Page 28 of Legacy (The Sovereigns #2)

Adriana

I should be happy he’s barely home.

Really. I should be.

It was the goal, wasn’t it? The space, the silence, the complete and utter absence of Angelo Amato.

And yet—

It stings.

He hasn’t texted.

Doesn’t knock on my door.

Doesn’t even bother with breakfast anymore.

At first, I thought maybe he’d given up.

That this was his version of surrender.

But then I met Clara.

The chef.

She’s… sweet. Mid-thirties maybe, confident, soft-spoken, pretty in that earthy Italian way that makes you feel like you’ve known her for years. The first time I see her, she’s pulling out trays of prepped food from the fridge. Paella. The same one from my first night here .

She empties out the containers and cleans them up.

“I started vacation when you arrived,” she tells me with a warm smile. “I usually prep meals for the week—breakfast and dinner. Angelo likes to heat them up himself.”

Right.

Because he’s so self-sufficient.

“I can leave some for you too, if you like,” she offers, polite, like she isn’t cutting the last thread of my already frayed dignity.

I swallow that bitter burn in my throat and smile tightly. “That would be nice. Thank you.”

She nods. “Of course.”

Gio walks in just as I’m leaving the kitchen.

I offer him a curt nod, stepping to the side, but he doesn’t move.

He lingers. Blocks the doorway like he owns it.

His dark eyes flick between me and Clara. Calculating.

“Nice of you,” he says flatly, “being so polite to the woman your husband’s slept with.”

The words hit harder than they should. Like a backhand across the face I never saw coming.

I don’t turn around.

Don’t give him the satisfaction.

Don’t let him see how my stomach drops like a stone in water.

I don’t ask if it’s true.

I don’t need to.

I just keep walking.

And walking.

And walking until I’m alone again.

If he wants to keep his past conquests around like memories in a glass case, that’s his business.

I didn’t ask for this marriage.

I don’t even want to be here.

Still .

When I close my door, I sit on the edge of the bed for a long time, staring at nothing.

Day 6

Maksim takes me out.

He says it’s a celebration because I passed the state pre-requisite exam.

One of the hurdles between me and the Bar, and I cleared it like a damn queen.

I almost forgot about it with everything else gnawing at my spine, but when he showed up with a rose and called me “lioness” in Russian, I did something I haven’t done in days—

I laughed.

A real one.

He brings me back late.

I’m tired, heels in hand, brain buzzing with sugar and wine and victory. I don’t say a word when I see Angelo standing in the living room, nursing a drink.

I don’t even look at him.

Maksim, however, does.

He glances between us before leaning in to murmur, just loud enough, “She passed, you know. Crushed that test!”

I see it.

That flicker of pain in Angelo’s eyes.

Quick.

Sharp.

He hadn’t known.

I didn’t tell him.

I didn’t even tell Enzo in case he’d say something to Angelo.

I walk past him as Maksim leaves .

Down the hall.

In my bedroom I see it.

On my bed a small rectangle velvet box.

I open it.

A rose gold bracelet. A single charm—scales of justice.

The breath leaves me.

He did know.

And he said nothing.

Gave me silence, then gave me gold.

I don’t know which cuts deeper.

Later, Maksim texts me:

‘If you ever want to really hurt him. I know how….’

I don’t respond.

But I laugh.

Quiet.

Mean.

Hollow.

Day 8

I’m in the living room studying again. Highlighters, textbooks, my laptop, a coffee I forgot to finish. Clara’s in the kitchen, humming under her breath as she preps lunch for Angelo.

I step into the kitchen for water, grabbing a bottle from the fridge.

“He doesn’t usually need lunch,” she says idly, pulling out a tray of grilled vegetables. “It’s strange he asked me to prep these. But I suppose he’s burning through calories faster lately.”

I nod, distracted.

“Would you like me to prep some for you, too?” she offers, brushing a stray hair from her face .

I hesitate, but nod.

“Yes, thank you. That would be great.”

She smiles.

And I smile back before heading back to the living room and settling on the couch.

It’s easier to pretend.

The elevator chimes.

My eyes flick up instinctively, and there he is— Angelo.

Blood on his shirt.

His sleeves are rolled to the elbows, and there’s crimson along his forearm covering his tattoos, dried at the edges, like he’s been wiping at it but not enough to care.

I jolt up.

My first thought: Is he hurt?

My second: Why hasn’t he looked at me?

He doesn’t glance my way.

Just walks straight past.

Right into the kitchen.

He’s in there for a while then comes out.

Clara follows him.

I watch her wipe her hands on her jeans and trail him down the hall.

Her footsteps fade…

Then the soft creak of his bedroom door.

And the click shut.

I stop breathing.

My stomach flips.

I blink hard.

Once.

Twice.

Don’t.

Don’t go there.

Don’t be that girl .

