Page 24 of Legacy (The Sovereigns #2)

Adriana

I should be taking the bar in Florida.

That was the plan.

Instead, I’m stuck where the sidewalks are gray and slushy, the buildings too tall, and the air smells like cigarette smoke and ambition.

Forced to relearn state-specific statutes I already mastered—cramming bar prep nonsense into my head while pretending not to notice the six-foot-something shadow following me everywhere I go.

Enzo.

That’s what Angelo calls him.

I call him the stray I never picked up.

He leans against his matte black car when I head to the library, waits for me to leave, follows me to the bar prep center, and doesn’t even pretend not to be watching.

He doesn’t talk.

He doesn’t blink.

He just exists—for Angelo.

To “keep me safe.”

From the stupid fucking war I got married into.

If I had just stayed in Florida, I would be in my own apartment, with my friends, studying on my terms. No shadows. No guards. No goddamn contracts .

Now I get to be Angelo Amato’s wife.

I’ve been avoiding him for a week.

Because every time I’m in a room with him, I forget how to think straight.

He’s distracting and infuriating in the same breath.

It’s the way he smells just how I remember. The low timbre of his voice when he speaks. The way he moves—deliberate, predatory, like the space belongs to him. Like I belong to him.

And I hate that my body notices.

So I fill every minute.

I wake up at six. I’m out the door by seven-thirty. Library. Bar prep. Study groups. More coffee. More outlines. By the time I get home after ten, exhaustion is the perfect shield.

I slip past him if he’s in the living room, hallway, kitchen—wherever he is.

I don’t stop. I don’t look.

I close myself behind my bedroom door and let the silence swallow me.

Every night, there’s dinner waiting.

In the microwave, plated and covered.

I haven’t seen Clara, the supposed chef, so I assume he’s the one cooking.

I eat in silence.

In the morning, I rinse the plate and tuck it in the dishwasher.

Sometimes I hear him in his office before dawn, when the penthouse is still dark.

Good. Let him work. Let him brood.

The less I see him, the better.

The elevator doors slide open.

For once, I’m home at a decent hour. It’s only six. My body moves before my brain thinks, drawn toward the kitchen, already expecting the covered plate in the microwave.

I stop dead in my tracks .

He’s here.

Sitting at the table.

The kitchen looks different with him in it—like he doesn’t belong, but everything in the room orbits around him anyway.

Black marble counters. Soft pendant lighting. Two plates already waiting. The scent of garlic and basil lingers in the air, warm and inviting in a way I don’t want it to be.

“Enzo told me you were coming home earlier than usual,” he says, his voice low, almost careful. “I figured we could share a meal.”

I hesitate.

He’s dressed casually, long-sleeve burgundy shirt, dark jeans.

Normal.

Almost human.

And somehow that makes it worse.

I steel myself with a breath and take the seat across from him.

“Just a meal?”

“And a conversation.”

I sigh.

“Please, Adriana. Not a fight. A conversation. An apology.”

I glance at him—and damn it.

He looks sincere. Those light gray eyes of his are soft, almost desperate.

“Alright,” I say, cautious. “What are you apologizing for?”

I twirl my fork in the pasta and take a bite.

Fuck. It’s perfect.

Of course it is.

I hate him.

“Blindsiding you with this marriage,” he says quietly. “Fighting you instead of listening. I should’ve listened.”

I hum in agreement, focused on the food more than his words, but they register somewhere beneath the hunger.

“You’re not listening,” he says, a small smile pulling at his mouth. “You’re humming while you eat again. ”

That smile —the one that used to undo me.

I swallow and set the fork down, wiping my mouth, forcing myself to look at him.

“I heard you. You didn’t listen. You fought. That’s the theme, right?”

He nods, but his gaze sharpens, searching my face for something.

“I mean it,” he says, voice dropping. “I understand why you don’t trust me. Why you’re angry. I see it. I see you.”

For a moment my heart flatters. My chest tighten.

“Thank you,” I say cautiously.

Dinner passes in quiet after that and when we’re done, I take a chance by helping him clear the table.

He rinses the plates, and I stack them in the dishwasher. We move around each other like we’ve done it a hundred times before.

It feels almost domestic.

When I brush past him, I pause, inhale.

“You smell like mint.”

A small smile tugs at his mouth.

“I always carry them.”

He reaches into his pocket, pulls one out—a familiar clear wrapper, with that white circular mint.

Before I can overthink it, I take it.

Unwrap it. Pop it into my mouth.

