Page 39 of Legacy (The Sovereigns #2)

Angelo

H er hands wrap around mine like a memory I was too afraid to wish for.

Not tentative. Not distant.

But real.

Her hand tugs at mine.

The smallest pull—and it undoes me.

So soft.

I run my thumb along her knuckles, slow and deliberate, memorizing the texture of her skin.

When was the last time I thought I’d get this?

This impossible grace.

Her touch is clarity.

Like fragmented pieces of forgiveness being stitched back together against my bones.

Scarlet.

The taste of that name on my tongue is like mercy to a man like me.

A man who has been dying of thirst.

Barred from even the essence of that name.

A man who never stopped crawling toward her in the dark, even when she stopped looking.

I let her lead me inside.

Her hand soft, but sure around mine .

And for the first time in a long time, I let myself believe in something other than regret.

She’s choosing me.

For now.

And I’ll give her anything she wants.

If she wants me to bleed, I’ll give her blood.

I’ll give her every last piece of me.

Even the ones I swore I would never give away.

Especially those.

Because for her there is nothing I won’t tear apart.

Not even myself.

She takes a seat on the couch, her legs tucking beneath her, the soft sweep of her jeans brushing against the cushion as she settles.

She releases my hand as I sit next to her, those eyes holding mine like a tether.

“I have some questions,” she says, voice quieter now, her gaze flicking across the breakfast.

She picks up the oat milk, twists off the cap, and pours a splash into her coffee.

Her movements are careful. Controlled. But there’s tension in the way she grips the mug, both hands wrapped tight around it, like it’s the only thing grounding her.

“Not to ruin breakfast,” she murmurs, “but there are some things I need to know.”

I nod, shifting toward her slightly.

“Go ahead, Tesoro.”

She takes a sip of her coffee. Her lips tremble against the rim of the cup before she lowers it to her lap. Her fingers trace the ceramic handle.

“I asked you before… why now. You said it was complicated.”

Her eyes bore into mine, unblinking. “Is it uncomplicated now?”

I smirk, though it feels hollow in my mouth. “If anything, it’s more complicated. ”

I shake my head. “I’ll explain.”

She takes a steady breath and watches me. Silent. Expectant.

I feel like I’m under a microscope, and somehow, I deserve to be.

“From the moment you landed back in Florida, I had eyes on you.”

I exhale hard, a self-deprecating chuckle escaping. “And I know you said that makes me sound like a fucking stalker.”

“You are,” she says with a sly smirk as she sips her coffee.

I exhale a chuckle, dragging a hand through my hair.

My chest tightens.

“I had you followed because I wanted to come for you. I thought about showing up at your door. Talking to your father. Making an arrangement like I did now.”

She tilts her head, voice barely above a whisper.

“Why didn’t you?”

The quiet in the room deepens. Even the city outside seems to hush.

“I didn’t have a leg to stand on,” I say, voice rough. “I spent five years trying to prove myself. Trying to get my father to step down so I could build The Sovereigns. To be—”

“To be what?”

The word is right there. Worthy.

But I choke on it.

“To be the Don,” I say instead. Shame clings to it like smoke.

She nods slowly.

“Every week, every month that I spent just watching you from a distance, it made less and less sense to go after you.”

She lets out a sharp huff, taking another sip of coffee. Her grip tightens again, the mug protesting with a soft creak.

“What?” I ask.

She lifts her brows. “I didn’t say anything.”

“But you want to.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Adriana, yes you do. ”

“Scarlet.”

Her voice lands, firm.

My eyes lock with hers. “Scarlet.”

“I want to use Scarlet again. Scarlet is the one with questions.”

“You realize whatever name you use… it’s still you, right?”

She rolls her eyes, that signature snap of attitude flickering to life.

“I’m aware, Angelo.”

She sets her mug down on the coffee table a little too hard. The ceramic thuds dully against the wood.

“Why didn’t you call?” she asks, her voice more controlled than her hands.

“We were in the middle of a war, I didn’t—”

“No,” she cuts in.

“Why didn’t you call for the past five years?”

“Scarlet—”

“No. Don’t Scarlet me. Or Adriana me. Or Tesoro me.”

Her voice rises, shaking, but beneath it I hear the hurt.

See the softness in her eyes.

It slices sharper than anything else.

“Why, Angelo? Why didn’t you call? If you were watching me this whole damn time… why not call and say you wanted me? Or that you were sorry? Why wait until I’m this close—”

She holds two fingers together, her hand trembling. “To passing the bar and having a life of my own to come in and blow it all up?”

“I didn’t know if your number had changed—”

“Oh!” she says, standing now, the couch spring creaking beneath her sudden movement.

Her hands flail as she speaks, pacing like a storm breaking loose in my living room.

“All that money, all those resources and men, and you couldn’t find out if I changed my number? ”

“Scarlet—”

“No! Isn’t your brother in tech? You couldn’t ask him for a favor? Couldn’t have one of your men steal my phone? I mean—”

She throws her arms up. “You were over there stealing hair ties. Why not a phone?!”

I grit my teeth. “Are you going to let me speak?”

“No.”

She drops back onto the couch with a thud, arms crossing tight over her chest.

The pout on her lips is so infuriatingly gorgeous, I can’t even be upset.

And worse, everything she’s saying is true.

“Are you done?” I ask, keeping my voice even despite the way her fire scorches me with a single look.

