Page 56 of Legacy (The Sovereigns #2)

Angelo

T he hum of engines fades as Elena descends the stairs of our family plane, her steps quick, purposeful. Riot shadows behind her, silent and watchful as always.

She doesn’t hesitate. Her arms wrap around Vasilisa before she even says hello, clinging like the ache is too loud to contain.

Then she turns, her smile breaking through the grief just enough to beam at my wife.

“You’re gorgeous,” she says, voice soft but sincere, and pulls Adriana into a hug.

Pride swells in my chest, sharp and sudden.

Of course she is.

My wife smiles politely, her hand brushing my arm in that subtle way she does when she’s grounding me without making a show of it.

Introductions pass. Nods. Embraces. Riot gives me a sharp look that I return with one of my own before we move to the cars.

Adriana insists on the middle seat between Vasilisa and Elena, like she already knows they’ll need her warmth. Riot takes the rear. Luca and Gio flank the SUV in separate vehicles, with Nico and Romeo leading.

The drive doesn’t take long. The trees thin. The air changes.

The lake is exactly as I remember it—still, blue, untouched by the kind of blood that stains everything else .

My mother brought us here first. Before the war. When we were just kids, unaware of the weight of my father’s title.

Santo read beside her on the shore, quiet and still even then. Elena was just a baby. I remember the cold rush of the water on my skin and my father’s voice behind me, narrating some old tale like the world would never crack open the way it did.

Now he’s ash in an urn.

Santo goes first. His hands steady. His face unreadable. But I see the way Vasilisa watches him like she knows he’s breaking somewhere no one else can see.

Elena takes the urn next, and her sobs begin before the first handful hits the breeze. Riot moves behind her like it’s natural and places a hand on her shoulder. She lets him.

Then it’s my turn.

I tip the last of my father into the wind, over the wild bluebells our mother loved. And for one fragile second, I can almost hear her laugh.

Adriana’s hand finds mine. She doesn’t speak. Just holds.

She never tries to take the grief away. She just makes it bearable.

***

The estate is already full by the time we return. Santo’s staff merges with mine in seamless rhythm, his chef Julian working beside my father’s chef Rodrigo in the kitchen.

People whisper. Murmur. Women who barely knew my father cry softly into champagne flutes.

My wife squeezes my hand before slipping forward into the crowd like she was born for this. I let her go, watching her command the room the way I command men. Different weapons. Same result.

She takes condolences with grace, with poise, offering softness where I have none to give .

I nod. Thank. Accept.

For Elena’s sake. For Santo’s. For mine.

Eventually, Elena slips upstairs to breathe, Riot trailing behind like a sentry. Adriana stays downstairs, and I watch her navigate the room like the queen she is.

In awe.

My wife is a vision.

The quartet plays something delicate in the corner, strings drifting through the air like smoke. Vasilisa leans into Santo as he stands off to the side, silent and unflinching, her hand threaded with his.

I wonder what my mother would’ve said about this room filled with people mourning a man who never quite knew how to love anyone but her.

The service ends without drama. Without speeches from us. We let others tell the stories they need to tell.

I don’t need to speak. My presence says enough.

Eventually, the crowd thins. The noise dulls. It’s just us again.

Me. Santo. Vasilisa. Elena. Adriana.

All standing in the quiet, like we’re waiting for someone to tell us what comes next.

Elena’s voice breaks the silence.

“I think he would’ve loved all this… the music, the laughter, the stories.”

Santo’s voice cuts through with dry humor. “Except the sobbing. Way too much sobbing.”

Vasilisa smacks his chest and shakes her head. Elena chuckles. I smile faintly.

For a breath, it almost feels normal.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. Santo’s goes off a second later. I see his jaw flex before he mutters a curse.

Adriana turns to me. “Everything okay?”

My instinct to not worry her is overridden by Santo .

“Another port,” he growls, sliding his phone back into his jacket. “Fucking Armenians. Can’t even give us a day.”

Vasilisa steps closer to him, murmuring something I don’t catch.

“Elena, Riot will get you back to California tonight.” It’s not a suggestion. It’s an order. She knows it too.

Her smile falters. But she nods.

She hugs Adriana then Vasilisa before she lets Riot guide her out.

I head for the study.

The study.

My father’s study.

My study now.

Or it will be, as soon as renovations are finished. As soon as I can convince Adriana.

She loves the penthouse. Made it hers completely.

I don’t blame her. The light, the view, the space to breathe.

But this house…

It’s where I bury the past and build the rest.

And maybe, if I do it right, it’ll feel like ours too.

Adriana follows, her heels soft behind me, never needing to ask if I want her there.

I dial Maksim. The bastard didn’t come. No text. No fucking call. Just silence.

He answers on the second ring. A woman speaks in the background.

Of course.

“I got the text. I’m on my way,” he says.

