Page 37 of Legacy (The Sovereigns #2)

Angelo

S he’s gorgeous.

She’s always been gorgeous, but right now, wine-flushed at the small dining table, lips curved from the last laugh she gave me—she’s something else entirely.

In that dress, pale blue and effortless over her body, she looks kissed by something holier than light.

I hope I can keep that smile.

I don’t even realize I’ve stopped eating. I’m just watching her.

Her soft brown eyes flick to mine. “You’re not eating,” she says, motioning to my plate with her fork.

I set my utensils down, pulse steady, my voice low. Controlled.

“There’s something I want to give you,” I say. “But I don’t want it to ruin the meal.”

Her fork stills. She sets it down slowly, wiping her mouth with measured precision, her shoulders straightening, her eyes sharpening.

She’s bracing.

Armoring herself.

I let out a quiet breath, but my gaze doesn’t waver.

“I’m not trying to take anything from you,” I say, voice calm. Firm. “This isn’t a demand. It’s a choice. Yours. ”

I reach into my coat, pulling out a small box wrapped in black velvet, simple but heavy with meaning.

I place it in front of her. My hand lingers on the lid, my eyes locked on hers.

No fear. No stuttering apologies. No desperation.

Just a promise.

“I meant what I said, Adriana,” I murmur. “Everything I have is yours. But this… I want you to have this first.”

She doesn’t touch it.

Just looks at it. Then at me.

Her expression is unreadable.

I hold her gaze, my voice calm, low. “I want you to design it with me. The setting. The band. I didn’t know if you preferred rose gold or yellow. If you wanted diamonds around it, or something simple.”

I pause, steadying the air between us.

“I want the wedding band to match, but you’ll choose that too. Whatever you pick, I’ll wear the same.”

Her eyes stay on mine. Wide, searching, the candlelight dancing in them.

She hasn’t said a word.

But I don’t fill the silence. I don’t rush it.

Let her take her time.

When I finally speak again, it’s softer. A promise, not a plea.

“You can open it, Tesoro.”

She doesn’t blink at first. Her hand moves, slow, deliberate, fingertips brushing the velvet before lifting the lid.

The ruby catches the candlelight.

Deep red. Darker than blood. The size of a thumbnail. Raw. Magnificent.

Cradled in black velvet, waiting.

She inhales a sharp, shaking breath.

Her hand flies to her mout h

“Angelo,” she breathes.

I straighten. “If it’s too much, if you don’t like it—”

She shakes her head, hard.

“No, I—” her voice breaks. “You don’t understand.”

And I don’t.

I really, really don’t.

She collects rubies. Trades them. Smuggles them. They’re her specialty.

But for the first time since I’ve known her, Adriana Castillo is speechless.

“Adriana?” I say, sharper this time, unsure.

She doesn’t answer.

Doesn’t look at me.

She just walks out of the room.

I blink. My chest tightens.

Fuck.

Did I get it wrong?

Too much. Too fast. Too soon.

She kissed me. She danced with me. She smiled. She let me touch her.

But maybe that was all it was. A moment.

Just a moment.

And I’m here, dropping rubies like they mean forever.

I push my chair back halfway, ready to go after her—

But then she comes back.

There’s something in her hands.

A small wooden box.

She sits down again, carefully, sets it on the table between us, and opens the lid.

Rubies.

Seven of them. Maybe eight. Different cuts. Different settings. All red. All gleaming, catching the light like drops of blood.

She lifts one between her fingers and places it on the table. Then another. One by one, lining them up like proof. Like truth .

“These are Burmese,” she says softly, her eyes on the stones. “I’ve been collecting them since I was seventeen.”

“This one,” she nods at the smallest, “came from my first smuggling job. I was a courier. Scared out of my mind.”

She glances at me then, her voice steadier than I expect.

“I’ve been chasing one thing ever since. Not just Burmese. Not just valuable.”

Her eyes light up and I can see forever in them.

“I’ve been looking for a blood ruby. That perfect color. Not too bright. Not orange-red. The kind that looks like it’s burning from the inside.”

She swallows hard.

“I’ve searched all over the world. And now you’re just... handing one to me.”

I can’t breathe for a second.

“For nothing,” she whispers.

She’s not mad.

She’s not overwhelmed.

She’s in awe.

I close the velvet box gently and rest my palm over it, anchoring it between us.

Because she needs to understand.

Because I promised her honesty.

“Not for nothing,” I say, voice low.

She looks at me as I continue.

“For you .”

Her face sobers instantly. The awe gone.

The fire melts out of her eyes, leaving something sad behind.

She sits back.

“To own me.”

She says it. Not a question.

“No.”

I answer immediately .

“To ask that you allow me to exchange ownership.”

Her brows furrow.

“Exchange?”

I nod once.

“I’ve never wanted to be someone’s more than I want to be yours.”

“Mine?” she breathes.

I lean in, pinning her in place with my gaze.

“This isn’t about bringing you to your knees, Adriana. This is about getting back the other half of me.”

She’s quiet for a long moment.

“Then I don’t want it,” she responds.

The air punches out of my lungs.

“You don’t want it?” I lean back, stunned.

The foundation at my feet crumbling.

The damage is done.

“I don’t want the promise of the ruby to be why I choose to stay.”

Her voice is soft. Almost broken.

Her eyes meet mine.

“I want you to choose the color. I prefer gold over silver. But between rose gold and yellow, you can choose.”

She takes a breath, her hands trembling, her voice softer than I’ve ever heard it.

“If we continue as we are and you are finished with the ring—then, when you ask me...” She swallows. “...I want to say yes because I want to. Not because I feel bribed.”

I still.

She said yes .

Not no.

Not rejection.

Yes.

