Page 51 of Legacy (The Sovereigns #2)

Scarlet

W aking up to Angelo every morning has its perks, especially when I wake up to his face between my legs.

I didn’t expect going back to studying would make me miss him this much.

It’s stupid, how much I miss him just being here.

The smell of his cologne when he kisses the top of my head before leaving, the way his muscles flex as he buttons his shirt, the way he glances back at me like he hates to leave, even though we both know he has to.

I hate that I look up from my flashcards hoping he’ll be there. I hate that I keep checking the clock to see how long it’s been since he texted. I hate that my body remembers his before my mind does.

I’m supposed to be studying torts, not thinking about how his eyes darken when I call him Don Amato, or the way his voice goes low when he calls me Tesoro.

Instead, I’m sitting here, flipping flashcards like they can compete with the fire in his gaze; while he’s out handling Sovereigns business and putting out fires that never seem to stop.

Most days, it’s Gio or Enzo who lingers in the penthouse, pretending not to watch me.

Angelo says guards are hidden around the building, watching everything, but it’s Gio I don’t trust. Not since that lie about Clara.

Maybe he didn’t know, maybe it wasn’t a lie just an assumption.

But something about him feels off now, like he’s watching for the wrong reasons .

My phone lights up, and for a second, I hope it’s Angelo, telling me he’s on his way home.

It’s not.

Vasilisa.

My thumb hovers. We haven’t spoken since that night, since she threw icy words at me and pissed me off.

I answer the call. “Hello.”

“Adriana.” Her voice is cool, but not sharp. Like she’s trying to steady herself.

I wait.

There’s a breath, a small sigh. “I was mean to you,” she says softly.

My chest tightens, memories of that night rising like smoke. The argument, the look in her eyes, the way it all felt sneaky and wrong.

“You were just trying to help him,” she adds, a rush to her words. “And I was hurt. By Angelo. By Maksim. They both knew, and it just felt like too much.”

I swallow. “I understand.” The words taste bitter.

Another pause, then, “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that. You’ve been tossed into this family the same way I was, and you didn’t deserve my anger.”

I let the words hang there, not forgiving, not rejecting. Just letting them be.

“I didn’t ask for my marriage,” she continues, voice low. “And I know you didn’t either. But I love Santo, and… it’s clear you love Angelo.”

I close my eyes. It’s not a question, so I don’t answer.

She clears her throat. “Your plan. Ending the war.”

My eyes snap open, focus sharpening. “Are you against it?”

“No,” she says. “I’m in. Whatever you need, Adriana. If NovaRael can help, I’ll make it happen. I just wanted you to hear it from me.”

Her voice wavers, but only for a moment. “We don’t get many choices, you and I. But we can choose this. We can choose to fight for peace. ”

My grip on the phone tightens. My chest feels too small for the air I need. “Thank you,” I whisper.

There’s a soft laugh, almost a breath. “If I’m in this bathroom any longer, Santo will break the door down. But… I’m with you. And I hope, one day, we can try again. As family.”

I swallow, the ache in my throat warm this time. “So do I.”

The line clicks off, and I let the phone drop onto the couch, pulling my knees to my chest.

I breathe in, and for the first time since that dinner, I feel some anxiety lift.

I drag myself off the couch.

I need a drink.

My body feels like it’s buzzing and heavy all at once—too much thinking, too much talking, not enough air.

I stand in the kitchen, fingers trailing over the wine bottles lined up on the counter. My eyes catch on the Malbec we opened the other night, the memory of Angelo’s hands around the glass, the way he looked at me, the way he tasted, flooding back.

I grab a fresh bottle, twisting it in my hands, only to realize—

The corkscrew.

It’s still in the bedroom.

Of course it is.

Because we’d dragged the bottle and two glasses in there before he pulled me into his lap and kissed me slow until he slid me on his—

I swallow, setting the bottle down carefully, and pad down the hall, the air cooler against my skin as I step into the bedroom. His scent clings to the sheets, the pillows, the air itself, pulling something warm and painful in my chest.

I spot the corkscrew on the nightstand, next to the box overflowing with the pieces of me he’d kept like some obsessed saint.

I grab it, ready to go, but my eyes catch on the top item in the box.

My journal .

I can’t believe he took that.

I smirk, flipping it open as I turn to leave, expecting to see my bubbly scrawl—

But the handwriting is different.

Neater. Almost delicate.

Frowning, I tuck the corkscrew under my arm and head back to the kitchen, flipping through the journal as I walk, eyes skimming the page.

Once I’m in the kitchen, I lean against the counter, the journal balanced in one hand, the corkscrew forgotten on the counter as I trace the ink pressed into the page.