And that’s when he says it, quiet, like he’s pulling a thread between us.

“The loft. Five years ago. You kissed me after I popped one in my mouth,” he chuckles, a smirk on his lips.

The memory hits like a spark down my spine.

That moment. That taste. The press of his mouth on mine, hungry and young and full of things we never said.

Before I can stop myself, before I can think, I close the distance.

My lips find his .

He freezes for a breath, as if the shock of it short-circuits him. But then his hands are in my hair, gripping like he’s drowning and I’m the only thing keeping him tethered to the surface.

His mouth claims mine—rough, desperate, like he’s been starving for this. For me.

And maybe he has. Maybe I have too.

He turns us swiftly, backing me into the counter with enough force to steal the air from my lungs. I gasp, and he uses it, tongue sliding past my lips with a low groan that vibrates through my chest.

I shouldn’t have started this. I shouldn’t want this.

But God help me, I do.

My hands fist in the front of his shirt, dragging him closer until there’s no space between us.

He lifts me effortlessly, like I weigh nothing, setting me on the edge of the counter.

His body slots between my thighs, and when I feel him— hard, hot, insistent —through our clothes, a choked sound escapes me.

He presses his mouth to my jaw, then my neck, teeth grazing the sensitive spot just below my ear.

I shudder.

“You still taste the same,” he mutters into my skin, voice wrecked. “Still sound the same when you gasp like that.”

He moves like he remembers every inch of me, every whimper I ever gave him. One hand slides under my shirt; flat palm gliding up my ribs, fingers splaying against my skin like he’s checking I’m real.

I arch into him, needing more, needing friction.

His other hand cups the back of my neck, tilting my head so he can kiss me again. I kiss him back with everything I’ve tried to bury—rage, grief, lust, longing. I drink him in like it’ll drown the ache in my chest.

“I missed you,” he breathes against my lips. “Every goddamn day.”

A whimper tears from me before I can stop it.

His hand dips lower, sliding along my inner thigh, slow and lingering, as though this isn’t about power or victory, but worship .

My head falls back, a soft gasp slipping free.

And in that second—I let go.

Just for a moment, I stop fighting.

Stop thinking.

Stop remembering everything he ruined.

Because right now, his mouth is on my throat, his hand is teasing between my thighs, and I don’t feel angry.

I feel alive.

I feel like I’m home.

I exhale a shaky sigh like it’s the first real breath I’ve taken in five years.

My hands thread into his hair, tugging, grounding. He groans at the feel of it.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” he growls softly.

I don’t answer.

Because I do.

His hand slips beneath the waistband of my leggings, and he curses under his breath.

“You’re already soaked through,” he rasps, lips dragging along my collarbone. “You’re mine.”

His fingers push against my panties and I moan, my body moving on instinct—rocking against them, chasing more.

His fingers dip, I gasp, breath catching.

My hand clutches his wrist.

“Condom,” I whisper, voice rough, lips grazing the shell of his ear.

A trembling exhale.

A moment of sanity.

He stills.

“In my office,” he says, voice rough, low. “Wait here.”

The heat of his hand, his skin, his scent— gone.

I slip off the counter before I can stop myself, drawn after him like I don’t have a choice.

His office smells like him; like power .

He moves to the drawer, his head down, searching.

And that’s when I see it.

My breath catches.

On the wall behind his desk is a board that wasn't there before.

Lined with photos.

Of me.

Dozens of them. Different places. Different times.

Candid shots. Me walking to class. Leaving the library. Laughing with friends. Stepping into my apartment building.

Five years of my life, frozen behind glassy prints, tacked in neat little rows like I’m some puzzle he’s been piecing together.

Like I’m some prize he’s been hunting.

The warmth from before dies.

Replaced by cold.

My heart hammers so loud I almost don’t hear him when he looks up.

“Adriana—”

But I’m already backing away, my eyes locked on that wall of proof.

Proof that I was never free.

“I was going to talk to you about this,” he says, his hands are up like he’s trying to quell me.

“I wanted to show you everything, tell you about it all, then ask if we could start over at the loft, but then you kissed me.”

My eyes leave the photo board as reality snaps back into view. “The loft?” I exhale confused.

He nods.

“The loft. I was going to explain all this and then ask if you would let me take you back there. Not to sleep with you. Not because of the contract. Just… us. A redo. I want to see if we can find even a piece of what we had that week.”

His words knock the breath out of me.

The loft.

The fucking loft .

“What the hell are those photos?” I choke out, my voice not my own.

He turns toward the board then looks down at his desk.

