Page 34 of Legacy (The Sovereigns #2)

Adriana

I can’t believe I just told him that.

“ You did? ” he asks, his voice threading through my thoughts.

I take a breath. I have to explain. He’s going to think I’m jealous.

“I know I’m beautiful—”

“You are,” he interrupts, immediately.

A soft chuckle escapes me despite myself.

Damn . He is adorable.

I lift my hand slightly, a quiet plea. “Let me finish… please.”

His shoulders dip. He nods.

“I think I’m beautiful. I’ve never had a problem with how I look. I’m average in height and I think my shape is perfect for who I am.”

His eyes stay pinned to mine, unreadable. His jaw flexes. Tense. Like he’s either furious or about to erupt with more praise.

“I don’t usually compare myself,” I go on, “but standing next to Gumdrop Barbie in your office? Yeah, that was a whole different universe.”

I shake my head. “I think she even called me Amazonian; which, for the record, I’m five-seven. That’s not even tall.”

Still, he says nothing. Just watches me.

His pupils have swallowed the color of his irises.

“She made me feel… too big. Too loud. Too much .”

A pause .

“So I do like her. It’s not about her. It’s that I’ve never felt like second fiddle to anyone before.”

I meet his gaze, searching for some reaction—anything.

He looks guarded. A little angry. He doesn’t speak right away, just clenches his jaw tighter, like he’s holding back something sharp.

A prickle crawls up my spine as the silence stretches. My pulse roars in my ears.

I shouldn’t have said anything.

“Tiny is bright,” he finally says, voice low. “She’s soft, quiet, smart. She fits Santo. They match. She… lights him up.”

Tiny.

I hate it. He has so many names for her. Like she lights him up too.

“She’s like—”

“The sun,” I finish flatly, cutting him off.

I hate this conversation.

“Yes,” he says. “That’s a good comparison. She’s the sun. His sun.”

I nod, swallowing the ache building in my throat.

“But you—” he says suddenly, his voice a low drawl that makes me freeze.

His eyes swim over me before locking on mine.

“You’re the moon.”

The air stills between us.

“The moon reflects the sun,” he continues, “but it gives light when it’s darkest. When I look at you and her side by side… she’s bright, but you…”

His breath hitches and his voice softens like a revelation.

“You glow.”

My breath catches.

“The moon is worshipped. Prayed to. Followed across oceans and lifetimes. It rules the tides. It pulls . It eclipses the sun.”

There’s a lump in my throat I can’t swallow. My heart cracks open .

“You can’t compare,” he murmurs, “because it’s not even a competition.”

Something tightens in my chest, uncomfortably so. I try to breathe it out.

But it’s no use.

This man.

His words echo through me like a pulse I can’t slow.

The moon eclipses the sun.

And now he’s just looking at me like I’m something sacred, something worth worshipping. And I want him.

Dios, do I ever want him to worship.

He leans in, my lips parts.

A sharp thrill cuts through the moment. Angelo shifts pulling back, patting his pocket.

“Shit. Sorry, my phone,” he mutters, pulling it out. “I forgot to turn it off.”

He answers it with that clipped, commanding tone that makes my spine straighten.

“Amato.”

His brows knit together almost instantly, shadowing the warm softness he had just seconds ago.

“Who?”

His eyes flick to me, assessing. Calculating.

He exhales, low and heavy. “I’ll be there. Give me fifteen.”

The call ends.

“Opulent,” he explains, already anticipating my question. “They need me.”

“Your strip club,” I murmur.

He nods. “Yeah. Some business I’ve got to handle. I’ll be back in a couple hours. ”

“No.”

His head jerks slightly at my interruption. I see the protest forming in his throat. He’s seconds away from telling me the same shit I’ve heard from all the men in my family that being the head of a syndicate is his job, that I wouldn’t understand.

But I’m quicker.

“I want to go with you.”

He stares at me. Like I’ve just said something wild. Dangerous . Maybe I have.

A smirk tugs at his lips.

“It’s an interrogation,” he says slowly. “I’ve been looking for this guy for a while. It’s not—”

“I don’t care.”

