Page 36 of Legacy (The Sovereigns #2)

Adriana

I forgot what a real kiss felt like. What it means to be consumed by someone who wants you so desperately they kiss as if you’ll vanish.

Only one man has ever kissed me like that.

Angelo.

Our lips part, barely, like neither of us wants to breathe unless the other does first.

My heart is slamming against my ribs.

My pulse is wild in my throat.

I pull back a fraction, just enough to look at him. My hands are still fisted in his shirt. His thumb brushes across my cheekbone like he’s memorizing the shape of me all over again.

I don’t know why I say it.

Maybe it’s panic. Maybe it’s fear.

Maybe it’s because no one has kissed me like that in five fucking years.

“I-I’m sorry,” I whisper.

His brow furrows. Like I just spoke a language he doesn’t understand.

“For what?”

I blink, tongue thick in my mouth. “For… that. I shouldn’t have—”

He cuts me off, his voice soft. Certain. Unshakable.

“Don’t ever apologize for kissing me.”

My breath stutters .

He leans in again, closer, but not kissing me this time. Just there. Solid. Steady.

“Not when I’ve spent every night wishing you would.”

I break.

Just a little.

A crack in the wall I’ve been patching for years.

Because there’s no venom in his voice. No arrogance.

Just ache.

Real. Raw. Honest.

And it makes me want to kiss him all over again.

My lips part to speak, but he speaks first.

“I want to take you somewhere, why don’t you get dressed,” his thumb brushing my jaw his eyes locked on mine.

“What—what do I wear?” I ask hating the breathlessness in my voice.

“Something casual, chic, anything you wear is beautiful.”

His thumb lingers on my jaw, and for a second, I forget how to breathe.

Somewhere.

He wants to take me somewhere.

The kiss is still warm on my lips, my mind still spinning from the way he kissed me, like the years between us never mattered. Like I was his to take back. His to claim.

His, always.

I nod, slow. “Okay.”

His eyes trace my face for a beat longer, like he’s saving this version of me—the flushed one. The one who didn’t pull away and run.

Then he steps back, and suddenly the air feels thinner without him in it.

“I’ll wait in the living room,” he says quietly. “Take your time.”

He doesn’t say anything else, just slides the balcony door open and leaves me there in the golden light.

Still trembling.

Still tasting him .

Still wondering what the hell I just agreed to.

***

We pull up to an elegant building, all glass and sunlight, its windows overlooking a sprawling vineyard that glows in the afternoon light. My mouth parts in surprise as Angelo cuts the engine and steps out.

He rounds the car, opening my door like it’s instinct.

“We’re here,” he says, offering his hand.

I hesitate only a second before taking it.

I glance up at him questioningly, but he just smirks; that same knowing curve of his mouth that used to drive me insane. We move toward the entrance, where an older gentleman greets us like they’ve known each other for years. He says something in Italian. Angelo responds smoothly.

We’re led through the building to a private room with sweeping views of the vineyard. It’s quiet. Warm. A little too perfect.

“Wine tasting?” I ask, settling into the chair Angelo pulls out for me.

“Something like that,” he replies, hand resting lightly on the small of my back. His touch is reverent. Careful. Like I’m something fragile he’s scared to break again.

An attendant appears, silent and polished, carrying two wine glasses and a bottle of red on a silver tray. He pours, bows, disappears.

I swirl the glass, watching the wine catch the light before taking a sip.

It blooms on my tongue—dark, rich, layered with cherry and something smoky underneath. I hum, despite myself.

“You like it?” Angelo watches me too closely.

“It’s very good,” I admit, setting the glass down.

“There’s plenty more where that came from,” he says, sipping his own. Eyes on me. Always.

I run a fingertip along the rim of my glass. “Is this Casa del Sangue?” I ask quietly. “Your vineyard? ”

His brow lifts a fraction, but I see the flicker, the shadow behind his eyes before he answers.

“It is,” he says, voice softer now. “ Ours , actually. The distillery’s on the other side.”

“Ours?”

“You’re my wife,” he says, tone shifting. Pride rising. “Everything I own is yours too.”

My breath stutters.

We sample more wines as the afternoon stretches golden around us, the vineyard buzzing with life. Grapes hang heavy on the vines like rubies strung from earth. He takes my hand, guiding me down a cobblestone path that leads to a small, aged building nestled in the vineyard’s heart.

“This was my great-grandfather’s cellar,” he says, pushing open the weather-worn door. The space inside is cool, quiet, sacred. Dust and time have wrapped themselves around the old wooden racks, bottles resting in careful rows like relics.

He selects one—deep red, vintage decades before we were born and holds it to the light. “I’ve been saving this,” he murmurs, “for something that mattered.”