It starts like a story, but it isn’t fiction. It’s raw. Unfiltered. Someone scraping their soul into the paper.

Her name is Francesca.

Or it was.

She was eighteen when she was taken.

Trafficked.

Brutalized.

My throat tightens, my stomach twisting as I flip to the next page. And the next. The words blur, horror pressing against my ribs, each entry harder to read than the last.

And then—

She’s bought.

Purchased.

My heart drops.

By a man named Massimo.

I keep reading, page after page. Her heart, her pain, her—

Joy?

I pause again, hand frozen over the paper. She marries him. She doesn’t say if it’s love or survival or both. But her voice starts to change after that, less broken, more… steady.

Hope creeps in at the corners.

I don’t know how long I’ve been reading when I see the words .

I think I might be pregnant.

My breath hitches.

“She’s pregnant,” I whisper.

“Who’s pregnant?”

I jump, turning—

Angelo’s already in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame like he’s been there long enough to watch the exact moment my soul left my body.

His voice is casual. His eyes aren’t.

They track me, slow and hungry, like I’m something he plans to devour.

I snap the journal shut, not looking at him. “No one. Just a book.”

He steps inside.

I set the journal down, my pulse fluttering, not from fear, not even from being caught.

From him.

Because he’s wearing all black again, dark shirt rolled at the sleeves, collar open, ink curling along his forearms, hair a little messy, like he’s been dragging his hands through it while thinking about things he shouldn’t.

And fuck. He looks good.

Too good.

Dangerous in the way only he can be—clean lines, controlled strength, and a slow, stalking presence that turns every inch of me to fire.

His eyes drag down my body, lingering at my hips.

He steps closer, heat radiating off him, crowding into my space until my back presses harder against the counter.

“Leggings?” he says, head tilting, voice low, dark amusement curling around the words. “Why the fuck are you in leggings?”

“I was comfortable,” I breathe.

He tuts, shaking his head slowly, his hands sliding to my waist, gripping, thumbs pressing into my hips .

“You’re wearing too much,” he mutters, voice rough, threaded with hunger.

In one swift motion, he lifts me, setting me on the counter, stepping between my legs so my knees frame his hips, pulling me closer until there’s no space left, his eyes locked on mine.

His fingers go into the waistband and I lift my hips off the counter, letting him drag the leggings down my legs, the fabric brushing my thighs, my calves, slow and deliberate, heat prickling across my skin with every inch he uncovers.

When they hit the floor, his eyes drag back up my now-bare thighs, dark and possessive, his breath hitting my lips as he leans in, close enough for me to taste him before he even kisses me.

“You should never wear pants in this house,” he murmurs against my skin. “ Bottomless. At all times.”

I huff a breath of laughter. “With the guards around? Not really feasible.”

“Fuck it.” His mouth drags along my neck, voice a low growl. “I’ll kill whoever gets a glimpse.”

“You can’t kill them,” I murmur, fingers threading into his hair. “We need them for the war.”

“Fine,” he mutters darkly. “I’ll take an eye. One each. They don’t need both.”

His hand slides up the oversized shirt I’m wearing. Then pauses.

He frowns.

“This isn’t mine.”

My breath stills.

Fuck.

His eyes flick up to mine, unreadable. “Where’d you get this?”

I keep my face neutral. “I don’t remember.”

I do.

It’s Russell’s .

But I’m not stupid enough to say that.

Angelo’s gaze sharpens.

His hands grip the collar, tight.

And then he tears it. A sharp rip, loud in the quiet room.

The fabric rips, jagged and brutal—like he’s skinning my past off me piece by piece.

I yelp, breath caught in my throat. “You’re insane.”

But I don’t move away.

Because I don’t want to.

He presses a kiss to my neck, then lower, his voice molten against my skin.

“Don’t lie to me again.”

His mouth finds the swell of my breast, still caged in my bra, and I gasp softly as his tongue flicks over the edge of the cup.

“Because that’s how you end up punished.”

I snort, trying to catch my breath. “Punished? Really, Angelo?”

He pulls back just enough to look at me. And his expression turns wicked.

“Don’t think I won’t fuck you until you apologize for lying.”

My breath stutters.

“Your penance?” he says, voice low and lethal. “You don’t get to come.”

Heat licks down my spine.

I should argue. I should roll my eyes and call him dramatic.

But instead—

I let the tattered remains of the shirt fall from my shoulders and pool on the counter behind me.

His gaze darkens.

“Good Tesoro,” he murmurs, eyes dragging over me as I remove my bra next. “Let’s keep that obedience going.”