Page 152 of Ruins
A slow smile tugs at my lips. Luca gestures to an empty seat beside him, and I sit primly. If I had known we would be playing, I might have worn something more comfortable, though I doubt it will make a difference. That, and the fact that they assume I don’t already know how to play.
I let them get comfortable, their expressions already painted with self-assured superiority. I keep my own poker face intact, barely resisting the urge to roll my eyes when Nico tries to explain the basics.
“Alright, guys, let’s not overwhelm her.” He glances at me through thick lashes, concern visible in his hazel eyes. “Poker is a game of chance and strategy, Vasilisa. The goal is to have the best set of cards by the end.”
I nod, feigning a demure look of gratitude, as if his explanation is news to me. They don’t know that poker had once been my favorite pastime with Maksim, who had taught me himself.
The game begins in earnest, their joviality quickly dissolving into intense concentration as they try to decipher each other’s strategies. I play my part well—gasping at losses, giggling at wins—letting them believe I am exactly the naïve little girl they expect me to be.
The first round comes and goes; I lose by a hair’s breadth to Luca. My defeat seems to bolster their confidence.
As we shuffle for the next round, my fingers move deftly with years of experience hidden behind faux hesitation. Silently, I compose myself for the strike. The room falls into quiet anticipation as everyone checks their hands.
“What do you think? Is it your lucky round?” Enzo teases, his grin faltering the moment I reveal my cards.
It takes them a second to register what just happened—Nico blinks rapidly at my full house, while Luca raises an impressed brow—but by then, it’s too late.
The third game ends with me victorious again, the pot significantly larger this time. Their egos take a hit, but I see something else dancing in their eyes—respect.
“Let me guess,” Nico breaks the silence, chuckling. “You’ve played before?”
I smile, collecting my winnings, leaving them to their wounded pride. My point is clear: I am not just Santo’s wife. I am my own person.
Another month passes, still no word from Santo—only more lilies in his absence. The guys eventually switch from poker to baccarat, assuming once again that I don’t know how to play. With each passing day, my camaraderie with them deepens, their respect for me growing. They even go out to buy more easels, joining me in painting.
Every night, I fall asleep on the couch, and every night, my husband carries me upstairs. That is the extent of our interactions.
One night I choose to sleep in my own room and that becomes my new habit.
Over time, I grow used to his absence and come to cherish the presence of my new friends. Even cooking together with Amelia at the helm becomes part of our routine.
Then one day, something shifts. Sergei reveals his hidden talent for the violin, and soon, music becomes part of our evenings. One by one, the others join in—Nico surprises us all with his skill on the guitar, while Enzo and Romeo turn everything into a dramatic performance.
One night, over warm cups of coffee and half-finished canvases, Luca confides in me about his siblings back home in Italy, whom he hasn’t seen in over a year. There’s a strain in his voice, longing laced with worry, but a glimmer of hope remains.
Slowly, these men—Sergei with his sharp gaze, Romeo with his thoughtful demeanor, Enzo quick with a witty remark, Nico with his unwavering kindness, and Luca with his infectious laughter—become more than guards.They become my brothers.
Despite the warmth of their friendship, I still miss Santo. Every night, I find myself slipping into his room. His presence lingers in the careless way his clothes are strewn about, in the scent of him woven into the sheets. He is everywhere. A ghost inhabiting every corner of my life, keeping me captive in his irresistible aura.
Then one morning, I wake to find a note on my bedside table. My heart pounds as I unfold it. His handwriting sends a jolt through me, my hands trembling.
I miss you.
That’s all it says, but it’s enough. Enough to undo me completely. My tears fall freely, staining the paper.
From that night on, I sleep hugging the note, holding onto it as if it can bring him closer.
I yearn for him—to share this newfound warmth of companionship, to let him see what I’ve built in his absence. But he is buried in his work, swallowed by this war.
I sigh, shifting my focus back to the canvas in front of me. This time, it is not a painting of Santo.
“Vasilisa,” Enzo calls from across the room. “Could you pass the red?”
With a small smile, I hand him the requested paint. As he thanks me, I glance back at my nearly finished painting—a portrait of me and my brothers gathered around a poker table, frozen in a moment of laughter and competition. A testament to this strange yet beautiful chapter of my life.
A sudden cacophony of beeps and buzzes erupts from the five men’s cell phones, causing them to abruptly drop their brushes and exchange concerned glances.
“We have to go,” Sergei’s voice carries a bitter edge.