The air inside is cool and thick with the scent of age, dust, oak, and the ghost of fermenting grapes long turned to legend.

Stone walls rise around us like a crypt, lined with shelves of bottles that seem to hum with time.

The wooden racks creak softly beneath their weight, each bottle labeled by hand in ink faded to a whisper.

There’s a hush here.

Not silence, something deeper. Peaceful. As if the space remembers the hands that built it. The prayers whispered in dark corners. The dreams bottled and buried beneath cork and dust.

When he uncorks the bottle, the soft pop echoes like a promise.

He doesn’t speak.

Just pours.

The wine slides into the glasses like velvet, deep and dark as blood .

“This is…” I trail off, searching. “Unreal.”

For a moment, the noise in my head goes quiet as we drink and all I can feel is the warmth of the wine and the steadiness of him.

I can feel his eyes on me, he stays quiet just watching me with something close to peace.

Like he’s waiting, but not pushing. Like he’d sit here forever if I needed him to.

Leaving our empty glasses behind, we walk between rows of vines that stretch endlessly across the hillside, golden light dancing across the leaves. His hand brushes mine again, just once, but I let it linger.

“This vineyard…” he begins, his voice quieter now, “was supposed to be our legacy.”

I glance at him, unsure what he means.

“My great-grandfather bought this land after immigrating from Italy. It was his dream to create something real. Tangible. Something untouched by blood.”

His eyes stay forward, tracing the path as we walk.

“He was the third son. Never meant to inherit anything but dirt and grapes. His older brothers were the ones expected to carry the family name. One of them was supposed to lead Cosa Nostra. But they died. One after the other. No heirs.”

He silent for a moment, eyes lost in thought before he continues.

“So it fell to him. The vineyard owner. The dreamer. The man who just wanted to make wine.”

The quiet between us feels heavier than before. The breeze whispers through the vines, hushed and reverent

“My grandfather took over. Then my father. And now me.” He glances at me. “None of us were meant to carry this. But the blood keeps calling us back.”

I don’t speak.

Because what do you say to a man born from death?

To a family line that was supposed to press grapes, not pull triggers ?

It explains so much. His silence. His restraint. The way he holds power like it might shatter in his hands.

It was never supposed to be his.

But it is.

He plucks a grape from a nearby vine and offers it to me. My lips accidentally graze his fingertips—warm and callused—and his breath stills as I take it.

His eyes darken.

“Careful,” he says, voice lower now. “You keep doing that, I’ll forget this is supposed to be a tour.”

I flush, but I don’t look away. Because for the first time in years, I don’t want to.

He takes my hand again like it’s his right and leads me to a clearing overlooking the vines. The sky has started its descent, bleeding gold and fire into the horizon.

“Care to dance?” he asks.

I arch a brow. “With no music?”

His mouth lifts. “Since when did we ever need music?”

I let him pull me close, his hand at my waist, mine resting over his chest. We sway slowly, caught between past and present, grief and grace. The breeze tangles through my hair, carrying the scent of grapes and sun-warmed earth.

His heartbeat thuds steady under my palm. Mine is frantic, desperate to match his calm.

I tilt my head back to look at him. His eyes already watching me with a look that steals my breath.

“What?” I whisper.

His thumb brushes along my jaw, his touch warm and sure.

“I just needed to look at you,” he says, voice low.

The world narrows, shrinks until there’s only the space between us, the air thick with things unsaid. The hush before a storm. The promise of something that’s always been ours .

And then he kisses me.

It’s not rushed, not demanding, just firm, certain, like he’s sealing something between us. Like the years apart have vanished, leaving only this moment, this touch, this breath.

I melt into it. Into him .

My arms wrap around his neck, pulling him closer, letting myself fall into the warmth he’s offering without fear for the first time in years. My fingers slip into his hair, brushing against the soft strands as I hold him there, as if I could anchor myself to him.

His hand tightens at my waist, pulling me flush against him, and for a moment, the world falls away. There’s only his mouth on mine, steady and claiming, only his breath mingling with mine, only the thundering of my pulse that matches the beat of his heart.

When we break apart, I’m trembling, but I don’t pull away. I don’t drop my arms.

Instead, I tilt my head, brushing my lips against his once more—soft, testing, but with a heat that makes the air between us crackle.

His breath catches. His hand slides up my spine, fingers threading into my hair, holding me there as our foreheads press together.

“Thank you,” I whisper, “for showing me this. For letting me in.”

He pulls back slightly, brushing his lips softly against my temple, lingering there as he exhales.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, “for letting me bring you.”

He takes a step back and kisses the back of my hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Let’s go home,” he says softly. “Dinner’s waiting.”