Following his eyes, I finally take it all in.

He has things set up across his desk, the shelves, even the walls.

Not things.

My things.

“I was going to explain everything after dinner so I set it all up to show you.”

The lighting is low, just a desk lamp casting warm amber shadows over pages too neat, too knowing. It’s intimate in a way that makes my skin crawl. Like he built a shrine with paper cuts and memory. I see my smile over and over. Frozen. Framed. Owned.

Trinkets I thought I’d lost are scattered across his desk and shelves.

Hair ties, stuffed animals, a necklace, half empty bottle of perfume.

My hair brush. Lipstick. A cracked compact mirror.

The keychain I lost at a carnival. A movie stub from a night I thought I was alone at the theater.

A silk scarf I had thought was long gone, folded neatly like it’s waiting for me to claim it.

I take a shaky step forward, my stomach twisting.

A shrine.

A timeline.

He’s been tracking me like I’m some fugitive and he’s the hunter who never stopped. Every laugh, every glance, every breath I took— catalogued. Frozen in time like I belonged to him.

Like I still do.

“What the hell is all this?”

Angelo circles me, watching me as I spiral.

This is insane.

He’s insane.

“This is your life,” Angelo says from behind me. “Every part of it. ”

My hands clench at my sides as I pick up one of the photos on his desk. It’s me, smiling at some event, but the man beside me has been carefully cut out of the frame.

Russell.

A man I loved. Another to break my heart.

My pulse quickens as I set it down and turn to him.

“You’ve been stalking me?”

“No,” he says evenly, his tone calm. “Watching you. Protecting you.”

“Protecting me?” I echo, disbelief lacing my voice. “From what?”

“From everything you didn’t see coming,” he says, his voice hardening. “From people who didn’t deserve you. From deals that could’ve killed you. From yourself.”

I shake my head, the weight of his words pressing down on me. “You’re insane.”

“Am I?”

He steps in front of me. His eyes sure.

“Do you think you made it out of Colombia with those emeralds on your own? ”

The mention of Colombia sends ice through my veins. The memories rushing back. I almost didn’t make it out, but men saved me.

On motorcycles they—

My breath catches as I stare at him.

He continues, his fingers sliding across the edges of the photo I just held.

“Do you think Russell just decided to leave you before proposing?”

“Russell…” I murmur, the name slipping from my lips. “Is he—”

I can’t even speak it.

Angelo’s expression softens, but there’s a glint of something dangerous in his eyes. “I gave him a job,” he says quietly. “One that took him away from you before he could propose.”

The air is knocked out of me. I stumble back, gripping the edge of the desk as the weight of his confession slams into me .

“You’ve been dictating everything, “ I whisper, my voice trembling with fury. “You… you ruined my life,”

“No,” he says fiercely, stepping closer, his voice breaking. “I saved you. He wasn’t right for you, Adriana. None of them were. You’re mine. You’ve always been mine.”

Tears well and I can’t stop them.

“Angelo—”

He steps forward.

I step back until my spine hits the wall.

He crowds me, his hands cupping my face and I freeze. I’m eighteen again outside the conference room and he’s about to call me a mistake, but instead—

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his eyes boring into mine pupils blown. “You deserve better than me. But I’m selfish, Adriana, so goddamn selfish when it comes to you. You were never a mistake. You were always the one.

My tears fall without my consent and he presses his lips to them.

I can’t breathe.

My brain goes blank.

My heart is in my throat.

“Angelo, stop...” My words are weak, barely above a whisper, but he freezes instantly. His face is inches from mine, his breath warm against my skin. He pulls back just enough for me to look into his eyes and I see it then—a raw desperation that I don’t understand.

“I can’t.”

My hands press to his chest and I shove him back hard. He moves and I can’t control the tears or the rage as I swipe at the pictures of myself and shove them off the desk onto the ground. I grab my perfume bottle and throw it against the wall, the glass pieces shattering.

The room engulfed in the scent of dark cherries.

My breaths are coming fast and hard and Angelo— is on his knees picking up each photo .

“What the hell are you doing?” His eyes flick to mine. “I know you’re angry, but these are mine.”

He gathers them and gently sorts them like they’re precious heirlooms and not weird, stolen polaroid’s.

One slips from his hand and flutters on to the desk as he stands.

It’s a photo of me, but zoomed in onto my collarbone, a red mark blossomed on my skin. A hickey, one not given by him. I meet his eyes and he’s already watching me.

Still watching me.

Like he never stopped.

Like he never will.