behind his back. His movements are too measured, too controlled—like a predator circling prey.