Don’t be stupid.

But the nausea’s rising anyway.

He didn’t even look at me.

And Clara—Clara who cooks for him, who knows him, is now walking into his bedroom like that’s normal?

Like that’s routine?

Maybe it is.

Maybe this is what their normal looked like before.

And maybe I’m the fool for thinking he meant any word he said about this marriage.

I grab my phone.

My fingers move before I can stop them.

You busy tonight? I want to go to Exile.

Maksim:

For you? Usually never, but I’m handling something. Sergei’s working the floor. Want VIP?

Yes. Enzo will be with me. Just need to blow off steam.

Maksim:

Done. Tell Sergei you want booth 3. You’ll be taken care of.

I stare at the screen for a second too long.

I don’t know why I’m doing this.

I don’t want Maksim.

But I want to stop feeling.

I want the noise.

The bass.

The lights.

The ache in my feet and the numbness in my chest.

I stand .

My hands still shaking.

I scoop up my things and go to my room.

I need black.

I need heels.

I need makeup sharp enough to cut through the silence in this house.

Tonight, I am not Angelo’s wife.

Tonight, I’m just a woman with nothing left to burn.

And I’m going to set the whole night on fire.

***

Bass rolls through the walls like thunder.

I step into the club and it swallows me whole—low lighting, velvet ropes, mirrored walls that distort heat and movement like smoke. The music pulses in time with my heartbeat. It’s seductive chaos. It’s perfect.

VIP is above it all, perched like a crown on this inferno. Booth three. Maksim delivered.

I slide into the leather seat, gold heels crossing one over the other. The hem of my black dress rides high on my thighs, and for once, I let it. I want to be looked at. No— seen .

Not by him.

Absolutely not by him.

The low amber lights reflect off the glass of my drink. A Manhattan. Strong, clean. Like me tonight.

I sip slowly and tilt my head, watching the crowd dance below. Bodies pressed together in that mindless rhythm of hunger and release. Everyone down there is chasing a high. I’m just here chasing silence. Control.

I don’t think about Angelo.

Except I do.

Every time my bracelet hits the glass and makes that little sound, that clink .

I should’ve left it at home. But I didn’t.

Because part of me wants to feel wanted. Even if it’s just from a piece of metal wrapped around my wrist.

Enzo’s here somewhere. I don’t see him, but I know the shadow is near. He’s quiet, trained. My personal ghost with a gun.

I lean back, let my eyes drift, let my mouth curl into something like a smirk. For once, I feel good. Not safe, not healed, but good enough to forget—

“Adriana!”

A high-pitched squeal nearly makes me spill my drink.

I whip my head.

And there she is.

Vasilisa Amato, twinkling like a fucking constellation. Her arms already open, her blue eyes wide with joy. She rushes over, nearly slipping in her four-inch pumps, and wraps her arms around me like we’ve been best friends since birth.

I go stiff, my drink caught awkwardly in one hand as she squeezes me like I haven’t been avoiding the world.

She pulls back, still beaming. “You look amazing!”

I stare at her dress. Plunging neckline, sequins glittering with every movement, her waist so tiny it makes my throat tighten. Even her collarbones look elegant.

Of course she looks amazing.

Anything would look good on a girl like her. The world wasn’t made to bruise girls like Vasilisa.

I shift, crossing my legs tighter, trying to remember that I do look good. I felt good a second ago.

She flops into the booth beside me, her perfume a cloud of jasmine and amber and fairy dust.

“So,” she says, her smile softening. “How are you?”

Even her voice is pretty.

“Fine,” I answer, forcing my lips to move.

She tilts her head like she doesn’t believe me, but doesn’t push.

“Who are you here with?” I ask, more to divert than out of real interest.

She groans playfully, rolling her eyes and pointing across the VIP level. “Santo. Obviously.”

I follow her finger and see him instantly—Booth six. Dark suit, phone pressed to his ear, but his eyes…

His eyes are already on us.

I stiffen.

He doesn’t look away, just watches; calculating, unreadable.

I wonder who he’s calling.

No. I know who.

I take another sip of my drink, sharper this time.

“Practically had to beg him to let me come,” she says with a little laugh, flipping her long hair over her shoulder. “And then he insisted he come with me. He’s so protective. But sweet, you know?”

I resist the urge to scoff.

Protective.

Sure.

“I’m surprised he hasn’t texted Angelo already,” I mutter, not bothering to hide the irritation in my voice.

Vasilisa looks at me, concern flickering in her eyes. “Wait, where is Angelo?”

“Home.” I shrug. “Probably busy. Or not. I don’t really care.”

It’s a lie. We both know it.

She studies me quietly for a beat longer than necessary. Her brows knit together, then smooth.

Her eyes land on my bracelet. “That’s beautiful,” she says, almost breathless. “From Angelo?”