Page 50 of Ruins
Santo leads me toward his office, bypassing a beautiful blonde seated at the desk near Sandra. The woman’s gaze flicks to me, her perfectly sculpted brow arching just slightly before she shifts her attention to Santo, her smile polite—but assessing.
“Hello, Mr. Amato. I don’t see anyone listed for an appointment today,” she says smoothly, her eyes drifting over me like she’s trying to place me—or size me up.
“That’s his wife,” Sandra cuts in sharply before Santo can answer. Her voice carries the kind of familiarity that makes warmth bloom in my chest. Sandra has known me for years, even before she transferred floors. When I was little, she used to sneak me cookies from the bakery near her house.
“Andthe former boss’s daughter,” she adds, winking at me.
I can’t hold back my smirk.
The blonde’s eyes widen slightly, her posture stiffening. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Amato, I didn’t know—I just—” She gestures hesitantly toward Santo’s hand. “I didn’t see a ring.”
Santo’s response is immediate, effortless in its sharpness. “If you learned to keep your tongue before speaking, you wouldn’t embarrass yourself.”
A chill settles over the room.
His tone isn’t cruel, but it’s firm, final.
“This is Vasilisa,” he continues, his voice smooth but leaving no room for argument. “Don’t forget her face. Don’t forget her name. Or you won’t have a job.”
The woman—Evie, her nameplate reads—nods quickly, dropping her gaze. “Yes, Mr. Amato.”
Santo doesn’t spare her another glance. “Make sure no one disturbs us, Sandra,” he says before leading me inside his office, closing the door behind us.
Something unsettles in my stomach. Not fear—just an odd, nervous energy at how effortlessly he commands a room, how his protectiveness is so instinctual it feels almost possessive.
He releases my hand and strides behind his desk, his movements fluid, precise. “We had to meet here since I have a meeting, then we can head out,” he explains, his tone shifting to something softer—less sharp than it had been moments ago. “It came up after I asked you, and I didn’t want to postpone your visit. I hope you don’t mind.”
There’s something about the way he says it, like my presence matters more than his schedule.Like he wouldn’t have let work come before me.
I swallow, my fingers brushing absentmindedly over my palm where his hand had been moments ago.
“I don’t mind,” I say softly.
I watch as he takes a seat behind the desk, his fingers moving effortlessly over the keyboard. For a moment, he’s absorbed in his work, but then his gaze lifts—darkening as it trails over my body.
The air between us shifts. Thickens.
He inhales, slow and measured, before gesturing for me to come behind the desk. My heart pounds as I step forward, anticipation curling through me.
Two large screens glow in front of us, displaying what looks like surveillance footage. I furrow my brows as he pulls up more feeds, clicking through them with ease until he stops.
“This is my home.Ourhome.”
He turns slightly in his chair, his eyes locking onto mine, and pats his leg—beckoning me to sit.
I hesitate, my breath catching as I realize his intent. Before I can form a protest, his hand, warm and firm, presses gently against my lower back, guiding me forward. My legs slip between his, and I perch on his muscular thigh, my skin heating at our sudden closeness.
The scent of his cologne—warm, dark, laced with spicy vanilla—wraps around me, intoxicating. My pulse flutters, unsteady, as his arms move to cage me in, pressing against the desk on either side of me.
I’m trapped.
Yet, I don’t want to escape.
His fingers dance over the keyboard, the glow of the screens casting soft shadows across his sharp features. “I want you to choose a room to paint in,” he murmurs, his breath teasing the sensitive skin near my ear.
I blink, momentarily thrown.
I turn my head slightly, my gaze colliding with his. His eyes flicker down to my lips, and my heart stutters.