He huffs, pinching the bridge of his nose before dragging his hand down over his mouth. He studies me again, but this time it’s not tenderness. It’s deliberation.

“Fine,” he relents. “But you stay at the bar. You do not come into that room.”

I nod. “Of course.”

But I’ve already made up my mind.

I’m going to be there.

Because if I’m the moon like he says, then it’s time he learn I know how to survive in the shadows that orbit him.

I change quickly—jeans, a soft knit shirt in a pale color that feels like armor in disguise.

Because I almost kissed him.

I almost let him too close.

And I promised my heart I wouldn’t let it break again.

It’s still daylight. There won’t be patrons at Opulent, not this early, but I still feel like I’m stepping into something… charged.

The ride is quiet at first. The hum of the engine. The occasional click of his turn signal. Angelo drives like he does everything else, controlled, steady, dangerous under the surface. Like the road bends for him and not the other way around.

I glance over at him. His profile is carved from shadow and sunlight. The tension in his jaw hasn’t eased since we left.

“So,” I say, voice light. “This guy we’re going to see. Is it Arsen Sarkisian?”

Angelo’s eyes flick toward me. Surprise flashes across his face before he schools it into something more neutral, but I saw it.

He exhales through his nose, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You listen.”

I shrug, eyes on the windshield. “Everyone knows there’s a war. If I was going to be married into it, I figured I should come prepared.”

Silence, then a chuckle low in his throat—warm and unexpected. I glance back and see it: a rare, real smile.

Something akin to pride settles in his expression. “It’s not him. Sarkisian’s too smart to get caught that easy.”

“Then who?”

He turns the wheel smoothly, eyes scanning the street. “Low man on the totem pole. Name’s Levon. He’s not important—not yet. But he’s weak. Looks like he might break under the right pressure.”

“And if he does?”

“Then maybe we get something. Plans. Next steps. A name. Anything.”

I nod, chewing the inside of my cheek. “And if he doesn’t?”

Angelo doesn’t answer for a second. His fingers tap once on the steering wheel.

“Then we try harder.”

The words settle in my chest like a stone.

There’s nothing casual about this life. Nothing optional.

A few minutes later, he pulls into a lot. A black steel door ahead flashes a red neon sign— Opulent.

He parks .

We don’t speak as we get out, but I feel it—the flicker of something passing between us. He waits by the door until I reach him, then opens it and gestures for me to enter first.

The second I step inside Opulent, I feel it.

Not just the hush of air conditioning or the scent of sandalwood and smoke that clings to everything, but the power. The presence. Like the walls themselves have seen things they’ll never speak of.

It’s stunning.

Everything is red and black.

Not the tacky kind either—the deep, seductive kind that makes you think of silk sheets and spilled wine.

The lighting is low, tinged in crimson even though there’s no crowd to perform for.

A velvet stage stretches across the far wall, framed with black silk curtains pulled open.

Four poles gleam like danger and devotion, spaced with precision across the platform.

Booths curve along the walls in shadowed alcoves, each one dimly lit with a gold pendant light above it like a halo for sinners.

The bar itself runs long and sleek not far from the stage—obsidian granite that reflects the red lighting like blood in moonlight. Leather stools. Chrome accents. Liquor bottles lined up like soldiers behind glass.

And sitting at the bar, watching me with the kind of smirk that only comes from women who think they’re better than you, is a redhead.

Her hair is a dark auburn, perfectly straight. Her chin tilts in amusement, eyes tracking every step I take like I’m walking into a trap.

I look away.

Barely.

A guy pushing a hand truck stacked with liquor boxes passes in front of us. He looks young. Maybe early twenties. Blonde hair, hood up, blue sweatshirt worn thin like he’s lived in it. His brown eyes lift as we pass and he nods at Angelo.

“Boss.”

Angelo gives him a slight nod in return, but doesn’t break stride .

We approach a black door tucked near the side, where Nico stands like a statue. In his cargos and stringer tee. Posture alert.

“Nico,” I grin, immediately pulling him into a hug before he even reacts. I kiss his cheek, and he chuckles softly in that low, unbothered way of his.

“Bella!”

