Page 163 of Ruins
Not Santo.
My gaze snaps up, locking onto the wrong pair of eyes—light, sharp, filled with amusement. My stomach twists as a slow, knowing smile spreads across Angelo’s face.
“Well, Piccola,” he muses, his voice laced with humor. “What a lovely way to greet me.”
I wrench myself out of his grasp, my robe slipping dangerously off my shoulder in my haste. His eyes trail the movement, slow and deliberate, before flicking back up to meet mine. There’s something in his gaze—something I don’t like.
I clutch the fabric tighter around me. “What are you doing here?” My voice betrays me, shaky with confusion and something else—something colder.
Angelo smirks, tilting his head like he’s amused by my reaction. “Santo sent me to check in. He’s still working.”
“Santo can delegatethe Donto watch his wife?“ I ask, the disbelief thick in my voice.
His smirk falters just enough to show the flicker of annoyance beneath his easy arrogance. “No onedelegates me,“ he says smoothly, but there’s an edge now, a quiet warning. “This is more of a brotherly favor.”
His arm drapes over my shoulders before I can react, the weight of it heavy, possessive. I don’t like it.
“Come on,” he says, guiding me toward the kitchen like I don’t have a choice. “Why don’t we get some breakfast? Have a little chat. Get to know each other.”
There’s something unsettling in how casual he makes it sound. I swallow hard and nod, forcing my body to move, even as my jaw clenches against the unwanted proximity.
“Tell me, tiny,” he drawls, the amusement creeping back into his tone, “have you ever fired a gun?”
I step out from under his arm, shrugging him off like his touch is something I can scrub away. “Can I get dressed first?”
His chuckle is low, dark. “If you have to.”
I don’t wait for a second dismissal. I turn on my heel and bolt up the stairs, my skin prickling with unease.
Getting dressed proves harder than I expect. My hands hover over my options—one part of me reaching for the dresses I’ve been trained to wear, another considering Santo’s insistence on modesty. Jeans or decorum? I hesitate, the war inside me unfamiliar, frustrating. This is ridiculous.
In the end, my training wins. I pull on a corduroy dress over a crisp white shirt, black tights hugging my legs, and finish with platform heels. Something about it feels like armor. I brush my hair into a ponytail, smoothing stray strands before inhaling deeply.
I step into the hall—only to collide with Luca.
His expression is tense, cautious.
“Angelo’s here,” he murmurs.
“I saw him already… unfortunately, not as dressed as I am now.”
Luca’s brows draw together, his concern evident. “He wants us to leave.”
The weight of his words settles in my chest, pressing tight. “He wants me to leavemy home?” My voice rises with indignation, sharp and unwavering.
“Not you,” Luca clarifies, shaking his head. “Just us. Romeo and me.”
A chill creeps down my spine. Grabbing Luca’s arm, I plead, “Please don’t go.”
His expression softens, but his stance remains firm. He pats my arm gently, his touch reassuring, but it does nothing to ease the unease twisting in my stomach. He carefully pries my fingers off him. “Angelo won’t hurt you, Vasilisa. I don’t know what he wants, but I do know that much.”
That’s not enough. Not for me.
Romeo appears at the end of the hall, his sharp eyes assessing the tension between us. “Did you tell her?”
“I was getting there,” Luca mutters.
“Tell me what?” I demand, looking between them, my pulse hammering against my ribs. A tight, suffocating sensation creeps into my chest. “Is Santo okay?”
