Page 26 of Legacy (The Sovereigns #2)

Angelo

S he’s already in the kitchen when I come in, standing at the counter with her back to me. Her hair’s tied up, messy from sleep, but she looks… fuck, she looks gorgeous.

Not the sharp, suited version of Adriana in tailored slacks and silk blouses.

No, this is something softer. Simpler. Real.

She’s in a pair of shorts that show off the length of her legs— those goddamn thighs I’ve thought about too many times —and a t-shirt that’s too big to be hers.

Something tight coils in my chest.

Whose shirt is that?

I’m on my phone, trying not to stare, failing miserably.

“I made coffee,” I say casually, like my heart isn’t hammering.

I test her mood, see if she’s still upset from yesterday. “Your breakfast is in the microwave.”

She opens it, pulls out the plate. Grabs the coffee.

Still hasn’t looked at me.

I’ve never wanted someone’s attention more.

She adds sugar, stirs slowly. Deliberate.

I glance up from my phone, eyes lingering on her again before I speak. “Have you thought about starting over at the loft?”

Nothing .

She keeps stirring.

Silence digs into my ribs like a blade.

I force out a laugh, dry and bitter. “Are we being toddlers now?”

She moves to take a sip. Not even a glance.

“Fine,” I mutter, pushing off the counter. “I won’t talk to you either.”

She turns with her breakfast and walks away without a word.

The sound of her bedroom door clicking shut hits me harder than it should. Like a closing chapter.

I try to ignore it. Sit down. Scroll through the texts from Maksim. Messages about the Armenian shipment and the guy we’re flipping.

I last forty-three seconds.

Then I’m up again, already walking to her door before I can stop myself.

I knock, knuckles sharp against the wood. “Adriana.”

Nothing.

I lean closer, resting my forehead against the door. “Come on, Tesoro. Stop it. Just talk to me.”

Still nothing.

I sigh, running a hand through my hair. “If you go out today, at least take Enzo or Gio with you.”

Silence.

I thud my head against the door gently, exhaling. “This is driving me insane.”

But I know when to retreat—at least for now.

I straighten, give the door one last glance, then head out for the day. Maksim’s waiting in the basement of Opulent, and I can’t afford to be late.

But as I walk out, every step feels like I’m leaving something unfinished.

And maybe I am.

** *

Opulent used to be my oasis.

Yeah, it’s a strip club. But it’s also more than that. It’s sanctuary.

Rebirth.

The girls—the women, who work here are survivors. Most of them didn’t come to us because they were looking for a job. They came to us because the world took everything and left them with nothing. They were used, abused, sold, shattered.

Now? They choose. They dance because they want to. They pour drinks, work the floor, run bottle service, because it’s theirs.

The money they make is their own. The rules are theirs, too.

You want to go to school? We’ll pay for it. Want to shift to another one of our businesses? We’ll make it happen. You want to go home—we’ll find your home. We’ve done it before. We’d do it again.

But while the main floor of Opulent is freedom and glitter, the basement?

The basement is hell.

It’s morning. Upstairs is quiet. Spotless. Light filters in through the frosted front doors, casting a kind of peace over the floor where so much sin usually dances.

But down here?

Here, peace dies the moment the door shuts behind you.

Maksim has been… unhinged since Vasilisa was attacked. I can’t blame him. His rage has a pulse down here. He’s been hunting the Armenians who dared intercept our shipments; who dared to lay hands on her.

I descend the stairs slowly. The scent hits me first, blood, piss, and something metallic that doesn’t fade no matter how long it’s been. Then come the sounds—groans of pain, the wet slap of flesh against bone.

I turn the corner and step into the room.

He has purple hair today .

“Started without me?” I ask.

Maksim doesn’t glance up. His knuckles are already stained. There’s a man in the chair—barely recognizable. Face bloated, bloodied, a shoulder at the wrong angle.

“Didn’t think you’d mind,” Maksim mutters, his voice all gravel and venom.

I don’t. Not really.

But I should be helping.

Instead, my phone feels like lead in my pocket.

I check it instinctively.

Nothing. Just me, double-texting Adriana like some desperate asshole. I text again.

‘You could’ve just told me to fuck off instead of walking away.’

‘At least I’d know where we stand.’

Still no response.

Maksim slams the heel of his boot into the prisoner’s thigh. The scream is hoarse and broken.

