Page 57 of Legacy (The Sovereigns #2)

Adriana Scarlet

I don’t think.

I just move.

“Maksim,” I say sharply, voice cool, even, the kind of tone that makes men freeze.

His hand stills on her arm.

She’s small. But more solid than I expected.

Mousy brown hair, the kind that looks like it hasn’t been properly cut or conditioned in far too long.

Straight and limp, just brushing her shoulders.

Her sweater’s thin, pulled at the sleeves.

The jeans she’s wearing have rips at the knees, not the curated kind, but the kind you get from actually living in them. Worn raw, seams fraying.

She looks like she doesn’t belong here. Not beside Maksim Korsakov in his designer shirt, metal glinting from his eyebrow and lip, his dyed hair styled like chaos wrapped in money.

She’s meek to his eccentric. Poor to his rich. Quiet to his storm.

And he’s manhandling her like she’s his to direct.

I step closer.

“Let go of her,” I say, not louder, just firmer.

Maksim turns, eyes narrowing. “Adriana—”

I raise a hand. “Don’t Adriana me. I don’t care what this dynamic is. You don’t handle a woman like that. Not in front of me. Not ever. ”

His jaw ticks, but he drops her arm.

Ayla doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t look up. She just steps slightly back, the way someone does when they’re used to disappearing.

Which only makes me angrier.

I shift my focus to her and soften, only slightly. “Ayla, right?”

She nods once.

“You’re welcome here,” I tell her, and I mean it. “No one touches you without your permission.”

Her eyes flick up at that, wide and startled. Like maybe she didn’t expect anyone to care.

Maksim huffs under his breath.

I glance at him.

He nods sharply, his eyes on Ayla for moment before he steps away, falling into line beside Angelo and Santo.

I glance over at Angelo, catching his eyes across the room.

He’s watching me, jaw tight, but there’s something softer beneath the steel. A flicker of pride. Of trust.

His chin dips in a single nod.

I turn to Ayla.

Her big brown eyes meet mine—wide, cautious, and quietly exhausted.

The front door clicks shut behind Maksim, and that seems to be the first breath she’s taken since walking in.

She exhales slowly, shoulders dipping just a fraction.

Before I can say anything, Vasilisa speaks.

“Is he keeping you against your will?”

Ayla’s head jerks up. Her eyes go wide, and she shakes her head a little too fast.

“He called you beda… trouble ,” Vasilisa says, tilting her head. “To Maksim, that means either affection—or contempt. So which is it? Did he take you, or… do you like him?”

The bridge of Ayla’s nose turns pink. She looks down, and for a second, she doesn’t answer .

Vasilisa grimaces. “You like him?”

I ask it more gently than she does, surprised. “Do you?…Like Maksim?”

“He’s not a nice man,” Vasilisa says flatly, eyes locked on Ayla like she’s trying to decide what kind of threat she is.

Ayla doesn’t flinch.

“Neither is Santo,” she shoots back.

I blink.

Ah, now I get why Maksim called her trouble.

Vasilisa takes a slow step forward, the gun still in her hand, and I move without thinking, slipping it gently from her fingers before she can get too close.

She lets me. Barely.

“You know my husband?” she asks, tone now colder, more precise.

Ayla crosses her arms. “I’ve seen him around.”

“No one just sees my husband around,” Vasilisa bites. “Either you know him, or you don’t.”

Another step. Heels clicking like war drums.

“Or are you a whore from Opulent?”

Ayla scoffs.

“Everyone knows your husband,” she says. “Santo Amato. Underboss of Cosa Nostra. A killer. Scythe. ”

Ayla tilts her head just slightly. “And if he’s sleeping with the staff, I feel bad for you.”

Vasilisa’s eyebrows lift so high I barely catch them before they hit the ceiling.

I place the gun down on a nearby table and prepare for impact.

“Oh and Maksim’s any better?” Vasilisa snaps, “Pakhan of the Bratva. Psychopath. Juggernaut —he’s not looking for love, sweetheart. He’s looking for a hole to fuck.”

I clap my hands once, sharply .

“Okay,” I cut in, voice brisk. “Vasi, go get a snack and calm down. Ayla—sit.”

They both turn to look at me.

I hold Vasi’s glare and Ayla’s wide eyes, making it clear I’m not asking, I’m telling.

I know that look in Vasi’s eyes. It isn’t just anger. It’s fear, the kind that doesn’t let you think clearly when you’ve nearly lost everything before.