“Enough,” Angelo growls behind me, but it’s not at me—it’s directed at Nico. I don’t even turn to look. I can feel the weight of Angelo’s possessiveness curling hot behind me like smoke.

“Show Adriana to the bar,” he says, cool and clipped.

“No,” I cut in, spinning to face him. “I want to go with you.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Adriana… you said you would stay there.”

His voice is low. Calm. But firm.

Then he adds, “We promised no lies.”

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

I huff, folding my arms, then letting them fall because I know he’s right.

“Fine.”

I wave Nico off before Angelo can give another command, and walk away on my own.

The bar is cold beneath my palms as I settle onto a stool. I don’t look back.

A moment later, the guy in the hoodie reappears behind the bar, hauling a clipboard and a stack of papers. His features are young; defined jaw, quick brown eyes that flick over me with mild curiosity.

“I’m Caleb West,” he offers with a half-smile. “Haven’t seen you before.”

“You work for Angelo?”

He shrugs. “Kind of.”

I nod.

Caleb hesitates. “Are you with him?”

I meet his gaze. No shame. No flinching.

“I’m his… wife. ”

He blinks, clearly not expecting that. “Oh—uh. Sorry, I didn’t see a ring.”

He shuffles awkwardly, hands over the paperwork to the bartender, who I now notice is tucked quietly behind the bar like a ghost, and then nods a quick goodbye.

“Nice meeting you,” he mumbles before disappearing through the side door.

And that’s when she makes her move.

The redhead.

She glides into the seat beside me like silk cut with a knife. Her perfume hits first; suffocating and cheap. The kind of scent that’s too cheap to linger so she must bathe in it. Like she wants to be owned. Remembered.

She crosses one long leg over the other, the hem of her black mini skirt inching higher. Her lips are painted blood red. Her nails match.

She doesn’t speak. Not yet.

But I feel it—the way her attention drapes over me like a threat.

“Wife, huh?”

I turn on the stool to face her fully. “What about it?”

“Strange…” she tilts her head with a faux pout. “First Santo marries the child, and now Angelo buys a cow.”

This bitch.

I don’t think. I just react.

When I was nine, Luciano dunked me into the canal and held me under until I bit him.

Then he dragged me out and wrestled me on the grass until I had gravel in my knees and blood in my mouth. It was my first real fight. The first time I blacked out from rage and woke up with my fists swinging and my vision red.

You get used to the smell of blood.

That metallic tang.

You stop feeling the pain in your knuckles.

You stop caring .

I’ve fought grown men most of my life.

This girl?

I don’t even know her name, but I’m already on top of her.

She’s trying to breathe, probably can’t.

Could be the cow on her chest.

Could be the blood gushing from her nose into her throat.

I should probably stop swinging.

I could kill her.

A firm tug on my upper arm breaks through the haze.

“Bella.” Nico’s voice cuts through like a blade.

He pulls me back, dragging me toward the door where I last saw Angelo disappear.

I glance over my shoulder.

The redhead is being helped up by the bartender, coughing and gasping and looking like hell.

Hm.

Didn’t kill her.

Maybe next time.

Nico takes me down a flight of stairs and opens another door.

The smell hits instantly—rancid and thick. Blood. Piss. Fear.

It clings to the air like a second skin.

It smells like death.

The lights are low, flickering. Shadows stretch long and warped across concrete.

Men are chained to the walls. One is strapped to a chair, barely conscious, his shirt soaked with red and darker things.

And then there’s my husband.

Shirtless.

Sweat dripping down his chest.

Carving his victim like a Thanksgiving turkey.

He turns at the sound of the door clicking shut.

His pupils are blown wide. His breaths come in sharp, heavy pulls .

His face is wild. Feral.

“Why the fuck would you bring her in here?” he snaps at Nico before his eyes land on me.

And then they change.

All that wildness clears in an instant.

Concern etches into his brow like it hurts to look at me.

The knife clatters to the floor. He crosses the room in seconds, cupping my face in his blood-warm hands, grounding me.

“Tesoro,” he breathes, like a prayer. Like a plea.

“What happened to you?”