Page 266 of Legacy

My phone lights up, and for a second, I hope it’s Angelo, telling me he’s on his way home.

It’s not.

Vasilisa.

My thumb hovers. We haven’t spoken since that night, since she threw icy words at me and pissed me off.

I answer the call. “Hello.”

“Adriana.” Her voice is cool, but not sharp. Like she’s trying to steady herself.

I wait.

There’s a breath, a small sigh. “I was mean to you,” she says softly.

My chest tightens, memories of that night rising like smoke. The argument, the look in her eyes, the way it all felt sneaky and wrong.

“You were just trying to help him,” she adds, a rush to her words. “And I was hurt. By Angelo. By Maksim. They both knew, and it just felt like too much.”

I swallow. “I understand.” The words taste bitter.

Another pause, then, “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that. You’ve been tossed into this family the same way I was, and you didn’t deserve my anger.”

I let the words hang there, not forgiving, not rejecting. Just letting them be.

“I didn’t ask for my marriage,” she continues, voice low. “And I know you didn’t either. But I love Santo, and… it’s clear you love Angelo.”

I close my eyes. It’s not a question, so I don’t answer.

She clears her throat. “Your plan. Ending the war.”

My eyes snap open, focus sharpening. “Are you against it?”

“No,” she says. “I’m in. Whatever you need, Adriana. If NovaRael can help, I’ll make it happen. I just wanted you to hear it from me.”

Her voice wavers, but only for a moment. “We don’t get many choices, you and I. But we can choose this. We can choose to fight for peace.”

My grip on the phone tightens. My chest feels too small for the air I need. “Thank you,” I whisper.

There’s a soft laugh, almost a breath. “If I’m in this bathroom any longer, Santo will break the door down. But… I’m with you. And I hope, one day, we can try again. As family.”

I swallow, the ache in my throat warm this time. “So do I.”

The line clicks off, and I let the phone drop onto the couch, pulling my knees to my chest.

I breathe in, and for the first time since that dinner, I feel some anxiety lift.

I drag myself off the couch.

I need a drink.

My body feels like it’s buzzing and heavy all at once—too much thinking, too much talking, not enough air.

I stand in the kitchen, fingers trailing over the wine bottles lined up on the counter. My eyes catch on the Malbec we opened the other night, the memory of Angelo’s hands around the glass, the way he looked at me, the way he tasted, flooding back.

I grab a fresh bottle, twisting it in my hands, only to realize—

The corkscrew.