Page 46 of Ruins
Her expression flickers, something sorrowful flashing in her eyes before she quickly drops her gaze, shaking her head.
“No,” she says quietly. “None of my pieces will be coming with me.”
Before I can question that, the waiters move in to clear the appetizers, and Vincenzo sets down our entrees—linguine with salmon, cooked to perfection.
“This is perfect,” she says, her voice lighter, picking up her fork and twirling it through the pasta.
“Why can’t you bring your pieces?”
She chews, her hand coming up to cover her mouth, blushing slightly as she tries to finish quickly to respond.
“My father didn’t find them suitable for the house,” she finally says with a small shrug. “So he had me leave them in the garage, and they got ruined. I didn’t even get to see them before he tossed them.”
She pauses. “He thinks it’s a waste of a hobby anyway.”
A slow, seething heat creeps up my spine.
I set my fork down.
“Your art isn’t a waste.” My voice is low, firm. “You’ll make more. In our home, you’ll make more.”
Her eyes widen slightly, caught off guard. “You... want me to paint in the house?”
“Where else would you paint?”
She hesitates. “I don’t know, my father doesn’t like paint in the house, so I usually painted outside, but one time it rained, and all my supplies got destroyed so I just stopped painting.”
I grip my wine glass a little too tightly.
“That won’t happen again.” The words come out hard, final. “You’ll paint inside. You’ll have a room with natural light. You’ll hang your work wherever you want.”
She stares at me, her fork stilling against her plate.
“Okay,” she says softly, hesitant.
And I wonder if I pushed too far.
As we eat, our conversation drifts between art and literature. Vasilisa is an engaging speaker—intelligent, passionate, effortless. When she talks aboutThe Divine Comedyor a painting she once admired at an exhibition, her eyes glow with something rare, somethingalive. I find myself drawn to her—not just to her beauty, but to the way she speaks, the way she sees the world.
When we finish our meal, Vasilisa looks up with a thoughtful expression on her face.
“I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone quite like you, Santo.”
Her words, so simple yet unexpected, strike something deep. I chuckle, feeling a strange mix of pride and something heavier, something I can’t name.
“And you, Vasilisa, are not like any woman I’ve known before.”
She tilts her head slightly. “Is that a good thing?” A hint of vulnerability slips into her voice, barely there but unmistakable.
“I believe it’s the best thing.” The words leave me before I can think twice.
I reach for the velvet box, taking a slow breath before flipping it open.
Inside, my mother’s ring gleams under the dim lighting—a piece of history, of blood, of legacy. The same ring that was on her hand.
My throat tightens. For a brief, painful second, I can still see it on her finger, delicate yet firm, a symbol of a love that once held the weight of the world.
I shake the thought away, focusing on the woman in front of me.
