Page 49 of Legacy (The Sovereigns #2)

Scarlet

C lara sets down the last dish, something roasted and beautiful that smells like home, and wipes her hands on her apron with a satisfied smile. The table is set. Wine poured. Candles flickering.

It’s… perfect.

“Everything’s ready,” she says, her eyes flicking between me and Angelo as she steps back. “I’ll see myself out.”

“Thank you, Clara,” I say gently.

Angelo nods. “You outdid yourself.”

She beams, just slightly, before grabbing her coat from the hook and walking toward the elevator.

I cross the space between us, brushing lint from his lapel and adjusting his tie. His eyes are already on me, lazy and possessive, like I’ve just walked into a room I forgot I owned.

My fingers smooth over the knot. Slow. Deliberate.

Behind him, Clara’s figure disappears as the elevator doors close, and something about the image makes my stomach tighten. I don’t know why. I shouldn’t care. But I’m still staring at the elevator long after it’s shut.

Angelo tilts his head slightly. “Why were you looking at Clara like that?”

I blink, then shake my head. “No reason.”

He raises a brow .

I step back.

Something sharp coils low in my stomach, and I hate it. I hate that I care, but I do.

“Did you ever sleep with her?”

His brow arches higher. “Clara?”

“Yes.”

He snorts, actually snorts, like I just asked if he’s ever tried to marry a goat.

“No,” he says, eyes narrowing in amusement. “Never.”

He pauses, then adds, softer now, “She’s a survivor. Found six years ago in a rundown building, chained to a radiator. There were a few other women.”

My chest aches.

“She was three months pregnant from the ordeal. She kept the baby. He’s a good kid. I make sure she’s paid well and always home in time for him.”

He meets my eyes. “Why?”

I shake my head again. “No reason.”

He doesn’t push. And I’m grateful for that. Because I’m not about to tell him Gio put that thought in my head, casually dropping it as he blocked me in the kitchen like he wasn’t detonating a small grenade in my chest.

My hands drift to my hips, smoothing the soft burgundy silk of my dress. The neckline dips just enough to feel dangerous. The slit up the thigh—absolutely intentional. I glance up at Angelo, feigning lightness.

“How do I look?”

He chuckles low and lets his gaze roam. Slow. Possessive. Unapologetic.

“Like a problem,” he murmurs, stepping close, brushing his knuckles along the side of my thigh where the slit parts. “Kind of wish Santo and Vasilisa weren’t coming over…”

His eyes darken, lips brushing the shell of my ear.

“So I could enjoy that dress… on the floor instead. ”

My lips part, heat sparking low, but the elevator pings before I can answer.

The doors open and she steps in, radiant and glowing like something out of a dream.

Vasilisa.

Looking like spring as usual, fresh and soft and utterly untouchable.

But it’s the way Santo watches her that makes my breath catch. He looks at her with clarity.

That kind of devotion could shift the entire evening. She’s definitely our way in.

He steps behind her, tall and cut from shadow. His presence is sharp, nearly silent, but his eyes never leave her. Not when she walks. Not when she smiles. Not even when she speaks.

“Adriana!” Vasilisa beams as soon as she sees me, her voice bright and lilting with excitement. Her arms open as she rushes forward, that dress floating behind her like a wisp of cloud.

I barely have time to brace myself before she throws her arms around me in a soft, fragrant hug.

“It’s been too long,” she says, pulling back just enough to squeeze my arms. “You look beautiful. I can never get over how gorgeous you are.”

I smile despite myself. “It’s as if you haven’t looked in a mirror.”

She laughs, eyes shining, and I catch Angelo watching us with quiet amusement—and something darker, softer, that’s only for me. Santo stands a few paces behind, a statue in a pressed black suit, his eyes flickering briefly over me in acknowledgment before returning to her.

Angelo moves toward him.

“Little brother,” he says simply.

“Angelo” Santo replies, his voice flat.

The tension hits like a shift in barometric pressure, too heavy, too thick to pretend it’s not there.

I step closer, just enough to catch the low words passed between them .

“I’m not here for you,” Santo says, voice cold, eyes still on Vasilisa. “I’m here for my wife. And what she wants…” He pauses, jaw tight. “She gets.”

Angelo’s mouth tics at the corner, something restrained flashing in his eyes, but he doesn’t answer. Not to that.

“Unless you’re finally ready to tell me the truth about you and Korsakov, don’t waste my time, Angelo,” he says quietly, his tone devoid of heat but no less cutting.

I glance at Vasilisa, who’s blissfully unaware—or pretending to be. She loops her arm through mine and grins.

“Santo, you’re killing the evening,” she says lightly, cheeks flushed.

She leans in slightly, whispering like we’re co-conspirators. “We don’t see each other enough. I was sure to tell him tonight is about us not him.”

“Come on,” I say, gently leading her toward the dining room. “Let’s sit. You can tell me all about married life.”

She hums, smiling to herself. “Finally swapping secrets.”

Behind us, I feel the men follow. But I don’t turn.

Not yet.

Because we’re walking into a strategy. A quiet battlefield dressed in crystal and candlelight.

And I need to be kind to the cloud wrapped around my arm.

The dining table is set, the soft glow of the chandelier casting everything in a warm light. Clara did beautifully. Even the silver catches the flicker of the candles like it knows tonight is something worth holding your breath for.

I sit across from Vasilisa, who’s talking animatedly about her latest art project. Her voice is light, hands moving as if painting the air between us.

“…and then I added these little flecks of gold leaf to the canvas,” she says. “It was so tedious, but I think it makes the piece come alive!”

I nod, smiling faintly. “It sounds beautiful. I’d love to see it sometime.”

Her face brightens, her whole body leaning into the moment. “You will. I’ll make sure of it. ”

She’s so easy to like when I let myself relax.

