Page 62 of Legacy (The Sovereigns #2)

Adriana Scarlet

I ’m exhausted.

But elated.

For once, it feels like the Amato’s are settled. The men are talking like the war is behind them, plans streamlined, damage assessed. There’s still a mole somewhere in the mess, but now… information only spreads on a need-to-know basis. Tight. Controlled. Safe.

Santo even cracked a smile at someone other than Vasilisa, which has to mean the world is healing.

And Elena has been wonderful. Easy to talk to. Sharp-witted in a way that makes me like her instantly.

She leans toward me, whispering just as Clara brings out dessert. “He’s been obsessed with you forever, you know. I was maybe fifteen or sixteen when he first met you, and he was the absolute fucking worst to deal with after.”

Angelo grunts. “Elena, keep your thoughts to yourself.”

“Not thoughts if they’re true,” she sing-songs, smirking.

I chuckle, warmth blooming in my chest as I lean my head on Angelo’s shoulder. “I love that you’ve been obsessed with me for years, Mi Esposo. ”

His body stills. His hand curls tight around my thigh under the table .

“Careful, Tesoro,” he murmurs with a smirk as his thumb drags along my inner thigh. But there’s something in his voice—something dark and wrecked all at once.

Across the table, Vasilisa says something in Russian, soft and lilting. Santo answers her without missing a beat.

“Yes, Dea, I brought the snack cakes,” he says, sliding one across the table toward her ice cream.

“You promised me two, Santo Dante Amato,” she teases, lips pursed, eyes dancing.

I freeze.

Dante.

The name hits me like a cold gust of wind. My breath catches.

The journal, the one I thought was mine, with torn pages and hidden corners and a love story carved in pain. I read it cover to cover.

Francesca had three children with Massimo.

Marcello.

Dante.

And… Hope.

I turn toward Elena slowly. “What’s your middle name?”

She pauses mid-spoonful, raises a brow, and shoves the bite of ice cream into her mouth without blinking. A small, smug smile blooms at the corners of her lips.

“It’s Hope,” Riot answers beside her, nonchalant.

I shift slightly, glance at Angelo. “Was your mother’s middle name… Francesca?”

He frowns.

But it’s Santo who speaks. “Yeah. Why?”

I breathe out before I can stop myself. “Her whole story—it’s just so sad. I had no idea.”

The room stills.

Elena sets her spoon down with a soft clink. “Why would you say that? ”

“I-I…” I hesitate. My mouth goes dry. My heart pounds like it’s about to burst through my ribs.

“I found a book in Angelo’s office,” I admit, swallowing hard. “I thought it was mine at first. But when I started reading it, I thought maybe… maybe it belonged to one of the women you rescued. It didn’t have a name, but—”

“Where is it?” Elena asks sharply, all light gone from her face. Her voice slices through the air like glass.

I blink. “In my room. But—”

“She didn’t have a sad story,” Santo cuts in, voice low and firm. “Our parents met at a party. Fell in love. This life is hard, yeah, but it wasn’t tragic until the end.”

“No, I mean— before she met your father. The traf—”

“Shut up,” Elena snaps, her voice trembling.

“Elena, keep your fucking tone in check.”

Angelo’s voice cuts, low and lethal, the kind of quiet that makes grown men flinch. His hand tightens around my thigh under the table, thumb pressing in hard, a warning and a grounding all at once.

His eyes meet mine. There’s confusion there. Concern.

“What are you talking about, Tesoro?”

My stomach twists. Every word feels like a betrayal now.

Fuck.

I swallow hard.

And I lie.

“I… I don’t know.”

“No.” His voice softens, but it’s no less commanding. “Don’t do that. You do know.”

I open my mouth, trying to take a breath—

Elena’s chair scrapes violently as she stands, the sound like a gunshot in the quiet room.

“She’s talking about Mom’s journal,” Elena snaps, her eyes flashing. “The one I took from Santo’s library when I was visiting Vasilisa. I left it in Angelo’s office when I was staying here, and now this nosy bitch is trying to unravel our family.”

“Elena!”

Angelo’s chair slams back as he surges to his feet, towering, the Don in him fully present.

Santo rises too, face stone. “You stole from my home?”

“ That’s what you’re angry about?” Elena huffs, arms trembling. “I had no time with her. You both had her for years. I had eight. Eight! ”

Tears well in her eyes, fury and grief tangled so tightly they’re indistinguishable.

My stomach twists with guilt like a knife under my ribs.

