Page 33 of Legacy (The Sovereigns #2)

Angelo

H er in the bed next to me is heaven and torture.

She let me hold her.

The heat of her body pressed against mine all night, her back to my chest, the scent of her hair tangled in my sheets, in my lungs, in the air I can’t stop breathing.

Every shift, every soft exhale, every tiny movement reminding me she’s right there. Close enough to touch. Close enough to taste.

Close enough that I could feel her heart beating, steady and quiet, each thump a reminder that she’s alive, that she’s here, that she’s real.

But not mine.

Not yet.

And it’s killing me.

Because the part of me that’s still a selfish bastard wants to take her now, to close that last inch of distance, to claim what’s already fucking mine.

But I don’t.

I hold her.

All night.

I let her be the one to decide. Let her be the one to end it.

She didn’t.

She fell asleep .

And I lay there, wide awake, with her warmth sinking into every hollow part of me I thought would stay empty since I let her go.

When the sun starts to bleed through the curtains, I slip out of bed before I can change my mind, before I can do something we can’t take back.

I stalk down the block to the shop, every step a war to keep from turning around, crawling back into bed, and burying myself in her until she remembers she’s mine.

I grab bagels. Coffee. Something to keep my hands busy so I don’t put them where they don’t belong.

When I get back, she’s in the living room.

Dressed in tight black leggings that cling to every curve I have memorized, and a baggy t-shirt that’s unmistakably mine.

She went through my drawers.

Picked that one.

A dangerous smile tugs at my lips.

She doesn’t even know what she’s doing to me. Wearing my shirt. Standing there with her hair piled on top of her head, exposing the soft line of her neck I want to wrap my hand around.

Fuck.

It shouldn’t mean anything.

But it does.

It means everything.

“Morning,” I mutter, setting the bag down on the counter, my eyes still on her. Watching. Waiting.

She looks up at me, eyes tracking every step I take, like she’s not sure if she should let me get close again.

“Morning.”

There’s a pause.

Not tense.

Just… electric.

Then she breaks it .

“You went out?”

I nod, moving behind the counter, pulling out the warm bag.

“Thought you’d want breakfast.”

Her eyes widen, just a flicker, but I see it.

Because I see everything when it comes to her.

She schools her expression fast, trying to tuck that softness away.

“Thanks.”

We eat in silence. But it’s not uncomfortable.

It’s heavy. Laden. Every bite she takes, I watch. Every breath, every small sound, it’s like a goddamn thread tugging at me, pulling me closer.

She picks a poppy seed bagel, adds her spread and takes a bite, her eyes fluttering shut for half a second.

I can’t stop watching her.

She’s always been gorgeous. But Adriana Castillo has never just been beautiful to me. She’s a fucking masterpiece I spent years memorizing.

Sun-kissed skin. Those bright brown eyes that shift in a breath, darken with desire, soften with adoration, burn with rage.

Those lips, Dio . The lower one, just a little fuller, a beauty mark at the corner, like she was signed by the universe.

Just looking at her is torture and relief all at once.

But it’s her touch I miss most.

Those fingers in my hair, on my jaw, scratching down my back when she—

I swallow.

She was soft with me where the world’s been hard.

Her eyes lift to meet mine, catching me, pinning me, and before she can say a word, I lean in, close enough for her to feel it.

“Tell me what’s on your mind, Tesoro.”

She hesitates, teeth sinking into her lip for just a second .

My jaw flexes. I want to bite that lip for her. Want to drag that soft sound out of her throat while she’s pinned under me, right where she fucking belongs.

“Last night…” she starts, cautious, words trailing like she’s not sure they’re safe out loud.

“Last night was… a lot.”

Her voice is barely a whisper, but I hear every word, every shaky breath.

Then, after a breath:

“But I was the one who said yes to starting over.”

Her gaze lifts, steadier now. Fire and steel under all that softness.