Vasilisa’s still seething, but she doesn’t argue. She huffs, spins on her heel, and storms toward the kitchen with a muttered, “Fine.”

Ayla doesn’t say anything either. She just lowers herself onto the edge of the couch, movements stiff, almost mechanical.

I wait until the kitchen door swings shut behind Vasi, then sit down next to Ayla.

“I swear she’s usually sweeter,” I say gently.

Ayla stares at the floor.

“But you held your own,” I add.

That earns me a tiny glance.

And I can already tell, this girl may look like cracked glass, but there’s steel beneath the surface.

***

The front doors swing open, and I rise from the edge of the couch, breath catching before I even see him.

Santo steps in first, then Angelo follows, and just like that, my heart starts beating again.

It’s like the room exhales when I do.

He doesn’t look bad. His knuckles are bloodied, shirt dirty, the faint scent of smoke clinging to him like a reminder of who he is, what he’s willing to walk through for us. But his body is whole. Safe. Alive .

Santo’s gaze flicks to the sitting room, scanning for her, and the second Vasilisa spots him, she runs.

Straight into his arms.

She clings to him like the world was about to end without him in it, and for a moment, the wild, feral look in Santo’s eyes disappears. Just…gone. Like she reached into the storm and switched off the thunder.

And then Angelo’s eyes find mine.

It’s not soft, not at first. It’s dark. Intense. A claim wrapped in a single look, dragging me under before I can take a breath.

My own storm calms as he looks at me, but my pulse pounds harder, heat sweeping across my skin. Because that look, God, that look, is the reminder that no matter what blood he spilled today, no matter what war waits for him tomorrow, he comes home to me.

“Is that girl gone?” he asks, voice low, already guessing.

I nod. “An hour ago. Ivan picked her up.”

He breathes out, a flicker of tension leaving his shoulders, but it doesn’t change the way he’s looking at me. Like he’s deciding how fast he wants to close the distance.

“Good,” he mutters, before turning to Santo. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Santo nods sharply, mutters something to Vasilisa, and guides her back toward the doors with a protective hand on her spine.

The second the door clicks shut, Angelo moves.

He closes the space between us in three purposeful strides, eyes locked on mine, and then his hand wraps around the back of my neck—firm, possessive, his. He pulls me in, crushing my body to his as he breathes me in, the warmth and weight of him stealing the air from my lungs.

His mouth finds mine, and I taste the war on him, the iron and smoke, the hunger he’s held back all day. His lips are demanding, bruising, a reminder of who he is, and who I am to him.

His forehead drops to mine, breath ragged, his hand still gripping the back of my neck like he can’t let go. Like he won’t .

“What happens tomorrow?” I whisper, voice low, our lips still brushing.

His eyes open, dark and sharp, a king in the quiet before war.

“They gave us everything,” he says, voice low, meant only for me. “We know where Arsen is. We know some of his plans. Tomorrow, we meet at NovaRael. It’s time to strike first.”

The knot in my stomach tightens, fear threading through me, but I force myself to breathe. I chose this. I chose him.

“Then I want to go.”

His jaw ticks, and for a moment, his eyes search mine, that dark gaze testing, seeing if I’ll break.

“You’re sure?”

I nod once, steady. “If I’m in this with you, I’m in it. Don’t make me ask twice.”

A low sound vibrates in his chest, something close to a laugh but darker, edged with hunger and relief. His thumb brushes along my jaw as he studies me.

“You fucking wreck me, Tesoro,” he murmurs, forehead still pressed to mine.

I glance around the estate, at the familiar shape of the stairs, the gleam of the dark tile beneath us, the makings of our future wrapping around us like smoke.

“Let’s stay here tonight,” I say softly.

His brow lifts, surprised. “You want to stay?”

“Most of our things are already here. And soon, this will be our second home. Might as well start treating it like one.”

A slow smile curves his lips, dangerous and soft all at once. The smallest bit of tension drains from him, like he hadn’t realized how badly he needed to hear that.

“Let’s stay,” he says, voice rough.

I slide my hands up his chest, feeling the heat of him, the steady beat of the heart that belongs to me. “Come shower with me, Sinner . You’re covered in blood and smoke and war, and I want you clean when you’re inside me.”

His eyes darken instantly, pupils swallowing the gray, as his hands tighten on my hips.

“Lead the way, Tesoro.”