Page 27 of Legacy (The Sovereigns #2)

Angelo

I don’t speak to her the next morning.

Not because I’m angry.

Because I don’t trust what would come out of my mouth if I opened it.

She doesn’t leave her room until after I’m gone. But I leave breakfast on the counter anyway—poached eggs, toast with jam, black coffee, oat milk in the fridge, and six sugar packets. The way she likes it.

I leave a sticky note on the plate with just one word.

Adriana.

No message. No plea. Just her name.

It sits there quietly, like I wish I could.

When I come back hours later, the plate is clean. But the note is gone.

I find it later while making dinner—tucked into the trash. Perfectly folded.

Not crumpled .

Not torn.

Just… neatly discarded.

Even when she throws me away, she does it carefully.

I heat her dinner. Leave it in the microwave.

And go to bed with her silence wrapped around my ribs like a belt.

Day 2

There’s a basket of laundry in the corner of the laundry room.

She must’ve been too busy studying for the bar to remember.

So I do it.

Fold every shirt, every pair of jeans. Even the lingerie she doesn’t wear for me.

I try not to think about who she wore it for before.

Or if she’s wearing it for someone else now.

I stack it all on her dresser.

And walk out.

Still no words.

Day 3

She’s been wearing headphones while she goes over the papers overflowing the coffee table.

Blocking out the world.

Probably blocking out me.

So I buy her a new pair—top of the line, softer on the ears, better sound isolation. Not because I want her to shut me out more efficiently. But because if she’s going to retreat from the world, I want her to be comfortable.

I leave them on the kitchen counter with a note.

‘For the world. Not for me.’

She doesn’t thank me. Doesn’t acknowledge it.

I don’t even see her take them, they are there in the morning and gone by the time I come out of my office in the afternoon.

She uses them though.

I hear the soft hum of music through them when I pass her door.

Day 4

I can’t take it.

I give in.

I text her.

‘I don’t need an open door invitation. Just crack a window. Let me in, even if it’s just for a breath.’

She reads it.

The “read” status taunts me.

There’s no reply.

Hours later, sprawled on the couch I’m staring at her contact again, debating sending another message I’ll regret, when my phone buzzes with another name.

Maksim.

‘Need you. Stakeout tonight. Armenians might be sitting on the Brock warehouse. Could be nothing. Could be worth your time. Bring your men.’

I don’t hesitate.

I call Gio. Nico. Tell them to get ready .

Adriana walks past me in the hall as I finish the call.

A ghost in my home.

She doesn’t glance my way.

She doesn’t ask where I’m going.

And I don’t tell her.

I just grab my gun, my coat, and leave—quietly, like the man who once lived in this house doesn’t anymore.

***

The warehouse sits dead quiet under the haze of midnight fog.

Too quiet.

I’m crouched behind a crate, gun steady in my hand, eyes locked on the shadows slipping toward the delivery dock. Four of them. Armenians. No sign of hesitation in their steps. No fear.

They should’ve brought more men.

Beside me, Maksim holds his gun like he’s bored. Vaska, his right hand stands behind him, silent, eyes sharp, waiting. His presence is almost spectral—coiled danger in a leather jacket. His long fingers flex and shift around the blade he’s known for. That man’s hands were made for cutting.

Pietro, a bratva grunt, lingers near the back, light blond hair tied in a tight top knot, his frame deceptively relaxed, but his eyes anxious. Vasilisa’s former guard. I didn’t know he was back in town. He nods at me like we saw each other yesterday.

He’s been gone for months.

The Armenians approach the truck.

That’s all I need.

I give the signal.

I move first. Silent. Precise.

One shot—center mass .

I hit the second, headshot as he turns. Third grabs for a weapon—too slow.

The fourth runs. My bullet tears through his thigh, dropping him like a sack of meat. He screams, crawling.

“Leave him,” I mutter to Gio who steps forward, voice clipped. “He’s Maksim’s.”

“Spasibo,” Maksim says coolly as he saunters toward him, Vaska already shadowing his movements.

“Vaska, bag him,” Maksim orders.

Vaska doesn’t speak. He crouches low, grabs the man with brutal ease, zip ties and a black hood already in hand.

I barely glance at them.

I walk straight to the back of the truck.

Pietro is already there, crowbar in hand. He pries it open, grunting under his breath.

What’s inside still manages to punch the air from my lungs.

Not weapons.

Drugs.

And not just drugs.

Girls.

Six of them, maybe more. They’re packed in, some curled in the corners, others blinking against the sudden light like they’ve been trapped in the dark for hours—days maybe. Young. Eighteen if that. Maybe not even.

They’re bruised. Thin. Dressed in scraps of lace and sheer cloth that doesn’t pass for clothing. One’s lip is split. Another has a chain around her ankle.

Pietro curses under his breath in Russian.

Maksim lets out a low hiss between his teeth. “These fuckers…”

I step forward, hands raised slightly, slow and careful. One of the girls flinches when I crouch.

“It’s okay,” I say softly. “We’re not going to hurt you. You’re safe now. ”

Safe. I don’t even know if the word means anything to them anymore.

The other men come forward—Gio, Nico. They help the girls out gently, murmuring comfort. Gio gives his jacket to one who’s shaking. Nico wraps a blanket from the back of the truck around another.

They all wear the same expression. Tight. Sick. Angry.

Same as mine.

I pull out my phone and call my doctor on standby at the hospital.

The one where Cosa Nostra sits on the board.

“Dr. Esposito, I need beds prepped. Six, possibly more. Female victims. Young. Malnourished. Abused. I want any trauma nurses you have on standby.”

“Yes, Don Amato.”

I hang up.

One girl grabs my wrist as I move. Her fingers are shaking. Her eyes, brown, wide and sunken—look into mine with silent terror.

“You own us now?” she whispers.

My heart sinks.

I shake my head, crouching to her level, forcing her to look at me.

“No. Never. You’re going to a safe place. We’re going to take care of you.”

She blinks, like she’s trying to believe it. Like no one’s ever said that and meant it.

I feel it then.

Not rage. Not vengeance.

Just hate.

A deep, acidic hate that burns through every part of me—at the men who did this, at the system that allows it, at myself for not stopping it sooner.

Adriana’s silence has been drowning me for days.

But this?

This pulls me back to the surface.

Because this. This is why the Armenian gang needs to die off.

And right now, all I want is to tear it all down.