Page 2 of Legacy

But it’s not casual. Not to me. Arsen Sarkisian isn’t just some guy. He’s my age.

Just a kid born into the wrong family, expected to follow the same blood-soaked footsteps as his father.

Just. Like. Me.

And now? Now he’s in a hospital bed, barely clinging to life because of me.

The sharp knock at my door startles me. My head jerks up. “What?” I bark, the word cutting through the silence.

The door creaks open, and there’s Santo, standing there with that nervous look on his face, like he’s afraid I’ll blow up at him. He’s holding something small and metallic, fiddling with it like he always does when he’s unsure.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

I sigh, running a hand through my hair. “What do you want?”

He flinches, and it’s so slight I almost miss it.

Almost.

Guilt claws at my chest, a familiar ache I can’t shake. I try again, softer this time. “What is it, Santo?”

He steps inside, holding up the gadget. “I finished this,” he says, his voice careful. “Thought you’d want to see it.”

I glance at the thing, some kind of contraption I can’t make sense of, but I know it probably took him hours to build. I nod. “Yeah. Looks good.”

“Thanks.” He hesitates, lingering in the doorway, his eyes searching mine. “Is something wrong?”

“No.” The word comes out too sharp, too quick. I look away, pretending to adjust something on my desk. “I’m fine. Just waiting on Dad.”

“For what?”

I turn to him, narrowing my eyes. “None of your business.” The words are harsher than I mean them to be, and I regret them the second they leave my mouth.

Santo’s face falls. “You’re an ass,” he mutters, turning and walking out. The door shuts behind him, and I’m left with the silence again.

The sound of the front door closing and my father’s heavy steps echoing through the house makes my stomach tighten. I push myself off the bed, forcing my expression into something neutral.

I find him in his office, swirling a glass of whiskey. His presence fills the room as I enter. His broad shoulders and stern expression are a familiar sight, but there is a tension in his frame that causes my heart to beat faster.

He knows.

“Dad,” I say, leaning against the doorway. My voice is steady, casual, but my heart’s racing. “Everything okay?”

He looks up at me, an eyebrow raised. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

I shrug. “Heard about the fire. Sarkisian’s.”

His lips twitch into a faint smirk. “Yeah, heard about that. Karma, if you ask me. A father and son running a trafficking ring, caught in their own mess. Arsen’s in critical condition, and Vartan’s dead. Serves them right.”

He chuckles and downs the rest of his whiskey. “What a waste of oxygen those two were.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut. I nod, forcing my face to stay blank. “Yeah,” I say quietly. “Karma.”

The sharp sound of the front door slamming open sends a jolt through me. My father’s head snaps up, his glass forgotten on the desk. I’m already moving before he says a word, every muscle in my body coiled tight.

The shouting and hurried footsteps in the hall pull me to the foyer, and the sight before me almost knocks the breath out of my lungs. Two guards drag Nico, my best friend, through the doorway, his body slumped between them.

Blood iseverywhere.