If we keep going.

If I wait.

If I let her open to me the right way.

Dio , help me, I’d wait a lifetime if that’s what it took.

I nod once.

No argument. No grand speeches.

Just quiet agreement.

I pull the velvet box back toward myself and pocket it.

Not because I yield.

But because when I give it to her again, it’ll be right.

It’ll be hers.

And she’ll be mine.

***

I always wake early, but today I’ve been up for hours just watching her.

In my bed again.

Adriana.

Curled up beside me.

Wearing my shirt again.

Gorgeous.

It’s loose on her, hanging off one bare shoulder, brushing her thighs where the hem rides up.

And maybe she didn’t mean it to, but it means something to me.

It’s not armor.

It’s not distance.

It’s her, wrapped in me, even if she has some walls still up.

I don’t know why she keeps pretending she wants to sleep on the damn couch when every night she finds her way back here anyway.

Part of me wants to wake her up just to ask her.

Part of me wants to kiss the answer out of her.

But I don’t.

Not yet .

I stay still for a minute, just watching her breathe.

Memorizing the way her hair spills across my pillow, the tiny crease between her brows that only softens when she exhales.

Then my phone vibrates against the nightstand.

I grab it fast, making sure the buzz doesn’t wake her.

Nico.

‘I have your shit. Hope you appreciate me being your personal fucking butler. Don’t make me regret it.’

I smirk.

Sliding carefully out of bed, I tuck the blanket tighter around Adriana’s body and press my lips to her forehead before slipping into a pair of sweats.

By the time I crack the front door open, Nico’s standing there, bag of bagels in one hand, oat milk in the other, smirking like the asshole he is.

“Morning, lovebird,” he mutters, shoving the bag at me. “Didn’t know you were vegan now. Fancy oat milk.”

I roll my eyes, grabbing the bag and heading up the stairs. He follows, closing the door behind him.

“It’s for Adriana. You always this invested in everyone’s love life, or am I just special?” I mutter.

Nico grins, all teeth. “You’re special,” he says. “Special kind of fucked, too, if you’re asking me.”

I take the other bag, resisting the urge to slam his face into the wall.

“How she holding up?” he adds, quieter now. A rare note of actual concern threading through the smart-ass.

I glance over my shoulder—back at the bedroom door.

At where she is.

Then I turn to him, my eyes dark. “You care too much about my wife. Mind your business.”

Nico just watches me for a moment, his smirk fading before he shrugs. “Just asking,” he says, voice casual but edged. “You sure about this?”

I narrow my eyes. “About what? ”

He lifts his chin toward the bedroom. “Marriage. You always said you’d never do it. Too much of a liability, remember? And now you’re here in marital bliss.”

I scoff, shaking my head as I fill the mugs. “Almost marital bliss.”

“Almost.” Nico huffs out a low chuckle, shaking his head once. Then his gaze sharpens. “You know, it’s hard for you to be selfless.”

My shoulders stiffen. I turn, mug in hand, eyes locked on him. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means, ” he says, crossing his arms, “she’s your wife. She comes before anyone. Before anything. Including yourself.”

I set the mug down harder than I mean to, the sound sharp in the quiet kitchen.

“She comes before me,” I say, jaw tight. “But nothing comes before Cosa Nostra.”

Nico’s eyes flicker, but his voice stays calm, steady. “Maybe that’s why it’s slow going.”

I glare at him.

“She needs to know you, Angelo. Everything ,” he continues. “If you haven’t told her already, she needs to know who you are. What you’ve done. What you’ll do. And she has to come first.”

He pauses, tilting his head, his next words softer, but they land like a blade.

“Don’t let history repeat itself.”

The air shifts.

Heat crawls up the back of my neck because we both know who he’s talking about.

The silence stretches, heavy, before I look away, jaw ticking.

“Don’t you have your own little brunette to look after?” I toss over my shoulder, starting the coffee machine and pulling out plates for the bagels.

I catch the flash of surprise in his eyes.

I smirk to myself.

Yeah .

I figured that shit out the second he started disappearing.

“Still stalking her, or have you made it official yet?” I jab, watching the way his mouth flattens before he mutters something under his breath.

“What was that?” I ask, low.

Nico shrugs, casual as ever, but there’s a tightness around his mouth he can’t hide.

“Nothing,” he says, straightening. “Need anything else, boss?”

I stare at him for a beat too long.

I’ve known him long enough to know when I’ve hit a nerve.

But I let it go.

I shake my head. “No. Thanks, Nico.”

The words feel strange leaving my mouth.

We don’t usually bother with thank you.

Never had to.

It’s a given.

Nico feels it too, because he just nods once, sharp and heads down the stairs without another word.

The door clicks shut behind him.

I stand there for a second, staring at the spot he left before getting back to fixing breakfast for her.

The smell of coffee is thicker now, warm and rich, curling through the apartment.

I grab the spreads, the bagels and move around quietly, careful not to make too much noise.

Instead of setting the food at the small dining table, I carry everything over to the coffee table in front of the couch.

It feels right.

Less formal.

Softer.

She’ll probably prefer to curl up here—lounging, comfortable, still wrapped in sleep—rather than sitting stiff at a table.

I lay everything out :

Two plates.

A little spread of options.

Her favorite oat milk by the coffee.

Everything easy.

Everything for her.

I straighten up, taking a breath.

And then I glance toward the bedroom door.

I hesitate and I fucking hate it. I want to wake her. I want to see her blink awake, messy hair and soft skin. I want to kiss her good morning, tell her there’s food waiting for her.

But Nico’s words fuck with my head.

I take a breath.

I also need her to be comfortable. So I let her sleep. I cross the room again, sliding open the door to the balcony and breathe.