“She died after my birthday. You think this is a happy day for me?” Her voice cracks. “I was there when she was taken. You all forget that, but I never have. All I have are the bad memories. Nothing but nightmares. So yeah, I stole a piece of her. I wanted to know her. To see her outside the lies.”

“What lies?” Angelo’s voice is sharp, cutting. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Elena falters.

“I-I can’t—”

My voice cuts through the room. I can’t let her drown alone.

“Your mother was trafficked.”

Silence.

“The townhouse… she squatted there. She was homeless. A teenager. Until she was taken off the street one night and sold.” My voice is shaking, but I don’t stop. “Your father purchased her. At a party.”

I say it all in one breath, hoping the sting of the truth will be cleaner than the slow unraveling.

“No.”

Angelo, Santo, Luca, and Nico say it in unison—sharp, broken, disbelieving.

Heads shaking. Eyes widening .

“He wouldn’t,” Angelo whispers. But it’s not denial—it’s begging.

Santo pales. His knees bend before his pride cracks, and he sinks into his chair like the air’s been stolen from his lungs. Vasilisa’s hand finds his. She anchors him with quiet strength.

I reach for Angelo’s hand, but he doesn’t take it. Doesn’t even look at me.

His eyes are on the table. On nothing.

“I want the book,” Santo says suddenly, sharp and low.

“No!” Elena snaps. “It’s mine.”

“No, it’s not,” he growls. “You stole it.”

Elena’s face crumples. “I hate you. Both of you.”

Then her eyes find mine.

And she spits fire.

“You’re the worst thing to happen to this family.”

The breath punches from my lungs. I don’t even register the movement until glass shatters and Elena screams.

Angelo lunges.

Gunmetal glints.

Riot is immediately in front of Elena, hands up. Shielding her.

“Back off,” he says, calm but commanding. “We’re just going to go.”

Angelo’s gun stays raised. His jaw clenched. His whole body shaking.

He’s not looking at Riot. He’s looking at Elena . And there’s a promise in his eyes. The kind of promise only a man like Angelo can make. The kind that ends with blood on the floor.

Riot doesn’t flinch. His arm slides around Elena as he steps backward, pulling her with him toward the elevator.

And I step in front of Angelo.

My legs feel like water. My heart is in my throat. But I step in front of him anyway, because if I don’t, he’ll pull that trigger. And he’ll never forgive himself if he does.

My hands cup his face, forcing his eyes to mine .

“Hey,” I whisper. “It’s okay. I’m not angry. She’s upset. I’m sorry, okay? Please look at me.”

His chest heaves, but his gaze slowly shifts, locking on mine.

One beat. Then another. A slow, shaking breath leaves him.

“Everyone out,” he orders, voice cold and final.

Santo lingers. “I want the book.”

Before Angelo can speak, I do.

“Vasilisa,” I say gently, still holding Angelo’s face. “It’s in the bedroom. Left nightstand, top drawer. You can’t miss it.”

She nods and slips away quietly.

I don’t let go of him. I won’t.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper again as the elevator dings behind us and the last of the Amato’s disappear.

The door closes. The room falls into silence.

And Angelo hasn’t said a single word.

His eyes finally meet mine.

There’s no fire left in them now—just ash. Just pain.

“When did you know it was my mother’s story?” he asks, voice rough, almost hoarse.

I take a breath. My chest aches from the weight of it all. From the truth I didn’t mean to hold so long.

“I had a feeling when she drew a little picture of the townhouse in the margins,” I whisper. “It’s the same as the one you brought me to. But you never talked about your parents. Or their life together. So I assumed that was the reason why.”

His expression fractures.

“He bought her?” he murmurs. “Is that true?”

I shake my head, stepping closer.

“Only to save her. She was going to be sold again. Your father stepped in. And she… she loved him, Angelo. She writes that. It’s in there. Their love was real. But so was her pain before him. That’s why I thought you never talked about it. ”

He pulls away slightly, just enough to holster the gun at his side, his fingers brushing over the handle like he forgot he was even holding it.

Then he drags a hand down his face and lets out a bitter, hollow chuckle.

“So much for a happy birthday for Elena.”

I exhale, letting some of the tension bleed out. “Well… she did get to finish her dessert.”

A beat.

Then his lips twitch.

He shakes his head, not smiling, not yet, but that edge of rage begins to soften.

“I’ll talk to her,” I offer gently. “When she’s ready.”

“No,” he mutters. “She was disrespectful to you, she’s a big girl. She needs to get over it.”

His hand slides around my waist, pulling me in, forehead resting against mine like he needs the contact just to stay grounded.

And I let him.

For now, we just breathe.

Together.