Page 31 of Legacy (The Sovereigns #2)

She takes a bite, and a small smile tugs at the corner of her mouth.

“It’s actually really good,” she says, like she didn’t expect it to be.

I chuckle. It startles both of us. It’s the first real sound I’ve made that wasn’t wrapped in tension or apology in weeks.

“Glad you think so.”

The silence stretches long between us.

Only the soft clink of silverware on ceramic fills the space.

It’s awkward.

Unavoidably so.

Like the weight of everything we haven’t said is sitting at the table with us.

She sets her fork down.

Her eyes lift to mine.

Dark. Deep. Wounded.

Strong enough to look at me anyway .

“I don’t know how to do this.”

My chest tightens.

“Do what?” I ask, but I already know.

She swallows hard.

“Start over.”

I take a breath, setting my fork down with slow precision.

“No lies, no expectations. Right?”

She nods.

“Right.”

“Let's start with the first one. We start over by putting it all on the table.”

My throat tightens.

“I told you what I did. I had you followed for five years. I meddled in your life. I protected you—”

Her brow lifts, one delicate arch of skepticism.

“In my way,” I amend, jaw tightening.

I don’t flinch. I won’t flinch.

“And then you forced an arranged marriage.” Her voice is quiet, but the words cut clean.

“And then I forced an arranged marriage,” I repeat, steady.

Her eyes gloss over, but her face doesn’t crumble.

Not this girl. Not anymore.

“Why?” she breathes.

A muscle jumps in my jaw.

I look down at my hands for a second, like they might hold the answer. They don’t.

“I did everything wrong,” I say finally.

She stills.

Her brows draw together.

Her lips part, the air between us charged.

“When you were trying to explain yourself in that hallway, outside the conference room—I didn’t let you.”

“You didn’t.”

“I didn’t,” I echo.

“I let my mouth speak before I could think. Before I gave you a chance.” I exhale sharply, the shame clawing up my throat.

“And then, instead of calling you. Texting. Hell, even showing up like a man—I sent my men.”

“To follow you. Watch you—”

“Stalk me.”

The word lands hard.

My jaw clenches.

My chest coils tight.

“If that’s what you want to call it—”

“That’s what it was.”

Silence.

I nod once, a small concession. “Agree to disagree.”

Her eyes narrow.

I feel it; her slipping away.

So I relax my shoulders, lean back just slightly, hands open, showing her I’m not here to fight.

Not tonight.

She studies me a moment, then sighs.

“Okay.”

“After I met Piccola…”

My eyes flick to hers.

And just like that, she shifts.

Her posture straightens. Her nose scrunches in subtle distaste.

That reaction to the mention of Vasilisa…

Interesting.

“After I met her… I thought of you.”

Her head tilts, slowly.

“When you look at her, you see me ?” Her voice lifts an octave, brittle and sharp. “She’s three sizes smaller and blonde. ”

I can’t help the tug at the corner of my lips.

I nod.

“It wasn’t her looks. It was the way she looks at my brother.”

Her brows rise in silent challenge.

“With adoration?”

“Yes.”

“So what?” she snaps. “You want me to worship you? Because if—”

“No.”

I cut her off, voice lower now.

“I don’t want you to worship me, Adriana. I want the privilege to worship you.”

Her mouth opens.

Then closes.

Her brown eyes soften, melting like caramel under heat.

Her shoulders loosen just slightly.

There she is.

She draws in a breath, chest rising slow and deep.

“Then how come when I got here, you treated me like some whore?”

Oh.

I wasn’t ready for that.

“I didn’t—”

“You tried to force consummation. You threatened me with my jewels. Why?”

Fuck.

The word echoes inside me as humiliation coils tight in my gut.

I don’t do this.

I’m the Don, I don’t have to explain or apologize.

But here I am, choking on shame I can’t seem to swallow.

I drag a hand over my face, forcing the words out.

“Alright… when we were here before, when we would—”

“Fuck?” she cuts in, her voice dry, merciless.

A bitter laugh slips from my lips despite myself .

“No,” I say quietly. “It wasn’t just that. You know it wasn’t. There was trust. The way you let me have you... the way you let me take. The way you surrendered.”

I pause, breathing through the flood of memory, her skin, her taste, the way she looked at me like I was more than what the world saw.

“It wasn’t just that you matched me outside the bedroom—you matched me in it. You let me see you. All of you. And I—”

My voice halts, the truth splintering through.

“I showed you all of me. Not the heir to Cosa Nostra. Just... Angelo. No masks. No polished version. Just me.”

I look at her, my voice softening to almost nothing.

“I thought… if we could get back there, it would mean something. That you’d feel it. That you’d see how sorry I was. That it would say what I didn’t know how to say.”

I swallow hard.

“But instead it came out like a threat. Like a fucking game. And it wasn’t. It wasn’t about that. It wasn’t about fucking you, Adriana. It was about trying to stitch myself back together the only way I knew how.”

She doesn’t waver. Doesn’t blink.

“Okay.”

The silence after that nearly guts me.

I press on, desperate, hollow.

“I thought… if I could touch you again—if I could feel you again—you’d know. You’d feel what I couldn’t say. That it would undo some of the damage. That it would mean something.”

I breathe out, my voice raw, low, broken.

“But I was wrong.”

“Very wrong,” she finishes for me, her fury sharp, her hurt sharper. “And you know what it did mean? That you’re still the same Angelo who called me a mistake. Who threw me out like I was nothing. And that shrine? Five years of my life on display like some fucking collection? ”

Her words tear straight through me, clean and deep, slicing into every wound I never let heal.

“You weren’t a mistake,” I snap, the edge in my voice more from pain than anger. “And I didn’t toss you out. I couldn’t. I didn’t. I had you followed. I—”

The admission spills out before I can stop it. Weak. Useless.

She stares at me like she’s seeing the worst of me and maybe she is.

Her fist hits the table, making the plates jump.

“Damn it, Angelo.”

Her voice drops, low and gutted.

“I don’t want to want you.”

She wants me.

That truth is its own blade.

“You hurt me,” her voice trembles now, breath shuddering, eyes glassing with unshed tears.

And God, I’d carve my own eyes out if it meant she didn’t have to cry because of me.

“You—” she falters, eyes dropping to her plate. “You always do this. Serious fucking conversations in the middle of a meal.”

She swipes at a tear.

“And you know food is sacred, I told you that!”

It breaks something in me.

She stands abruptly, the chair legs screeching against the floor.

I’m on my feet in an instant.

I can’t help it.

I can’t watch her walk away again.

“Every bit of this is suffocating!” She moves toward the living room and I follow her.

I will always follow her.