She glares at me, arms still locked like a fortress. “Not by a long shot, but go ahead.”

I inhale deep, trying to order the chaos in my head.

Trying to speak around the guilt tangled in my throat.

“I was… scared,” I say finally. The admission tastes like rust. “I didn’t want to disrupt your life again if I wasn’t ready to offer you what you deserved.”

Her laugh is sharp, bitter. “But you weren’t scared to disrupt it now?”

“It was different this time,” I tell her.

“Oh really?” she says, tears brimming now. “How exactly?”

“Because how many more bastards was I going to have to offer jobs overseas to before I just give in and start killing them?”

My voice cracks.

“How many more times was I going to watch you in photos or keep you in trinkets, when I could have you here instead?”

“I was fine, Angelo. I was happy, even.”

I reach for her.

Slowly, like I’m afraid she’ll leave if I move too fast.

I cup her cheek, brushing away the tear that finally escapes .

“I wasn’t,” I whisper. “Every second away from you felt like dying. Even now, with you angry, with that wrinkle in your brow and that pout on your lips—”

The corner of her lip lifts and I continue.

“I’d take that. I’d take this over empty. Every time.”

Her eyes flick to mine, she pulls away rising from the couch again, eyes flashing.

“Don’t say things like that.”

“You wanted answers,” I say, standing too. “I’m giving them.”

She says nothing at first.

Just exhales, hard and sharp, and runs a hand through her ponytail as if trying to smooth down the emotions still bristling under her skin.

Then, quietly, she sits back down.

Her movements are slower now. Less fire, more flickering embers.

She grabs her plate, spreads a thin layer of cream cheese onto a bagel half, then takes a bite.

Silence folds around us.

But it’s not empty.

It’s full of unspoken things, thick and heavy and raw.

She chews slowly, jaw tight, eyes locked on the table, but the sharpness in her spine begins to ease. Barely. Her shoulders drop. Her breathing steadies.

And then she hums.

Soft. Absentminded. A barely-there melody humming between bites.

She always hums when she eats.

She doesn’t even realize she does it.

Dio.

I love the sound.

That low, gentle tune that used to fill my kitchen back then, floating from her mouth like she was made of peace.

Back when her feet were always cold against mine and she’d steal the pizza off my plate before I could stop her .

She’s here.

She’s really here.

I watch her like she might disappear if I blink.

Drinking her in.

That beauty mark.

The one just to the side of her lip, small you’d miss it unless you were this close. Unless you spent years remembering where your lips used to rest.

The kind of detail that’s easy to overlook… unless you’ve memorized it.

I’m a fucking idiot.

Five years of pretending to move on.

Five years of sending people to do what I should’ve done myself.

Five years of haunting the edges of her life, too much of a coward to step back into it.

I sit next to her.

“Would you have answered,” I ask, voice quieter now, “if I had called?”

Her hand stills.

The bagel pauses midway to her mouth.

She sets it down slowly on her plate, then lifts her eyes to mine.

Her gaze is steady, but the corners of her mouth twitch like it physically hurts to say it.

“I want to say no,” she whispers. “That I was strong. That I moved on. That I hated you.”

A beat.

Her voice drops.

“But yes, Angelo. I would’ve answered.”

Her words settle between us, soft and shattering.

“I would’ve been angry, ” she adds. “But I would’ve picked up.”

I nod once, the ache rising thick in my chest.

“If I would’ve asked you to come back then,” I ask, “would you have?”

She draws in a breath, eyes flickering with hesitation .

“My father—”

“I could’ve handled your father,” I cut in, my voice firm, unflinching. “I’m asking you. Would you have said yes to me?”

She hesitates.

Then shakes her head, small, uncertain.

“I don’t know.”

That hurts more than I expect it to.

But I nod.

Because I deserve that.

“Then let’s not live in would’ve, could’ve, should’ve,” I say. “I’m sorry I didn’t hear you out that day.”

Her eyes widen slightly.

“I’m sorry I called you a mistake,” I continue, voice thick. “You never were.”

She doesn’t blink. Those beautiful brown eyes, glass under unshed tears.

“I was an idiot. With a chip on my shoulder and something to prove. But I’m not that man anymore.”

My throat tightens.

“I want you, Adriana Scarlet Castillo. I’ve wanted you from the minute I saw you.”

She stares at me, breath caught between what was and what could be.

“Will you stay?” I ask, softly.

She doesn’t answer right away.

She just watches me. Long enough that I start to think she won’t answer at all.

Then, she moves.

Sliding closer across the couch, slow and deliberate, until she’s next to me as we face each other.

So close I can smell the lingering cherry of her perfume.

Her eyes are wide, a storm brewing behind them.

She lifts her hand .

To my face.

Her fingers trail along my jaw, featherlight.

Reverent.

Like she’s remembering me through her fingertips.

Like she’s checking to see if I’ll flee.

Her touch is so gentle, it hurts.

It undoes me.

Because five years ago, that was how she always touched me. Soft. Slow. With a kind of fragile awe like she couldn’t believe she was allowed.

It was never just touch. It was devotion.

And I broke that.

I crushed it.

But here she is.

Her thumb brushes the edge of my cheekbone, slow and steady.

And I can’t breathe.

My soul splits down the middle, and all I can do is stare at her.

Bare.

Unmade.

Hers.