Page 211 of Ruins
“You opened it?”
He nods, typing out a quick message before hitting send. “We did, but it’s incomplete. Still, it helps.”
“That’s what Maksim called about?”
Santo’s fingers brush my cheek, his expression shifting. “Partly.” He studies me for a moment, hesitating. “He also told me something else. And I need to share it with you… but I don’t want to see those beautiful eyes fill with tears again.”
A chill runs through me. My arms fall from around his neck. “Tell me.”
His face darkens, his voice careful, measured. “Maksim found your mother.”
The world stills. My heartbeat pounds in my ears, deafening. Santo watches me, his dark gaze unreadable, waiting.
“Is he going to kill her?” The words leave me before I can stop them. I don’t want to know the answer. But Ido. Her betrayal to the Bratva won’t go unanswered.
Santo exhales. “I don’t have all the details yet. He’s going to question her first.” His grip on me tightens slightly. “Maksim said he’d explain everything later.”
I try to form words, but nothing comes out. My mind is a storm—anger, fear, confusion, all crashing into each other.
Santo’s gaze sharpens, his brow furrowing. Then his touch is on me again, knuckles grazing my cheek. “You’re shaking.”
I barely register it until he pulls me closer, wrapping his arms around me like a shield against the world. I breathe him in, trying to anchor myself in his warmth, but the fear is there, coiling tight in my chest.
“I don’t know what to do,” I whisper, voice barely audible. “What if I’m next?” I can’t fathom Maksim hurting me, but I know what betrayal means. Even by proxy, the Bratva doesn’t forgive.
Santo stills. Then, his voice drops—low, lethal. “That will never happen.” His grip tightens, his hold turning possessive. “You’re innocent. And you’remine.”
There’s a promise in his words, one that comes with unrelenting violence. The kind of vow that means nothing in this world will touch me—not while he’s breathing.
I rest my head against his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat, but the knot in my stomach refuses to unravel.
His fingers stroke through my hair as he murmurs, “No one is going to come after you, Dea. Not while I breathe.” His voice is unwavering, absolute. “Your parents’ sins won’t fall on you. I swear it.”
The words hang between us, heavy with meaning. And though the fear lingers, one thing remains undeniable his promise holds a truth that resonates deeply within me — he will keep me safe.
***
Santo takes me back to the lake, an easel and canvas in tow so I can paint the bluebells as I watch them sway in the breeze. He sets up a picnic, just like the ones he had when he was younger with his mother, a quiet homage to memories that shaped him. The day is spent wrapped in each other’s company, lost in stories of our childhoods—his days at Stanford, my classes and my monthly café visits with Luna. Between kisses and bites of food, we weave our pasts together, savoring this fragile sliver of peace amid the storm brewing on the horizon.
His stories make me laugh; his kisses make me forget and for a moment, we are not bound to duty or bloodshed; we are simply us, languishing in the sun, in the sanctity of each other.
When he picks up a paintbrush, he smirks. “I am no artist, Vasilisa, but I’m willing to try for you.” His fingers move clumsily over the canvas, creating abstract forms that lack precision but hold warmth—real and raw, just like him. There is a beauty in his attempt, in the way he exists with such quiet, unshakable strength despite all he has endured. When he catches me watching him, the curve of his lips, the one he saves only for me, melts something deep in my chest.
As the sun begins to set, we pack up and drive home. Santo holds my hand, his thumb occasionally brushing over my skin, a silent promise that whatever waits for us beyond this moment, we will face it together.
The house is still and quiet when we arrive. He leads me upstairs, his touch gentle as he helps me get ready for bed. An unspoken agreement lingers between us—tonight, we will not speak of our worries.
Wrapped in his oversized shirt, I slip into bed beside him. His arms encircle me, pulling me close, anchoring me.
“I love you,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear. “I will keep you safe.”
His words settle over me like a lullaby, soothing away the unease that lingers beneath my skin. In his arms, I believe him. Sleep claims me to the rhythm of his heartbeat.
***
When I wake, the bed is cooler beside me. Santo sits at the edge, his back rigid, the glow of his phone illuminating the sharp lines of his face. I shift, and he ends the call, turning toward me.
“Good morning,” I murmur, my voice still thick with sleep. But when our eyes meet, the weight in his gaze tells me everything.
