Page 53 of Legacy (The Sovereigns #2)

Angelo

“ I t makes no sense for me to meet him. He already knows who I am.”

Her voice is soft, but the way she says it, tight, almost distracted, tells me everything.

She’s nervous.

And fuck, it’s adorable.

Not that she’d appreciate me saying that out loud.

I glance over as I guide the car up the winding road to my father’s estate, the iron gates swinging open ahead like the jaws of something waiting to swallow us whole.

She’s smoothing the front of her dress again, palms brushing over the fabric for the fifth time since we left the house.

“You look gorgeous,” I tell her, because she does. Because she always does. Because I need her to know it’s not just the dress or the hair or the way she carries herself.

It’s her.

All of her.

“This is just a formality. You’re already mine.”

Her eyes flick to me, and for a second, I see it. The fear, yes, but layered over something sharper. Something steadier. Something she’s built for herself over years of surviving .

She doesn’t reply as I park the car out front. Her hand finds mine when I help her out of the car.

The soldier at the door nods, letting us in.

The halls are cold, heavy with old power and older grudges. The smell of cigar smoke curls around us before we even reach the office, like the past refusing to let go.

My father sits behind his desk, looking smaller than I remember, but somehow more dangerous for it.

He grins when he sees her, cigar resting between two fingers. “About damn time you brought her to me.”

He says it like a joke, but there’s weight behind it. He looks at me like he’s waiting for me to flinch. I don’t.

Adriana steps forward before I can say anything, shoulders back, chin lifted. Fuck, she’s beautiful like this. Brave. Bold. Mine.

“You remember me, then?” she asks, voice calm, clear.

“Of course. The Castillo girl, no?”

She nods once. “Yes, sir. Adriana.”

He waves a hand, smoke trailing from the cigar. “Full names here. Names have power.”

She pauses, then lifts her chin a fraction higher.

“Adriana Scarlet Castillo.”

I see it the moment it hits her—how the name doesn’t feel like a chain around her neck anymore, but a weapon in her hand. A name she’s claimed for herself.

But my father shakes his head, smirking. “No, no. Amato, now.”

She laughs softly, glancing at me, and my chest tightens in a way I don’t let show.

“Adriana Scarlet Amato.”

My hand slides to the small of her back, a silent claim, a promise I’ve made a thousand times over in the dark, in whispers, in the way I touch her when the world isn’t watching.

Mine .

Marcello grins. “Strong name.”

He leans forward, ashes falling onto the desk as he pushes himself up to stand.

He’s slower than he used to be, but not weak, and he holds himself like a man who knows the room will always bend around him.

Adriana straightens, shoulders back, head high as he approaches. I can see the quick rise of her chest, the small hitch in her breath, she’s bracing herself, but she doesn’t flinch.

My wife never flinches.

His eyes sweep over her, appraising but not lecherous, before he leans in and presses a kiss to her cheek, the gesture surprisingly gentle for the man I know.

“My daughter-in-law,” he says, and there’s pride in it, a weight that settles between us.

He takes her hand, large and rough around hers, and says his name like it’s a gift and a warning all at once:

“Marcello Massimo Amato.”

She stiffens, just barely, but I see it. The flicker across her face, the way her eyes flash for half a second before she smooths it away.

What was that? A memory? A fear? Something I need to kill for her?

My father notices too. His eyes narrow with interest as he lifts his free hand, tilting her chin up with two fingers, making her look at him.

I bristle.

The urge to step forward, to yank her away from him, rips through me, hot and sharp. My hand twitches at my side, jaw ticking, but I hold my ground, watching her.

“Never forget the power of your name,” he says softly, voice carrying the gravel of age and the steel of authority. “Your name is your weapon, ragazza. Don’t let this world strip it from you.”

He lets her go, gesturing for us to sit .

Adriana moves first, slipping into the chair across from him, her face composed, but I can see the tension in her shoulders, the questions in her eyes she doesn’t voice.

Later, I think, slipping my hand to her thigh, grounding her, reminding her she’s not alone.

My father settles back in his chair, cigar now forgotten in the ashtray as he leans forward, eyes sharp.

“Now,” he says, looking directly at me, “tell me what’s been happening with this war of yours son.”

“We’ve already begun phase one of the withdrawal,” I say, shifting fully into the role I was born for. The Don. Her husband. The man who will end this war for us. “Maksim’s men are hitting the storage hubs. I have the warehouse transfers lined up—”

Adriana’s voice slices in, clean, precise. “And I’ve already started tracing the shell companies the Armenians are using to smuggle weapons through the ports. We’ve got meetings with our allies this week, once the pressure starts from all sides, they’ll crack.”