Warm. Honest.

Somehow soft without ever being weak.

And it makes me feel worse.

Worse for how reluctant toward her I was.

And guilty for bringing her here under the pretense of friendship, knowing tonight isn’t just dinner, it’s a detonation.

Before I can say anything, I hear the low thud of approaching footsteps.

Angelo and Santo enter the room together, and the shift is instant. Like two weather fronts colliding, one heat, the other ice.

I watch Angelo’s face, cautious. Nervous. I feel him.

I catch Vasilisa’s face soften as Santo pulls out the chair beside her.

“Dea,” he murmurs, voice low.

She reaches for him without hesitation, their fingers intertwining easily. The touch is instinctive—anchored, intimate. I look for Angelo as he sits next to me, his hand trailing along my back soft, warm.

“Oh, the gala,” Vasilisa says, looking back at me with that hopeful brightness “You’re coming right?”

My head tilts slightly. “A gala?”

She nods. “Next month. It’s an art event I’m hosting to show some of my new pieces. Santo set it up for me.”

She beams at him like he built the Louvre just to hang her canvases

Angelo leans back in his chair, his hand softly gripping my shoulder, eyes sharp but curious. “When do you have a gala, Tiny?”

The air tightens.

Santo’s jaw ticks. “It’s for Vasilisa’s work,” he says, tone clipped. “It’s an opportunity to display and sell her pieces.”

“But it’s only for women,” he adds pointedly.

Vasilisa waves that off with a snort. “Santo aren’t you going? Nico’s going, Luca’s going. I’m not throwing some kind of exclusive coven circle. ”

Santo’s expression shifts, the edges softening as he looks at her. “Of course I’ll be there.”

“And Nico’s going mostly for Luna,” Vasilisa adds, rolling her eyes affectionately.

I catch the slight raise of Angelo’s brow.

“I’ve been waiting for your response,” Vasilisa says, turning to me again. “I thought you already knew.”

I blink, surprised. “I hadn’t heard.”

She glances toward Santo. “Didn’t you send out the invitations?”

“I gave them to Mrs. Keen to distribute,” he replies, without missing a beat.

Vasilisa frowns, clearly mortified. “Oh no. That’s awkward—I’m so sorry.”

I shake my head, brushing it off. “Not at all. I’d love to go.”

My eyes drift toward Angelo now, just for a second. He hasn’t spoken again, but I know he’s watching. The way he always does when he’s trying not to take control, even though every part of him wants to.

His knee brushes mine beneath the table. It’s the smallest thing. But it steadies me.

Because we agreed. Tonight, we lay it all out.

The truth.

The warehouse. The Armenians. What started the war. What almost cost us everything.

I don’t know how Santo will react.

But I know this: if Angelo’s ready to risk it, then I’m ready to stand beside him.

Even if this table shatters under the weight of what we’re about to put on it.

** *

Dinner is quiet and warm, silverware clinking softly beneath a low hum of conversation. Candlelight flickers across the plates, casting everything in that golden haze that makes the room feel warmer than it is.

Vasilisa is mid-laugh, a glass of wine in her hand, her eyes bright as she leans forward slightly across the table.

“You know what I’ve been thinking?” she says, tone conspiratorial.

Angelo raises an eyebrow, Santo glances up, and I brace myself.

“I want to paint you,” she says, eyes on me first, then drifting to Angelo. “Both of you.”

I blink. “Paint us?”

She nods, smiling. “Yes! Not in a formal portrait kind of way. Something more romantic. A pair.”

I smile faintly, setting my wineglass down. “Are you telling us because you’re asking permission, or because we’ll be expected to sit for it?”

Vasilisa lets out a delighted laugh. “No, no. I don’t want you to sit. I actually want something a little more intimate.”

She leans in like she’s about to tell a secret. “I want you both to describe each other. How you see the other person. And then I’ll paint that version of you. Not what the world sees—what you see.” Her eyes sparkle. “I think it’ll be romantic, no?”

Angelo shifts beside me, and I can feel the flicker of amusement roll off him. But I nod slowly, lips curving just enough.

“Sure,” I say, voice calm.

But all I can think is: it’s almost time.

I’m watching him.

Measuring the rhythm of his breath. The way he drums two fingers once against his glass before setting it down. He’s thinking. Weighing. Not ready yet.

But soon.

I feel it .

Conversation drifts again, Vasilisa mentioning colors, textures, the idea of capturing memory instead of reality, and I make a few thoughtful noises in response. But my eyes stay on Angelo.

And then, as if sensing it, he stands.

“I’ll grab dessert,” he says casually.

Vasilisa gasps. “Wait—is it the one? Please tell me it’s the one.”

Angelo gives a small smirk over his shoulder. “Only the best for you, Tiny.”

When he returns, it’s with a tray in his hands, ice cream melting over chocolate snack cakes, stacked and plated like it’s fine dining. Vasilisa claps happily, reaching for a spoon immediately.

Santo’s eyes on her, a smirk playing on his lips.

“You spoil me,” she beams.

Angelo’s already sliding back into his seat, placing a dish in front of me with care.

Then, beneath the table, he takes my hand.

Warm. Grounding.

Our eyes meet.

And I know.

It’s time.

“I need to tell you both the truth. All of it.”

He’s steady. So I’ll be steady, too.

The air freezes.

Santo leans back in his chair, arms crossing, his expression unreadable. “Go on then.”

Next to him, Vasilisa reaches for his arm, her fingers tapping against his sleeve in gentle rhythm.

“Be open,” she murmurs.

His jaw tics. But he nods once.

Angelo squeezes my hand, just slightly.

And I take a breath. Steady. Anchored.

Here we go.

Because this is where everything unravels—and finally begins.