“You sound preoccupied.”

“I have… a visitor. But I’ll swing her by my safe house.”

“Don’t bother,” I snap. “Drop her here. We’re keeping the women together anyway.”

He murmurs something I can’t make out, a softness in his voice I’ve never heard before.

“Fine. I’ll drop her there. Ivan can pick her up after. ”

The call ends.

Adriana folds her arms. “Where are you going? Who’s coming here?”

I step closer, press a kiss to her forehead. “Maksim. And some girl he has, probably under duress.”

I chuckle faintly.

Her brow lifts, but she doesn’t press.

“Our men—” I sigh, the weight settling again. “They have a couple of Armenians tied up at the warehouse. If there’s any more intel to bleed out, now’s the time.”

She doesn’t flinch. Just nods once and touches my chest like she’s checking I’m still here.

“You get what we need to win this war.”

And I will.

Because of her.

We return to the sitting room, the weight of the day clinging to our skin like smoke.

Vasilisa’s pacing, arms folded tight across her chest, anger radiating off her in waves. Her heels echo with each step like a countdown.

She whirls on Santo the second we enter. “You can’t leave me here. I don’t even have my gun.”

Santo lifts a hand in quiet reassurance. “You won’t need it, Dea. You’ll be safe here.”

She spins, eyes wild. “It’s a house, Santo. Just like ours. I wasn’t safe there.”

The words hit him like a bullet. His expression falters, just for a second—but the hurt is unmistakable.

I step in. “We’ve doubled the men on the perimeter, Tiny. You won’t be alone. Adriana will be here, and—”

“And Ayla has a mean right hook,” comes Maksim’s voice from behind us.

We all turn as he strolls in, casual as ever, a small brunette moving beside him like shadow and steel .

“And,” Maksim adds, smirking at Vasilisa, “I’ve got an extra gun if it’ll help you sleep at night, Kisa.”

He opens his arms wide, grinning like he’s expecting a hug.

Vasilisa strides right up to him—and slaps him across the face.

The sound cracks through the room like a whip.

Maksim’s jaw tightens. Even the girl next to him startles, taking a half-step back.

He exhales slowly, hand brushing the reddening mark on his cheek, eyes gone ice-cold. “Careful, Kisa. I may forget you’re my favorite cousin.”

Santo’s already moving, placing himself between them, his stance lethal. “And I may forget we’re in an alliance if you speak to my wife like that again.”

Maksim’s smirk fades.

My voice cuts across the tension, low and final. “Watch yourself, Maksim.”

He reaches down and unholsters a pistol from his ankle, extending it toward Vasilisa around Santo’s frame. She plucks it from his hand without hesitation.

“I don’t forgive you,” she says, gaze unwavering. “Or the lies that nearly got me killed. But I’ll take the gun.”

Maksim gives a tight nod, then gestures to the woman beside him. “This is Ayla.”

Adriana steps forward, ever gracious. “Welcome, Ayla. I’m so sorry it’s under these circumstances.”

Ayla nods politely, but her shoulders are square, her eyes sharp. She says nothing.

Vasilisa offers her a cool glance, indifferent. Santo, though… his gaze lingers. Unmoving. Almost like he knows her.

Ayla refuses to look at him.

“Alright,” I cut in, breaking the tension. “We have to go. It’s going to be a long night.”

Santo kisses Vasilisa goodbye. She grips his shirt like she’s holding onto the last solid thing in the world.

I look away my gaze flicking to Maksim who turns to Ayla. He raises his hand and runs the backs of his knuckles along her cheek.

Soft. Brief.

Too brief to mean anything.

Too soft to mean nothing.

My brow lifts.

Maksim doesn’t do gentle. He doesn’t keep women, doesn’t touch them unless it’s a transaction.

So what the hell is this?

Adriana’s arms wrap around me. Breaking my thoughts, my eyes meet hers.

“Don’t worry, Tesoro,” I murmur, bending to kiss her cheek. “This is my war, and I intend to win.”

She tries to smile. Fails. Her hand fists my shirt.

“Get what you need,” she whispers, “but come back to me.”

I nod once. “Always.”

But as I turn to leave, her grip lingers tightly before she lets go.

I ease away from her leaving my own soul in the process.

We’re halfway to the door when Ayla’s voice cuts through the silence.

“Wait.”

We stop.

I turn first. Santo follows. Maksim tenses at my side.

Ayla steps forward, chin high, eyes dark with something I can’t read.

Maksim moves in front of her, instantly on guard. “What?”

Ayla looks past him—right at Santo .

And something shifts.

“I don’t want to stay here,” she says.

Maksim huffs a laugh. “Don’t be difficult, beda. ”

He grabs her arm, a little too hard .

My hand twitches at my side. Maksim knows better than to manhandle anyone in my house.

But before I can say a word.

My wife steps in.