My thumbs hover over the screen.

‘Adriana. Just say something.’

Still nothing.

I exhale, long and slow.

“I thought we were doing this together,” Maksim says, finally glancing at me, his gaze sharp beneath the edge of his frustration. “You gonna help me get answers or just keep sexting your woman?”

“She’s not sexting back,” I mutter under my breath, then straighten.

I don’t say anything else. Just sigh, toss my phone onto the metal table nearby, and reach for the hem of my shirt.

The cotton sticks to my skin as I peel it off, the cold air biting across my chest. My fingers close around the metal bat Maksim left propped against the wall.

It’s already got streaks on it.

“Let’s get this done,” I mutter .

Maksim cracks his knuckles. “About time.”

We don’t talk much after that.

The man in the chair barely has anything left to give. A few more questions, a few more cracks of the bat, and he folds. Doesn’t even beg, just bleeds.

When it’s over, I toss the bat to the floor and wash my hands in the rust-stained sink while Maksim wipes his blade on the guy’s shirt like it’s just another Tuesday.

Footsteps echo down the hall. Nico appears first, Gio trailing behind him. Both in black, both calm like they’ve done this a hundred times.

Because we have.

Nico nods at the body. “You want us to dump or burn?”

“Burn,” Maksim answers flatly.

Gio hums in acknowledgment and the two of them get to work. Efficient. Silent.

I dry my hands and glance at Maksim. “Bar?”

He doesn’t answer. Just starts walking.

We head back to the bar above, the scent of antiseptic and blood giving way to lemon cleaner and soft traces of perfume. Even empty, Opulent is still lit like a dream—dim lights glowing off the mirrored shelves, red velvet catching the light.

We slide onto the stools without a word. Maksim reaches behind the bar and pours us both a bourbon like we’ve done this a hundred times before.

I down the first one in a single swallow.

“How’s the wife?” Maksim asks, his grin sharp beneath that damn glint of metal in his brow.

I scoff. “Ignoring me.”

His brows lift, the amusement plain. “Really? Already fucked it up?”

He knocks back his drink and pours himself another, shoulders loose. “Don’t know why you wanted to tie yourself down to that shit. ”

“She’s not a tie-down,” I mutter, voice low. “She’s a hurricane. And I walked right into it.”

Maksim chuckles under his breath but doesn’t press. He knows how to read the line. Usually.

Until Rachel saunters over.

Pretty redhead, sad eyes, found in a shipping container at the docks smuggled in. Trafficked.

Now she does this. Flirts, with everyone.

Anyone.

She smiles at me hips swaying a little too deliberately, mouth glossed just enough to catch the light, eyes full of whatever story she’s trying to sell that day.

“Morning, boys,” she purrs, leaning on the bar right between us. Her eyes settle on me, like they always do now that Santo is married. “You look tense Angelo.”

“Morning,” I say without looking at her.

She keeps going. Her hand sliding up the bar towards mine. “I could help you unwind, you know. I’m very good with knots.”

Maksim doesn’t even blink. “You offering your mouth?”

I shoot him a sharp look, my tone immediately dropping. “Maksim.”

His smirk fades just enough, and Rachel, wide-eyed now, straightens up.

Fear.

The same reaction he gets from most women not crazy enough to take him on.

He knows the rule. Don’t solicit the girls. Especially not the ones who’ve already survived too much. And even if she wasn’t one of them, it still applies. Especially from us.

Rachel swallows. “No, I—”

“Don’t,” I cut in, voice cold now. “Go make yourself useful upstairs.”

She hesitates. Maksim arches a brow like he dares her to say anything else .

She leaves.

Maksim watches her go, then leans back and mutters, “Too much perfume.”

I down another shot, jaw tight. “Don’t talk to the girls like that. I mean it.”

He doesn’t argue. Just nods once and pours again.

“You gonna text your girl again?” he asks after a moment.

I glance at my phone. I already did.

Still nothing.

***

I don’t want to bring Maksim to the penthouse.

He says it’s to talk strategy—tighten the noose around the Armenians, figure out what the hell to do about the Turks still pushing on his territory.

And sure, that might be part of it. But I know him.

I know the way his curiosity works, the way his eyes flicked when I mentioned Adriana the first time.

He wants to meet her. And that pisses me off more than it should.

The elevator opens and we step into the foyer.

He follows me to the living room.

There she is.

