Page 59 of Legacy

Hours later I make it home.

I kick the door open and toss my heels somewhere into the abyss of my room. My vanity lights blink back at me accusingly—fuck my skin care routine.I collapse face-first onto the satin comforter, the sparkle of my dress catching the low glow from my bedside lamp.

My eyelids don’t even fight to stay open.

I’m gone.

***

I’ll kill the noise.

Kill it dead.

My phone flashes Luciano’s name. I curse under my breath.

If I don’t answer he’ll show up at my door.

“What?” I answer groggily.

“I need you here immediately.”

I roll my eyes so hard I almost fall back to sleep.

Pompous ass.

“Can immediately be in four hours?”

“Make it one,” he says ending the call.

I fight the urge to throw my phone.

I drag my ass out of bed and into the shower.

The hot water does little to wash away the hangover, but helps me feel slightly more human.

Walking out of the steam filled bathroom I sigh heavily.

Today was suppose to bemyday. Rest and relaxation, eating left over birthday cake from two nights ago.

Fuck Luciano.

I throw on a sleek black dress that screams‘I-care-enough-to-be-professional-but-also-I-am-not-a-morning-person’,grab my purse and keys and leave.

My head throbs with each step I take down the stairs, pleas for coffee and painkillers whispering inside my head.

I step into the elevator, mirrors lining every wall, giving me nowhere to look but at myself. Dark circles under my eyes. Head pounding. Dread pooling in my stomach like old coffee.

Luciano’s office is perched at the top of one of Miami’s most prestigious high-rises. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the hazy skyline like a painting, letting in a low, stormy gray light. The air smells faintly of polished wood and power. Marble floors stretch under sleek mahogany desks, and the walls are lined with modern art I suspect he doesn’t actually like. It’s cold.

Clinical.

Every piece of décor curated to remind you who runs this city.

He has an air of intimidation that seems to work on everyone around him except me.

To me, he’s just the burnt pancake, the first born, the trial error before my parents made perfection.

Luciano is at his desk, his dark hair slicked back, his crisp black shirt clads with a silk royal purple tie giving him his put together aura. He’s reading something and doesn’t look up as I take a seat across from him.