Page 168 of Ruins
Angelo returns, his expression noticeably harder than before. The shift in his demeanor sets me on edge.
“Piccola,” he starts, his voice lower, “Some business came up. I have to go.”
Unease prickles at my skin. “Is everything alright?” I ask, my voice quieter than I intended.
His gaze softens briefly, the hard edges of his face relaxing for just a moment. “Don’t worry yourself over it,” he says, stepping closer. His fingers brush against my temple as he tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
The gesture feels too intimate, toocareful. Luca clears his throat loudly, his discomfort impossible to miss.
Angelo doesn’t even glance at him. “Maybe get some water for that throat, Cattaneo,” he says dismissively, his eyes still on me.
“IsSantoalright?” I ask Angelo with more urgency. My heart pounds at the weight of his gaze.
“He’s fine,” Angelo replies, his voice steady, but his eyes linger on mine too long, their scrutiny heavy and invasive. His thumb grazes my cheek briefly, a touch that makes my chest tighten with unease. Before I can respond, he drops his hand and strides toward the kitchen door. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Wait,” I call after him, a sinking feeling settling low in my stomach. “Is Santo coming home?”
For the briefest moment, something flickers across Angelo’s face—guilt, hesitation, or both. His eyes drop for a fraction of a second before he schools his features into a stern mask. “Not tonight,” he says shortly, and with that, he’s gone.
The weight in my chest grows unbearable, and tears threaten to spill. I quickly brush them away, refusing to let myself fall apart here. But I can’t shake the pressure in my chest, the lump in my throat.
Santo.
Chapter 33
Santo
SilencesuffocatesAngelo’spenthouseas I step inside, the weight of my rage pressing against my chest like a loaded gun. I barely made it through the drive from NovaRael without turning back around to confront them right then and there. The surveillance footage still burns behind my eyes—him with her—the easy way he touched her, the fucking way shelethim. My hands clench at my sides, fingers itching for violence.
The image of her beneath me, writhing and gasping my name, the way she looks when she’smine—it all gets drowned out by the sight of Angelo’s arm around her waist, his hand brushing her cheek. It festers like poison, fueling the inferno inside me.
The penthouse is pristine, every surface polished to a cold, soulless gleam. It’s fitting. This place reflects him—my brother, with his stupid snake’s grin. I stride to the bar, pouring myself a drink with steady hands that betray the storm inside. The whiskey burns as I take a slow sip, but it does nothing to extinguish the fire in my gut.
The elevator doors slide open.
Angelo saunters in, that lazy, knowing smirk on his lips, like he’s been expecting me. Like he’s already won. The fire inside me roars to life.
“Hello, little brother,” he drawls, arrogance dripping from every syllable.
I turn just enough to look at him, my grip tightening around the glass in my hand. “Why were you with her?” My voice is sharp, laced with the venom I barely restrain.
Angelo strolls to the bar, unfazed, and pours himself a drink. “Why wouldn’t I visit my cognata?” He smirks, swirling his glass. “She was allalone.”
My teeth grind together. “She had three guards. She wasfine.”
“I sent them away,” he says smoothly, taking a sip. “Spent the day with her instead.”
The words crack something inside me. The thought of Vasilisa—my wife—alone with him shoves a knife into my gut. My fingers flex around the glass, my breath steady, measured.
“She’s a needy little thing,” he muses, taking another slow sip.
The whiskey in my hand nearly sloshes over the rim as my grip tightens.
In one swift movement, I throw back the rest of my drink, then slam the glass onto the bar before shoving him back. Hard. His own whiskey sloshes, spilling over his fingers as he stumbles back a step, his smirk deepening.
“Don’t talk about her like that.”
Angelo raises a hand in mock surrender. He eyes the whiskey dripping down his fingers and clicks his tongue before setting the glass down on the bar with exaggerated care. “Relax, Scythe,” he taunts. “I meant no disrespect.” He wipes his hand off on his shirt, then grins. “We had a great time—went for a swim.”