On the couch, surrounded by paperwork, documents spread across the glass coffee table like some beautiful, untouchable storm.

She’s wearing jeans now, dark and fitted, and a soft charcoal-gray shirt that hugs her just right.

Casual, but composed. There’s makeup on her face too.

Subtle. Enough to make me wonder if she went out while I was gone.

The thought tightens something in my chest.

Maksim spots her immediately.

His interest is instant.

“Bozhe moi,” he mutters under his breath. “ That’s your wife? ”

I don’t answer. I’m already watching Adriana, watching the way she straightens just slightly when she notices we’re not alone.

Maksim steps forward with that cocky smirk of his. “Maksim Korsakov. Pahkan of the Bratva. Sometimes friend of your husband.”

Adriana smiles just enough to be polite, but not enough to invite more.

“Adriana,” she replies, her tone calm, unreadable. “Nice to meet you.”

He grins wider, and I see it—that flicker in his eye like he just found something shiny to break.

I clench my jaw. “Office,” I bark, already heading down the hall.

Maksim follows.

Once the door shuts behind us, he flops down into the chair across from my desk like he owns the place, already making himself at home.

“So,” he starts, propping his boots on the edge of my desk, “how the hell did you land a woman like that?”

I don’t look up from the shipment logs I’m reviewing. “We’re not talking about her.”

He lets out a whistle. “I mean, I get it now. I wouldn’t want to share either. That mouth, those eyes, that—”

My gaze snaps up.

“Maksim.”

He just smirks.

But I’m already standing.

“If you ever talk about her like that again, I’ll put a bullet in your fucking mouth and no one will find your body.”

He raises his hands in mock surrender, laughing. “Relax. She got you by the balls that tight already? I get it.” He pushes off the desk, stretching. “You’ve obviously got shit to fix. I’ll leave you to it.”

He’s halfway to the door when he glances back. “She doesn’t look like she belongs to you, by the way. No ring. Just saying.”

The door shuts behind him and I sit down hard, breathing through the fury .

I try to focus on the upcoming weapons shipment—timing, who we’re bribing this week, I’m lost in the logistics when I hear a laugh.

Her laugh.

Soft. Warm. Real.

And it hits me like a fucking bullet to the chest.

I get up without thinking, following the sound.

The kitchen.

She’s there, still in those damn jeans, hugging those thighs, standing by the counter with a cup of coffee in hand. Maksim is across from her, leaning casually, talking about something that’s making her laugh again.

Her eyes shining.

At him.

Then I see it.

His hand brushing hers.

Something in me snaps.

“Get the fuck out.”

My voice cuts through the room like a blade.

Maksim looks up, a smirk on his face, then chuckles.

He holds up his hands. “Calm down Don Amato . Didn’t mean to step on your leash.”

He turns to Adriana, all charm. “Thanks for the coffee, krasivaya. If you ever want to talk or just get away from the brooding type—call me. I owe you.”

He leaves, and the moment the elevator doors shut, I turn to her.

“He gave you his number?” I demand.

She doesn’t answer.

She picks up the mugs from the counter and rinses them, calm, unaffected.

“Adriana.”

She still doesn’t look at me.

“You’re still ignoring me? ”

She finishes rinsing the mugs and turns, wiping them dry. Then, without a word, she walks back to the living room, kneels beside the coffee table, and begins stacking her papers again.

I follow.

“Look, I get it. You’re upset You’re hurt. Fine. But you don’t get to cheat.”

That freezes her.

Her hands still mid-motion.

She turns her head slowly, her eyes locking onto mine.

And I wish she looked furious.

I wish there was something.

But there’s nothing.

Not heat. Not hate. Not even pain.

Just cold, hollow indifference.

Her voice is silent, but the look says it all: You’re not worth reacting to.

I hate it more than anything.

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly, unsure who I even am anymore.

She doesn’t respond.

Just continues gathering her documents, organizing her little fortress of detachment.

“You don’t have to leave the room,” I add, trying to hold onto something—anything. “I just want to talk.”

But she gathers her things anyway.

Starts walking.

I reach for her wrist, instinct taking over.

She stops.

Just stares at my hand wrapped around her skin like I branded her.

No panic. No struggle. Just… nothing.

The kind of nothing that cuts deeper than rage.

My hand falls away.

She walks into her room.

Closes the door.

And once again—shuts me out.