“So that’s what we should do. Today.”

She nods once, sure and steady.

Then she extends her hand.

“Adriana Scarlet Castillo.”

A flicker of something playful passes through her eyes, but her voice stays level.

Scarlet.

Fucking perfect.

A low chuckle escapes me, but my chest tightens, pulling painfully.

That name. That girl.

My storm in lipstick.

I take her hand, holding it like I’m claiming it.

“Angelo Marcello Amato.”

Her grip is firm, stubborn as ever.

We hold it a beat too long. Long enough for the air to hum with the things we aren’t saying.

Then I motion toward the living room.

“Shall we?”

She grabs her coffee, following me, bare feet padding softly against the hardwood. I drop onto the couch, spreading my legs, watching her.

She hesitates, just for a breath, before lowering herself beside me .

Different couch.

Same girl.

For a split second, it feels like five years ago.

Before the lies. Before the war.

Back when she wore red and kissed me like she already fucking belonged to me.

All I want to do is pull her in, bury my hand in that hair, tilt her head back, and remind her exactly who she said yes to.

Hold her the way I did when the world felt safer with her pressed against me.

But I don’t.

Not yet.

Instead—

“What do you do?” I ask, voice soft.

She looks over at me, surprised. Her lips curve slightly.

“You asked me that five years ago.”

I nod.

“And now I’m asking again.”

“I finished law school,” she says, proud but quiet. “And I’m studying for the bar exam.”

My chest swells.

I knew she did.

I know everything about her.

She always finishes what she starts.

“Oh, and I’m the daughter of Ricardo Castillo, former head of the cartel, now run by my idiot brother Luciano,” she adds with a smirk, rolling her eyes.

A low laugh rumbles in my chest, easing some of the weight in the room.

“What about you?” she asks, her voice light, but her eyes are searching, careful.

And for the first time in a long time, I don’t lie .

I don’t soften it.

I don’t dodge.

“I’m the Don of Cosa Nostra.”

Her eyebrows lift in faux surprise, but she doesn’t speak.

So I go on.

“We own a few businesses. La Serenata, a restaurant mostly run by my brother, Santo.”

A pause.

“Opulent, a strip club. But not what you think.” I let the words hang for a moment, softer now. “Most of the women there are survivors of trafficking. We give them shelter, safety, choices.”

She blinks, and her eyes flicker, warm, open, as she shifts slightly closer.

“They can stay, dance, go to school, work somewhere else, or find their families. We just make sure they have a say.”

I let the quiet stretch between us.

Her face doesn’t give me much, but I can tell she’s listening.

“We’re also on the board of a hospital. We have floors reserved for our people. No names. No insurance. Just care.”

I look at her, letting her see it—what I am, what I’ve built, what I protect.

Her lips part, like she wants to speak, and for a moment, I let myself hope she will.

I finish.

“And... we have a vineyard and distillery.”

A faint smile touches my lips.

“Casa del Sangue.”

Her brows knit together at the name.

She tilts her head just slightly.

Then my eyes drop to her shirt.

The old one. Soft and oversized. Faded print with the vineyards name stretched across her chest.

Mine .

Her gaze follows mine.

She looks down.

Fingers curling into the fabric.

A faint blush rises to her cheeks.

“I didn’t pack anything comfortable, so I stole this,” she murmurs.

“That’s alright,” I say.

“What’s mine is yours.”

She pauses. Takes a slow breath.

“So… Don of Cosa Nostra,” she echoes shifting the focus.

“Like I said I’m from a powerful family too. In the cartel I run the jewel sector.”

I nod, then feign a little casual curiosity.

“What do you do exactly in your jewel sector?”

The corner of her mouth twitches.

“I smuggle in precious gems—diamonds, rubies, emeralds, sapphires. I trade, make deals, and resell. Or use them at the jewelry store I own… well, used to own.”

“Used to?”

I don’t like the sound of that.