My father laughs, a deep, genuine sound I haven’t heard in years.

“I like this one,” he says with a smirk. “Should’ve chosen her for you instead of Santo all those years ago.”

My jaw ticks. Adriana glances at me, and I glance back, a thousand unspoken words between us.

Doesn’t matter.

Because she’s here now.

Because she’s mine now.

And this woman… I will burn kingdoms for.

And I will never let her go.

** *

She’s pressed against the wall of my office, legs wrapped around my waist, skirt bunched up and I’m buried inside her so deep it feels like I’ll never let her go.

Heaven.

I thrust again, short, brutal, and she gasps, her back arching, her nails biting into my shoulders. My arm around her waist keeps her exactly where I want her, helpless and clinging, every inch of her body pulsing around mine.

“Mierda,” she moans, breathless.

Her voice sends a shiver down my spine. But it’s when she whispers, “Dámelo,” that I nearly lose it.

Give it to me.

That word in her mouth, soft, sultry, Spanish—makes my restraint snap. I fuck into her harder, faster, until the only sounds in the room are her moans, my breath, and the slap of skin against skin. Her body’s slick. My grip, unforgiving

I snake my hand up and around her throat.

She grins.

And then her eyes roll back.

Her pussy clamps down like she wants to take me with her into the abyss.

Fucking perfect.

I squeeze. Not enough to hurt, just enough to remind her who owns every inch of her. Her breath stutters. Her legs tremble. Her moans catch in her throat like a prayer.

She loves this.

This is our rhythm. Our language. Our religion.

I let go. Her lungs drag in a gasp, loud and needy. Her fingers claw at my back, and I know she’s close. I want her to fall first.

“More,” she chokes out.

I pull out almost entirely, then slam back in. The wall shudders. So does she .

“Come for me,” I growl, my hand sliding between us now, rubbing her clit in firm, perfect circles.

She cries out.

“Let go,” I whisper, mouth to her ear. “Show me you’re mine.”

She unravels.

Body tight, pussy clenching, a scream ripping through her throat as she comes hard. The sight of her breaking apart for me, pushes me over. I groan, loud as I spill inside her, thrusting through the high until there’s nothing left but heat and breath and ownership.

I kiss her neck, then the edge of her jaw.

“Now,” I murmur, tracing the faint pink on her skin with the tip of my finger, “you’re ready to pass that exam.”

She laughs, still trembling. “I was ready before you fucked me into the wall.”

I shudder as I pull out of her, slide her panties back in place and ease her down. I tuck myself away and grin at the way she steadies herself.

“Maybe. But now anyone who sees you will know exactly who you belong to.”

She rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue. She pulls her skirt down, fixes her hair and buttons up her blouse composed, like she isn’t dripping my cum.

I walk her to the elevator .

She blows me a kiss as the doors close.

And just like that, the world feels emptier.

She takes the peace with her.

Off to conquer that exam, my Tesoro. My chest tightens.

Dio, that woman is my world.

I button my shirt slowly, still catching my breath when I pull out my phone and text Enzo.

‘Get her there safe. Protect her with your life.’

He sends a thumbs up.

I dial Maksim. No answer. Not unusual, but it pisses me off anyway.

We have a war to win, and he needs to get his ass back before I drag him here myself.

The phone vibrates, my gut stirs.

I stare at the screen a second longer as it lights up.

Silvio.

My father’s consigliere.

I answer.

“Angelo.”

His voice is tight. Off.

“You need to come,” he says. “Now. It’s your father.”

The room stops.

I don’t speak. Just move.

***

The hospital hallway smells like bleach and death.

Santo is already there. So is Luca. Nico. All of us called. None of us told.

I spot Silvio first.

He looks wrecked.

Good.

I cross the room in three strides and slam him against the wall.

“When?”

He winces. “This morning. Over breakfast. It was fast.”

I press harder. I want to hurt him. I want it to be him. I want this to make sense.

Santo grabs my shoulder and pulls me back.

“Not here,” he mutters.

I shake him off.

The attending doctor is speaking but I barely hear him. Just the phrase: “suspected embolism. ”

Bullshit.

“I want an autopsy,” I say.

The whole room stills.

My eyes land on Silvio as I speak to the doctor.

“Full workup. Blood. Lungs. Tox screen. Everything.”

His mouth opens. Closes. Nods.

He knows what I’m really saying: I don’t trust you

I look at my brother.

We’ll have to bury a king.

But I’m the one they should fear now.