Page 54 of Legacy (The Sovereigns #2)

Angelo

T he elevator doors slide open.

And for the first time since the hospital, I can breathe.

She’s there.

Waiting in the foyer, arms wrapped around herself, eyes red rimmed, but steady.

My Tesoro.

The second she sees me, those arms drop, and she rushes forward, throwing herself into me like she’s the one who’s been trying to survive the fire.

I catch her.

Her body molds to mine, warm and real and I let the weight of everything I’ve been carrying crash into the space between us.

My father.

The silence.

The bloodlines.

Her arms lock around my neck. Her fingers clutch my shirt like it might vanish if she lets go.

“Oh, amor,” she breathes, voice cracking. “I’m so sorry.”

She buries her face in my neck, and for a moment, I just stand there.

Frozen.

Because I don’t know what the fuck to say .

I don’t know what to do with this kind of grief.

This kind of softness.

But I wrap my arms around her.

And I hold on.

Hard.

Her heat seeps into every crack.

Every fracture.

I shut my eyes and let her scent fill me, those cherries and something sweeter.

Mine.

The only thing in this world that still feels like mine.

“Come on,” she whispers, tugging gently at my hand. “Let’s sit.”

She leads me into the living room, her thumb brushing over the back of my hand like she’s tracing every unspoken thought.

We sink onto the couch, and she pulls me close without hesitation, tucking herself against my side like she belongs there.

Like she always has.

I let my head fall back, exhaling for what feels like the first time all day.

“I didn’t think I’d care this much,” I murmur, barely recognizing my own voice.

Her fingers trace absent lines across my chest.

“He was your father,” she says softly. “Of course you care.”

I nod. Slowly.

Then I say it—quiet, broken.

“He told me I was ready.”

She lifts her head. “What?”

I keep staring straight ahead.

“Months ago, after he was shot. In the hospital, when he woke up—he said it was the Armenians. And then he looked at me and said I was ready to handle the war.”

Silence stretches. Then her fingers curl tighter against my chest .

“He saw something in you,” she whispers. “He knew you could carry this.”

“I don’t want to be him,” I say.

And I don’t just mean how he led.

I mean every cold choice. Every burned bridge. Every piece of himself he gave up until there was nothing left.

“You won’t be.”

“I don’t want to fuck everything up.”

I don’t want to let you down.

I can’t lose you.

“You won’t,” she says again.

Her certainty wrecks me. It’s infuriating. And holy.

Because she believes it.

Believes in me.

My jaw clenches. “I’m tired, Adriana.”

Not tired like sleep.

Tired of this.

Of being the Don.

Of starting a war I might not survive.

Of being owned by a name.

Of not being free.

She shifts, straddling my lap, her body folding into mine as she rests her forehead against mine.

“Then rest,” she whispers. “With me.”

Her lips brush mine.

Not hungry. Not desperate.

Just home.

And I melt into her.

Because she’s not just my wife.

She’s my peace.

My strength .

The one thing that keeps me grounded while the world keeps trying to set me on fire.

And right now—

She’s the only reason I haven’t fallen apart.

***

My father’s estate is quiet. Too quiet.

I walk the halls like a ghost until I find myself in my father’s office.

The door creaks open with a groan like it’s protesting my presence, but I step inside anyway. The air still smells like his cigars, wood smoke and power, clinging to the leather chairs and heavy curtains.

I don’t know why I sit behind his desk. Maybe I want to feel like I’ve already buried him. Or maybe I just need to remember what it feels like to be in control.

Adriana’s hand lands on my shoulder. Gentle. Wordless.

I reach for her without looking and pull her into my lap.

She fits.

Like she always has.

A knock interrupts the quiet.

“Come in,” I call, my voice rougher than I expect.

Silvio steps in, his expression unreadable.

“Don,” he says, giving Adriana a small nod of respect. “There are some things I need to tell you.”

Adriana rises, but I catch her wrist.

“Stay,” I say. Not a request.

She looks at me, searching my face for a beat before she settles beside me, standing like a queen at her king’s side .

Silvio hesitates. “This may change things. Everything, in fact.”

“Then start talking.”

My fingers tighten around Adriana’s.

I’m not letting go. Not again.

Silvio’s eyes flick between us. He doesn’t sit. Doesn’t move closer.

He just says it.

“Marcello knew.”

The words drop like stones into water, and for a second, I can’t even process the ripple.

“What?”

“He knew you were the one who killed Vartan Sarkisian. He took the blame to protect you.” Silvio swallows.

My stomach drops, lungs forget how to work.

Silvio continues, his voice rough. “He was going to move Lucia back into the estate. To keep her safe. But… he was too late.”

I can’t speak.

My mind spins—fractured memories, blood, my father’s voice, my mother’s smile, the weight of everything I’ve done pressing down so hard I can’t breathe.

Adriana squeezes my hand.

I realize I’m crushing hers.

I loosen my grip. Barely.

“How did he know?” I rasp.

Silvio gives a soft, bitter laugh. “He always knew his sons.”

The silence stretches, taut as piano wire.

Then Silvio says the words that shift the air.

“I knew when he did.”

My spine straightens.

Silvio’s gaze meets mine. “He knew Korsakov was involved. But he wouldn’t turn on the little shit. So I did something... unforgivable.”

A flicker of dread pulses behind my ribs.

“What did you do?” I ask, my voice flat .

Silvio doesn’t flinch. “I’m the one who maimed Conti.”

The name hits me like a gunshot.

Nico.

Adrenaline pumps quickly through me.

Adriana’s hand presses hard against my shoulder.

That’s when I realize, I was about to lunge.

I shut my eyes. I inhale.

Settle.

Silvio keeps going. “If someone could confirm the connection between Korsakov and Sarkisian, Marcello would’ve been forced to implicate him. It wouldn’t fall solely on Cosa Nostra. But Nico wouldn’t break. Loyal little bastard.”

I whisper it, barely:

“Does he know it was you?”

Silvio nods. “He knows. But he thought your father ordered it and I did not tell him otherwise. He’s a good soldier.”

Yeah.

Yeah, he is

Too good.

I study Silvio. The man I always looked at as an uncle. Who carved a legacy out of blood and silence. And now, the one asking for judgment.

“You tell me this,” I say slowly, “because you want me to pass judgment on you?”

Silvio nods once. Steady. Accepting.

I take a breath. It burns.

“I’ll leave the choice to Nico,” I say. “But I’ll give you a twenty-four-hour head start.”

His expression doesn’t change. He only bows his head. “Grazie, Don.”

Adriana’s hand never leaves my shoulder.

Not as Silvio leaves.

Not as I hang my head.

Not as I break under the weight of it all .

He knew. My father knew.

The weight of my mother's death slightly lifts off my shoulders.

But for once, I don’t know if I feel like a king…

or a goddamn orphan.