Page 1 of Legacy (The Sovereigns #2)

Angelo

Twelve Years Ago

W e killed them.

The scent of burning flesh clings to me, stubborn as sin.

Even after scrubbing my skin raw, it lingers—acrid, bitter and suffocating.

Every creak of the house feels like a countdown.

I sit on the edge of my bed, fingers gripping the mattress, my pulse hammering in my ears.

From down the hall, I hear Santo’s low hum, the faint clink of tools as he tinkers away at whatever project has his attention tonight.

He’s always building something, robots, gadgets, machines that do nothing but impress. Genius.

Not like me.

He’s good.

And he doesn’t know.

The thought pounds in my skull like a drum. My brother doesn’t know what I’ve done. He doesn’t know and he never will.

The scent of smoke clings to me as though it’s soaked into my skin. Surrounding my room, in my lungs, in my head.

It won’t leave .

My phone buzzes on the nightstand. The sharp vibration jolts me like a shock, and I snatch it up. The name on the screen makes my stomach drop: Maksim.

“What?” I answer, my voice lower than I intended, thick with unease.

“Relax, Amato,” Maksim says, his tone gruff, casual, like he doesn’t have the weight of the world on him too. “I’ve got news. The grapevine says our little firework show wasn’t as thorough as we thought.”

I blink, the room tilting slightly. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means,” Maksim drawls, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “Arsen Sarkisian’s not dead. He’s alive. Critical condition, but alive.”

The room spins faster now. I stand up, pacing to the window, staring out at the dark street below. “No fucking way,” I mutter, gripping the phone so tight it creaks. “He can’t be alive. You saw him, Maksim. He was—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Maksim cuts me off, his voice sharp now. “I saw him. He was crispy, but he wasn’t dead. And before you start losing your shit, it’s not a big deal. Odds are, he won’t remember a damn thing. Hell, odds are he won’t even make it.”

“And if he does?” I snap, my voice rising despite myself. “If he does remember?”

“Then we deal with it,” Maksim says, his tone steady, almost bored. “He’s in no shape to come for us. Relax, Angelo. You’re acting like a little bitch. I’ll call back if I hear more.”

Maksim ends the call and I press my forehead to the cool glass of the window, trying to steady my breathing. The scent of burning flesh is still there, like a curse I can’t outrun.

The phone call with Maksim leaves me wrecked. I drop my phone onto the bed and sit on the edge, leaning forward, elbows digging into my thighs, trying to steady my breathing.

We didn’t know he was there .

The thought hammers into me, over and over, no mercy. My head is a mess, flashes of the fire burning behind my eyes. The heat, the roaring flames swallowing everything. The stench is still here. Not just smoke…something deeper. Flesh and sin.

Flesh.

Maksim’s voice plays on a loop in my mind.

Crispy.

Goddamn Maksim. Always so casual.

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 is everywhere.

His clothes shredded, skin torn to ribbons, and his face…

Fuck… his face.

A jagged gash slices across his eye, deep and angry, and his skin is slick with crimson. He’s barely upright, his legs dragging uselessly as guards struggle to hold him.

The metallic scent of blood fills the air, mingling with the sharp tang of adrenaline. Nico’s sweat mixes with the iron smell, creating a sickly sweet aroma that makes my stomach turn.

“Nico!” I rush forward, my voice sharp, panic clawing at my throat. “What the hell happened?”

One of the guards looks at me grim and tired. “Armenians,” he says simply, his voice tight.

Nico groans, his head tilting forward, but he forces out a hoarse laugh, “I’m fine,” he slurs, the words barely audible. “Not a big deal.”

“A big deal?” My voice cracks, anger and fear spilling over. “You’re covered in blood, Nico! You’re—”

“Angelo.” My father’s voice cuts through the chaos like a blade. He strides into the foyer, his face ashen as he takes in the scene. “Get him to a hospital. Now.” his tone is sharp commanding, but there’s something else beneath it.

Fear.

The guards nod, moving quickly to lift Nico’s limp body. He grits his teeth, trying to push them off, but his strength gives out almost immediately.

“Stop,” he mutters weakly. “I’m fine. I didn’t… I didn’t say anything.” His bloodshot eyes flick to mine, panicked, full of desperate trust. Like he needs me to believe him .

“I know,” I whisper, my throat tight. “I know you didn’t.”

“Now!” my father barks again, his urgency snapping me out of my thoughts. I step back, letting the guards carry Nico back outside and into the car.

The metallic tang of blood lingers in the air, sharp and suffocating. For a moment, silence fills the house. My father stands there, staring at the bloodstains on the floor, his jaw tight. I’ve never seen him like this before, so shaken.

“The Armenians,” he drawls, rolling the taste of the word in his mouth as if it were poison. “They’ve gone too far this time.”

My father leaves me there watching the swirls of blood on the marble tile. This is all because of me and my stupid choice to follow Maksim to that warehouse.

They’ve gone too far this time.

No.

I did.