Page 45 of Ruins
“That is undoubtedly the best bruschetta I’ve ever tasted,” she says, placing the remaining piece down with a satisfied sigh
“I’ll be sure to let the chef keep his job,” I say jokingly.
Her eyebrows raise, “You own this restaurant?”
Before I can answer Vincenzo approaches, “Mr. Amato, Ms. Popov would you like to have your entrees brought out now?”
“Oh no, there’s more than enough food on this table to last me a lifetime,” Vasilisa says with a small laugh that I instantly hope to hear again.
“Nonsense,” I say to her and her eyes widen as she meets my eyes. “If anything, you should eat more,” The words are light, teasing, meant to coax another smile out of her, but something shifts. She blinks, glancing down at her plate, the laughter gone from her lips.
I turn to Vincenzo, covering the moment with an easy command. “The entrees can come out in fifteen minutes. I called you over to ask if you could bring me the book.”
Vincenzo’s brows rise slightly before understanding clicks into place. He nods and steps away.
I turn back to Vasilisa. She’s still looking at her half-eaten bruschetta, lost in thought.
My fingers tighten around my glass. “Everything alright?”
She looks up at me, her eyes momentarily forlorn. It’s barely there—just a flicker of something fragile—before she masks it with a smile, straightening her shoulders, slipping back into the effortless poise she wears like armor.
“Yes, of course. Everything is so... beautiful here,” she says. But her voice is softer now, and her eyes don’t quite match her words.
Before I can press, Vincenzo returns, holding my mother’s book.
“Vita Nuova,” Vasilisa gasps reaching for the book, but then catches herself and clasps her hands together, returning to her poised state.
“Yes, Vita Nuova,” I say, taking the book from Vincenzo and dismissing him with a nod. I let my fingertips graze the worn cover for a brief moment before extending it to her.
She hesitates, then takes it, running her palm reverently down the aged leather.
“It’s my mother's, and now it’s yours.”
Vasilisa’s beautiful mouth forms a smallo, and she flushes, her gorgeous face glowing.
“I couldn’t possibly,” she starts, lifting the book to return it, but I stop her with a raised hand.
“It’s yours.” My voice leaves no room for argument. “You’ll be bringing it to our home soon enough anyway.”
She exhales softly and places the book down, delicate in the way she handles it, as if it’s something sacred.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Usually, I wouldn’t part with anything that belonged to my mother, but Vasilisa likes books, she will treat it well.
I take a sip of wine, my gaze lingering on her. I could get used to this—her presence, the quiet grace that draws me in when I least expect it. She’s warm in a way I hadn’t anticipated.
Her fingers trail absently along the worn edges of the book, her expression softening, eyes filled with a silent appreciation that makes something settle deep in my chest.
“Have you read it before?” I ask her, eager to delve into a conversation that would lay bare more of her personality.
Her lips curve into a smile as she lifts her gaze, “Partially, for one of my literature classes. Dante’s story of love and devotion is... moving...” Her voice drifts off as the smile fades, replaced by a distant look.
I’m tempted to ask what’s hidden behind those soulful eyes. I wonder if it’s the arranged marriage that makes her sad or something else entirely. I doubt she will tell me if I ask forthright. It’s too soon to gamble so instead, I take another sip of wine and lean back into my chair.
“Tell me about the art you make. Should I expect our home to be adorned with your pieces?”
