Page 63 of Legacy (The Sovereigns #2)

Angelo

T he elevator glides open and I step into the penthouse, fingers curling tighter around the takeout bags as my eyes sweep the space.

Still. Quiet. Sunset streaming through the windows, cutting across the dark floors like silk.

My shoulders ease, just a little.

It’s been a long fucking morning.

Meetings. Reports.

We found the mole.

Luca and Nico are running scenarios. Maksim is coordinating search teams. Vaska’s threatening to handle the traitor himself if I don’t move faster.

And through it all, one thought: get back to her.

I drop my keys on the table, toe off my shoes, and head toward the master. The door’s cracked, and the second I step inside, I see her.

And just like that I can breathe again.

She’s sitting on the bed, back propped against the headboard, phone in hand like she just ended a call.

Her hair’s twisted up messily, a few strands falling around her face.

In my black shirt, soft and worn from too many washes.

Leggings hug her hips and legs like a second skin.

Her lipstick’s faded, just a flush of red left.

My throat tightens.

My wife is a fucking heaven incarnat e

Even when she’s doing nothing at all.

She glances up as I step in. “Hey.”

“You eat yet?” I ask, heading straight for her.

She shakes her head. “Was about to grab something.”

“Good. Don’t.” I hold up the bag. “I brought food from La Serenata.”

Her face lights up, that smile soft and easy, and for a second, everything in me settles.

I set the bag down on the dresser and move to her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head before lowering beside her on the bed.

“There’s something we need to talk about,” I say.

She shifts slightly, her smile fading just enough to tell me she knows it’s not good.

“Gio’s missing.”

Her body stills.

“We’re almost certain now. He’s the mole.”

She swallows, eyes flicking to mine.

“You’re getting more security if you go out,” I add. “Three more men, minimum.”

She arches a brow. “You say three more, so… six. Got it.”

I smirk. She’s not wrong.

But then her expression changes. She looks… conflicted. Like something’s been pressing on her chest.

“What is it?” I ask, voice low. “You nervous?”

She hesitates. “No. I just… feel bad.”

My stomach tightens. “Why?”

“For not telling you sooner,” she says. “About Gio. He’s always made me uncomfortable.”

My jaw clenches.

“And… he’s the one who told me you slept with Clara.”

My blood turns to ice.

“He’s the one who told you that? ”

She nods, wincing a little. “I didn’t want to believe him. But… I was kind of in the middle of hating you then.”

Her voice is sheepish, that little smile like a kid caught red-handed.

I don’t smile back.

Not yet.

Because my blood is still fucking boiling.

I shift, reach for her, my hand finding her cheek as I tilt her face toward mine. My thumb brushes the fading edge of her lipstick.

“You can always trust me,” I murmur. “If something makes you uncomfortable—say it. Doesn’t matter if we’re speaking or not. Doesn’t matter how mad you are. I’ll always fucking listen.”

She hums, eyes fluttering closed as she nods gently. That quiet little sound she makes when she’s letting me in, it kills me every time.

I kiss her. Slow and deep. Like a vow.

When I pull back, my hand still cradles her jaw. I pause, then ask, because I can’t help myself…

“Who were you talking to just now?”

She lifts her head, eyes shining just a little.

“I got the internship. The firm I interviewed for picked me.”

I freeze.

Then grin. “You’re serious?”

She nods.

I grab her waist and lift her off the bed, spinning her once before she can protest. She laughs, arms around my neck, that sound more grounding than any intel I got today.

But when I set her down, that glow dims a bit.

My brows pull together.

“What’s wrong?”

She takes a breath, deep and shaky.

“I don’t know if I can take it.”

My stomach knots. “Why? I thought you wanted this. ”

“I do,” she says softly, “but how—how can I be a good lawyer, a moral one, when I…”

She trails off.

“When you what?” I ask, my voice low now. Serious.

Her eyes lift to mine.

“When I was born into crime… and then married right back into it?”

I exhale through my nose, crossing my arms.

“That’s no one’s business but ours.”

“Everyone knows who you are, Angelo,” she says, pointed and clear. “They know what your family is. What you run. What you’ve done.”

“So?” I shrug. “That’s good. It lets them know not to fuck with you.”

She shakes her head. “No. It tells them I could be corrupt. Dirty. A liability to the firm before I’ve even started.”

I let out a soft chuckle, trying to lighten the weight in her voice.

“Aren’t you? Little miss jewel thief?”

She rolls those gorgeous eyes, but there’s no real heat in it. Just tired resignation.

“The plan was to leave that behind. Luciano knew that. He was happy to take over all the groundwork I laid. But now…”

“Now what?”

My chest goes tight, breath caught somewhere in my throat.

