Page 55 of Legacy (The Sovereigns #2)

Adriana Scarlet

T he estate is beautiful in a way that almost feels tragic.

Too grand. Too still.

Like a crown that’s been gathering dust on a forgotten throne.

Angelo laces his fingers through mine as we walk through it, room by room, memory by memory.

I know why he’s doing this.

Not to impress me.

Not even to show me where he came from.

He’s doing it to keep from falling apart.

So I let him.

We step through gilded archways and hallways too wide for warmth, until he opens a set of tall doors and gestures me inside.

The ballroom.

I stop breathing for a second.

The chandeliers shimmer like frozen constellations, suspended from a ceiling painted with clouds and gold-leafed flourishes.

The floor glows beneath us, polished wood with inlaid swirls that ripple like water when the light hits it just right.

It’s… breathtaking.

I’ve never cared for excess. I’ve seen the way it rots people from the inside out .

But this? This is art.

“My mother loved this room,” Angelo says, his voice soft with something I don’t recognize, maybe reverence. “She always said it felt like music even when there wasn’t any.”

I turn in a slow circle, my fingers brushing over the air like I could catch the echo of it.

“It’s beautiful,” I whisper.

He nods once. “Santo and Vasilisa got married in the garden. They used this room for the reception.”

I smile. “Must have been beautiful.”

He watches me for a second, really watches—and I feel it like a warm hand pressing gently over my heart.

Then he takes mine again and leads me onward.

We cut through the kitchen, and there, by the old archway near the pantry, he pauses.

“Here it is,” he says, pointing to faint pencil lines etched into the wood. “She used to measure our heights here every year.”

I move closer and squint. Names. Dates. A slow climb toward manhood.

“Santo used to chase my height like it was a competition,” Angelo says, stopping by the pencil marks. “I was always taller. Older. Thought I had that locked down.”

He runs his thumb over a faded line, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“Then he hit a growth spurt at fourteen and passed me in six months flat. Pissed me off more than it should’ve.”

I laugh softly. “You had a rivalry then.”

“Yeah.” He smirks, but the smile fades too fast. “Still do.”

I don’t say anything. Just lean my head against his arm.

He keeps walking.

Up the stairs, down a hall, and then into a room that’s more personal than any space I’ve seen in this place.

His bedroom .

It’s quiet in here.

Lived-in, but untouched.

A sitting room opens into the bedroom, the walls pale and unassuming, furniture aged but intact. There’s a shelf with a few worn photos, a lamp with a cracked base, and a guitar leaning in the corner—strings dusty.

I point. “Did you play?”

He shakes his head. “No. That was Nico’s thing. He was here most days. My mom used to say he lived here more than at his own place.”

I nod.

“Nico always felt like more than just a second-in-command. He’s the brother I never had to name,” he says eyes wandering the room.

I move to the edge of the bed and sit, fingers brushing over the edge of the blanket.

Angelo stays in the doorway for a second like he’s remembering things he doesn’t want to say out loud.

Then he walks in, slow. Quiet.

And sits beside me.

A beat passes.

Silent. Peaceful.

“This could be a room for our kid someday.”

The words are soft. Barely there.

But they hit me like thunder.

I turn to look at him, and in his eyes, I see it.

The flicker of light that’s been missing the last couple of days.

Not joy. Not even hope.

But the idea of something more.

A life beyond death. Beyond war. Beyond blood-soaked legacies and sacrifice.

I swallow past the lump in my throat and nod.

“Then let’s make it a good one.”

He exhales slowly, like he wasn’t sure I’d say yes. Like the weight of it is almost too much to hold .

“You want to move here?”

My brows furrow. “You’re going to sell the penthouse?”

He shakes his head.

“No, we’ll just have both, Santo has the summer estate and a penthouse in the city. You and I can have the same.”

He grins, nudging me with his shoulder lightly. “Plus our loft.”

My lips tug into a smile. “I love our loft.”

His fingers brush my cheek, his eyes meeting mine, soft, sad.

“The townhouse?” I ask breaking his thoughts.

His eyes flicker and he shifts.

“What about it?”

“Can we fix it too? Keep it as our own?”

“But the basement—”

I shake my head. “Can be cleaned up, renovated. Wouldn’t you rather it be filled with children instead of a blood house?”

His face contorts as if the idea didn’t make sense.

“The neighborhood is shit.”

“Then we buy the neighborhood.”

He scoffs out a chuckle.

“What are you hiding?” he asks and my heart plummets.

He can read me so well.

I’m not even sure myself what I’m hiding, I could be completely wrong. But now is not the time.

“Nothing,” I say softly cupping his jaw, his eyes close as if in instinct. I brush my lips against his. “You mentioned children and they deserve beautiful places to live, even in the middle of a syndicate, don’t you think?”

He hums turning his head to press a kiss to my palm. His eyes opening to lock on mine.

“Let me,” I whisper.