Page 5 of Legacy (The Sovereigns #2)

Scarlet

S neaking back into the hotel isn’t hard.

The lobby smells like stale perfume and desperation.

My heels echo against the marble floor, too loud, too guilty, but I have a room to myself, and no one notices me slip in looking like an exhausted ghost of bad decisions.

I shower quickly, scrubbing off the scent of spiced tobacco that still lingers on my skin, though part of me doesn’t want it gone.

The moment I collapse face-first onto the bed, I swear I’ll just rest my eyes for a second.

Bam bam bam

The door nearly splits in half from the force of someone’s fist.

I groan, rolling over with a pounding head and squint at my phone.

7 A.M

Kill me.

I shuffle to the door and crack it open. Luciano’s infuriating face is the first thing I see. Glaring. Judging. Already ready to ruin my morning.

“What do you want?” I whine, already over it.

“Where the hell were you?” he bites out, pushing past me before I can stop him.

“What? What are you talking about?” I blink, playing dumb, poorly.

He doesn’t answer. Just stalks through my room, throwing open the bathroom door, checking under the bed like I’m hiding a man under there .

The audacity.

He straightens the lapel of his overpriced jacket, the whisper of fine wool scraping over silk and ego like he hasn’t just broken into my personal space. His cologne hits me next, sharp, expensive, and entirely unwelcome, then turns back to me, calm. Too calm.

I take a step back.

“Don’t play fucking games, Adriana,” he says, voice low, dangerous. “Where were you?”

He’s inches from my face. And while Luciano and I usually have a good rapport when I’m out for a night, something in his tone makes me choose self-preservation over truth.

“I was with an old friend.”

His eyebrow lifts. He steps back, sliding his hands into his pockets like he has all the time in the world. He looks me up and down like he’s already picked the lie apart.

“Which one?”

“Claire,” I say too quickly.

He smirks.

“Not unless the Claire who was sucking my dick last night has a clone, try again.”

“Gross,” I groan, pushing past him and collapsing onto the bed like I haven’t just had the most emotionally confusing night of my life.

He follows. His perfectly polished shoes leave little dents in the plush carpet with every deliberate step. He sits on the edge of the mattress, elbows on his knees, watching me like I’m a suspect under a hot interrogation lamp.

“You need to stop screwing my friends,” I mutter, grabbing a pillow and covering my face.

“My dick stayed in her mouth, nowhere else,” he shrugs, unapologetic. “Who were you with?”

His tone shifts again, quieter now. Deadlier.

He pulls the pillow from my face .

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “Some guy I met at the party.”

Luciano shakes his head slowly, a sigh dragging through his chest like I’ve disappointed him on a molecular level. He pinches the bridge of his nose like I’m both the migraine and the disappointment that caused it.

“Adriana, you can go fuck around,” he says, voice clipped, “but keep your shit intact. Otherwise, you’re worthless in a trade.”

Trade.

Right. That’s what I am.

He rolls his eyes. “Is he political?”

I shrug. “Something about a family business.”

Luciano narrows his eyes, thinking. “Is he a Beaumont?”

“We didn’t exchange last names.”

“Good.” He nods once. “If you’re seeing him again, see if he’s good for business. Weak points, assets. You know the drill.”

I nod because I have to. Because not nodding leads to more questions, more pressure, more guilt. But inside?

I refuse.

My father and Luciano have used me as bait before. A whisper of affection here, a kiss there, and suddenly men who thought they were in love were handing over secrets and signing deals they didn’t understand until it was too late. But Angelo? I don’t want to do that to him.

Even if this is nothing. Even if it was supposed to be just one night.

“Good,” Luciano says as he heads for the door. “Take Rafael with you next time.”

The door clicks shut.

The silence is immediate and sharp, and I breathe out like I’ve been holding air in my lungs since he walked in.

I grab my phone and text Angelo.

His reply is instant.

He wants to see me again.

I stare at the message, chewing my lip. With Luciano watching me now, it’s not exactly smart. But I don’t want to stay away. I shoot off a quick reply, something vague, flirty, and then open a new message for Rafael.

‘Can you drop me at a café around six?’

He responds with a thumbs-up two seconds later.

I knew he would.

Rafael’s my brother’s best friend, he’s supposed to be my guard, but he’s more like a ghost who shows up when I need him and vanishes the rest of the time—usually off with someone, living a double life I don’t ask questions about.

And in return, he doesn’t ask about mine.

He doesn’t report what I don’t want reported.

He keeps my secrets.

And I keep his.

Rolling onto my stomach, I bury my face in the pillow and exhale.