“Now I’m married to the Don of one of the biggest syndicates in the city. I was already screwed using Castillo as my last name. But Amato ?”

My response is sharp. Too fast.

“What? You’re ashamed?”

Her expression softens.

“No.”

Her fingers lift to my face, gentle as they brush along my jaw—tracing the stubble, the lines she knows too well.

My eyes fall shut at the contact. I breathe her in .

“I’m not ashamed,” she whispers. “I just… I don’t know how both sides of me are supposed to exist in that world. The one I came from. The one I married into. The one I wanted and worked hard for.”

I open my eyes and pull back just enough to see her face.

“What do you want to do?”

She shakes her head, the movement slow, defeated.

“What could I do, Angelo?” Her voice cracks just slightly. “How do I walk into that office with my head high when every part of me feels… split in two?”

The words are already on my tongue.

I don’t want to say them.

I shouldn’t.

But I do.

Because I can’t fucking stop myself.

Because just the thought of losing her again makes it hard to breathe.

Because if she tells me she doesn’t want this life— doesn’t want me —because of it…

I’ll burn the whole damn thing down.

“You want to leave me?”

Her eyebrows shoot up, eyes wide, like I just said something insane.

“No!” she blurts. “What the hell, Angelo—I’m saying I might have to turn the job down.”

Relief hits me like a wave, knocking the wind out of my lungs.

I cup her face, force her eyes back to mine.

“Then open your own.”

She blinks. “What?”

“Open your own firm.”

She starts to shake her head, but I don’t let her get the words out.

“Yes. Open your own. Like your lawyer.”

Her brows knit together. “ My lawyer?”

“Vanessa Reyes,” I say, smirking. “She works exclusively for men like me. ”

Her mouth opens, then closes.

“You researched my lawyer?” she asks, laughing softly.

“Of course I did. She was fucking up my plans.”

She exhales, that reluctant smile blooming again.

“ Maybe you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right, I’m Angelo Amato.”

She shoves me playfully away and shakes her head.

“Okay Don Amato… feed me before we feed anymore of your ego.”

***

The bedroom’s quiet, just the low hum of the AC and the occasional honk from the street below.

I lean back against the headboard, one arm behind my head, the other holding my phone. The text to Maksim is short:

‘Next move tomorrow. Don’t fuck it up.’

His read receipt comes in seconds later, followed by a thumbs-up emoji and a middle finger.

Typical.

I toss the phone onto the nightstand and let my head fall back, exhaling slow. It’s the first time in weeks the house feels like a house. Not a battlefield. Not a trap.

Just quiet. Safe.

She’s humming softly behind the bathroom door. Water runs. Then shuts off. A cabinet closes.

And then the door opens.

I look up—and the air leaves my lungs.

Satin.

Red Satin .

Thin straps. Bare legs. That sleepy softness in her eyes, like she didn’t even try to be this gorgeous but still is. Her hair’s damp at the ends, twisted and clipped up loosely, a few strands falling around her face.

My chest pulls tight.

Dio, she’s mine.

She pauses when she sees me watching. One hand rests on the doorframe. Her head tilts, mouth twitching into the smallest, knowing smile.

“You’re staring,” she says.

“Of course I’m staring,” I murmur. “Look at you.”

She walks toward the bed slowly, deliberately. Her bare feet making no sound on the floor. She stops at the foot of the bed, hands on her hips, one brow raised.

“Do you have something to say, Don Amato?”

I shift the covers down a few inches, smirking lazily. “Yeah. Come here.”

She shakes her head, that smile spreading as she climbs onto the bed, crawling toward me. Her hair falls loose from the clip, tumbling around her shoulders.

“You’re a menace,” she warns.

“Very true.”

She laughs, crawling over my legs until she’s straddling my hips, hands resting on my chest.

“You’re smug,” she says, dragging her nails lightly over my skin. “You’re bossy. You’re always armed. And you take up more than half the bed.”

I rest my hands on her thighs, letting them glide up slowly.

“And yet you keep coming back.”

Her voice softens. “Because you’re my home.”

That one sentence wrecks me.

My hands still. My breath stutters.

She leans forward, brushing her mouth over mine, just once. Barely a kiss .

And then again.

And again.

Until I’m gripping her hips and she’s sighing against my lips like she belongs there—because she does.

Because she always fucking has.

Her kisses grow slower. Deeper. Each one pressed into me like she’s carving herself into bone.

And I let her.

Because I want her etched into every fucking part of me.

I roll us over, her back hitting the sheets with a soft gasp as I settle between her thighs, bracing myself on my forearms. Her hair fans out against the pillow like wildfire, a strap slipping off one shoulder.

I glance down.

Christo.