“Yeah. Since I moved out of state, Luciano took over. I think he put Esperanza in charge.”

“Esperanza?”

“She managed the shop when I was in class.”

I nod.

She deserves another shop. And she’ll have it. Even if she never asks.

Before I can say anything, her voice cuts through my thought.

“So, you said you have a brother… any other siblings?”

I glance over at her, and the way she sips her coffee—like she’s only mildly interested, tells me she’s trying to keep it casual.

It’s not.

“Yeah. Santo—he’s about three and a half years younger. And Elena. She’s twelve years younger than me. ”

Her eyebrows shoot up.

“You have a sister?”

There’s a spark behind her eyes, like the thought genuinely excites her.

I smirk.

“Yeah. She’s a pain in the ass, but I love her.”

Her lips quirk.

“And of course… my sister-in-law, Vasilisa.”

The shift is instant.

Her smile falters, not enough to call her out, but enough for me to see it.

Still polite.

But I catch it.

She really doesn’t like Piccola. And I don’t get it.

“What about you?”

She shrugs, voice even.

“I have Luciano. Hate him. And Valentina. She hates me.”

Delivered matter-of-factly, like she’s listing groceries.

I chuckle. “So just… hatred all around?”

“Pretty much.”

“Can I ask why?” I tease, raising an eyebrow.

Her face sobers instantly, all traces of humor wiped clean.

“Well… Luciano promised me autonomy. Then ripped it away.”

My grin fades.

Fuck.

“Valentina and I are five years apart. She resents that I have a hand in the business and she doesn’t.”

“She told you that?”

“It’s not hard to notice.”

Her voice is quiet. Not bitter. Not angry. Just… tired.

I nod slowly, sitting back into the couch.

There’s more there .

A whole world she’s not saying. But then again, I’m not the man she trusts to tell things to. Not yet. I’ll have to ease it out of her.

“I noticed something.”

She hesitates—eyes narrowing slightly. “What?”

I lean forward a little, resting my arms on my thighs.

“You don’t like Vasilisa.”

“What?”

Her eyebrows shoot up, caught somewhere between defense and disbelief.

“Why would you assume I don’t like her?”

I look at her pointedly.

“Every time I mention her, you make a face.”

“I do not.”

“You do.”

“No, I don’t.”

I raise both hands in mock surrender, grinning.

“Okay. You don’t.”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s the faintest blush blooming along her cheeks. Not from embarrassment, but from being seen.

And that… does something to me.

“Alright, if it’s not dislike then what is it?”

She hesitates, her eyes flicking to mine. She shifts on the couch, tucking her legs under her.

“It’s how bright she is, like she’s permanently happy and always concerned or caring, it’s giving robot wife.”

She looks away before she continues.

“Your brother… he’s—” she meets my eyes apologetically. “—not exactly friendly.”

I chuckle. “Yeah, he has a resting angry face. Stick constantly up his ass.”

She giggles and her face lights up.

Dio .

That gorgeous face.

“I didn’t understand how they got together until she told me it was arranged,” she shrugs.

“Yes, but that’s what bothers you about her? She’s bright and he’s an ass?”

She scoffs. “No, it’s the comparison.”

I tense.

“To us?”

“No, me and her.”

My jaw ticks. Heat spikes under my skin.

“Who compared you to her?”

She looks at me, a small smile tugging at her lips. “You look angry.”

“I am.” My voice is low, lethal. “Who the fuck thought they could pit my wife against someone else and even attempt to make a comparison?”

I lean forward, eyes locked on hers.

“Who did it?”

Her eyebrows lift, but she looks… delighted .

That should calm me. It doesn’t.

Because it means she knows I’ll end whoever compared her, and she’s still keeping this to herself.

My fists clench before I even realize it, knuckles whitening as rage flickers under my skin like live wires.

But then she answers.

“I did.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

Like she just detonated something between us and walked away from the blast.