It’s perfect, He’ll drop me off and I’ll walk the rest of the way to Angelo’s.

And maybe I’ll pretend, for just one more night, that I’m not Adriana Castillo.

That I’m just Scarlet.

And maybe that’ll be enough.

I close my eyes and let myself drift.

***

Rafael drops me off at the café, and I immediately start fidgeting with my outfit. I went casual instead of sexy, tight jeans and a fitted tee, and now I’m regretting it. My thighs always feel louder in jeans. Like they’re making an announcement I didn’t agree to.

“You look beautiful, as usual,” Rafael says as I step out of the car. His voice is smooth, the kind that makes every compliment sound like poetry. He gives me a wink, one he’s used a thousand times, but somehow it still makes me blush .

“Thank you, Rafe. I’ll be back before—”

“No, you won’t,” he cuts in, already reaching into the back seat. He pulls out my backpack.

The go bag.

The one I use back home when I’m spending the weekend at Rafael’s “watching movies with friends.” Which is code for: Rafael disappears with his latest conquest and I throw parties at his place without my father ever finding out.

I raise an eyebrow as I take the bag. A smirk tugs at Rafael’s lips.

“What are you doing, Rafe?”

“Me?” he asks innocently. “I’ll be joining a few friends for the rest of the week… for a group session .” His grin widens like he knows exactly how much he’s not telling me.

“But my Pa—”

“Thinks you’re with me. I’m taking you and your friends sightseeing,” he says easily, pressing a set of keys to his apartment into my palm. “Just in case things go south with the boy, call me if you need me.”

God, I love him.

I press a kiss to his cheek, squeezing his hand. “You’re the best.”

He hums smugly as I shut the door, and within seconds, his car disappears around the corner.

And then… it’s just me.

And my backpack.

And a short walk to temptation.

I round the corner toward Angelo’s street, and my heart is pounding. With every step, the nerves build. My palms feel too warm, my breaths too shallow.

I reach his door and pause. One deep inhale. One shaky exhale.

Knock, knock.

The door pulls open.

And I nearly drop my backpack .

Angelo stands there, dripping. His hair is damp, messy like he’s just run a towel through it.

His jeans hang low on his hips, and a towel rests casually over his shoulders like he forgot it was even there.

Water still glides down his chest, each droplet catching the light and tracing every line of his muscles like a goddamn invitation.

My mouth goes dry. My fingers twitch like they forgot how to function. I’m in trouble.

“Scarlet,” he says, voice low and tempting. “You came.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I reply, praying my voice sounds more confident than I feel.

His eyes sweep over me slowly, drinking in the outfit I was so unsure about ten minutes ago. His gaze lingers, not in a creepy way, more like he’s memorizing me, piece by piece.

Then he nods toward my shoulder. “What’s this?”

“Just some things,” I say, shrugging casually, like my heart isn’t doing cartwheels. “In case I need to crash somewhere.”

His brow lifts, a flicker of interest, but he doesn’t press. Just steps aside to let me in, and immediately, I’m hit by the warm, rich scent of garlic and butter and something slightly spicy.

“Did you cook?” I ask, climbing the stairs into the loft that now looks completely different bathed in daylight, less seductive more lived-in. Sunlight spills over the polished wood floors like honey, making everything feel… softer. Like maybe I’m allowed to belong here.

He smirks over his shoulder as he walks toward the kitchen and my jaw drops. His back. Broad. Muscular. Inked with wings . Giant, black, tattered wings that stretch from shoulder to waist.

Gorgeous.

I freeze at the sight of them, breath catching in my throat.

“I do more than just look good shirtless,” he tosses back breaking me from my thoughts .

I clear my throat and roll my eyes, dropping my backpack by the door with a thud before trailing after him. The sight of him in the kitchen— barefoot, damp, focused —is somehow intimate.

It makes me nervous.

It makes me want.

“What are we having?” I ask, leaning against the counter, trying to pretend he doesn’t make my spine hum just by existing.

He turns with two plates in hand, each one layered with pasta delicate and glossy with creamy sauce, flecks of herbs sprinkled like confetti.

“Fettuccine Alfredo,” he says. “I hope you’re hungry.”

He disappears down the hall for a second and returns, regretfully wearing a shirt now, but with one hand behind his back and a sheepish look on his face.

“I had these delivered,” he says. “Thought I ordered roses. I don’t think they are.”

He pulls out a lush red bouquet, and I gasp before breaking into a laugh.

“They’re carnations,” I smile, stepping forward to take them, bringing them to my nose. “They’re beautiful, but yeah… definitely not roses.”