Page 67 of Legacy (The Sovereigns #2)

Angelo

T hose bastards sent me a text.

Coordinates and five simple words.

‘You for her. Come alone.’

I make one stop before I drive out there.

Santo.

I send him the coordinates before I head over. He’ll want time to dig. Analyze. Overthink.

By the time I pull up to his estate, Amelia, Santo’s house keeper, is already at the door like she’s been waiting.

She doesn’t speak. Just opens it, that worn softness in her face folding in on itself.

She helped raise us both. She sees the truth before I speak it.

Eyes glassy, hand tight around the edge of the door like she’s bracing herself for another funeral.

I nod once, then step inside.

Santo’s office door is closed. I knock once.

It buzzes open.

I push through and there they are, my brother behind his desk, Vasilisa standing beside him, her fingers gripping the edge of the wood like she’s trying not to fall apart.

“I’m going,” I say. The words leave my mouth fast. Sharp. Like a blade thrown mid-air .

Santo straightens. Vasilisa’s brows draw in immediately and she leaves the room, brushing by me.

Santo’s eyes follow her before landing back on me.

“You can’t just go,” he says. “It’s an obvious trap.

It’s a shipping yard warehouse in the East District.

Abandoned, but active enough for cover. Stacked crates everywhere.

One main entrance, two catwalk exits, skylights, plenty of places to nest snipers.

Thermal scans picked up movement twenty minutes ago. They’re setting up positions.”

He already did the work. Of course he did.

“I’m not walking in blind,” I say quietly. “I’m walking in willing.”

Santo shakes his head. “There’s no guarantee they’ll keep her alive, even if you do what they ask.”

“I’m bringing Nico with me,” I explain. “He’ll stay hidden. As soon as they hand her off, he takes her out. Gets her safe.”

Santo’s jaw works. He knows what I’m saying.

“I need you to take over as Don.”

His eyes snap to mine. “No.”

“She’s my wife,” I continue. “This is the only card I’ve got left to play. I’m not leaving her out there. And I’m not risking the family falling apart when I don’t come back.”

“I don’t want it,” he bites out. “I’ve never wanted it.”

“I know,” I murmur. “But Cosa Nostra belongs to the Amatos. It always has. And I trust you. You won’t be like dad or me. You’ll lead it the right way.”

His lips part, like he wants to argue again, but nothing comes out.

He glances at the screen in front of him. The warehouse. The thermal scans. The danger laid out in heat signatures and red dots. Then he looks back at me.

“There’s another way,” he says. “We can set a trap. You draw them out, and we hit from the perimeter. I’ve already pulled two ZEUS teams. We can work this, Angelo. We can get her back without sacrificing you.”

I look at him .

Pointed.

Still.

And ask, “If it were Vasilisa?”

He stills.

His chest rises once. His hand flexes once on the edge of the desk. Then he breathes.

“Nothing would stop me.”

We don’t say anything else.

We don’t need to.

I reach my hand out across the desk to shake. Santo takes it. But when I try to pull away, he holds tighter. His grip solid. His eyes locked on mine.

“Angelo—” he says quietly.

“I know, little brother,” I whisper. My throat’s tight. “I know.”

We let go.

I leave the room.

Vasilisa is in the hall speaking low in rapid Russian into her phone. The second she sees me moving, she ends the call and rushes forward, those wide, starlit eyes tracking every step I take.

“Angelo—” she calls, voice cracking just enough to tell me she knows.

I stop.

Turn.

Her eyes shine, but she doesn’t cry.

I give her a small smile.

“Take care of him, Tiny.”

Her breath catches.

“You saved his soul. Keep it intact.”

Her lips tremble. Her eyes blur, but she squares her shoulders, lifts her chin, and nods.

“Okay,” she whispers. “I will.”

Santo steps out and stands beside her.

I give them both one last look .

Then I walk out the door.

It shuts behind me.

And if this is the end, then at least I said goodbye the way it mattered.

***

The river stinks of salt and diesel.

Fog rolls in thick around the abandoned shipping yard, wrapping the crates and rusted containers in ghost light as I pull up. Cold air cuts through my clothes, but it doesn’t reach the heat burning in my veins.

Nico checks his rifle, posted behind a stack of rotting pallets near the perimeter, hidden but with a clear line of sight.

“If they raise a gun to her—”

“I take the shot,” he finishes, voice flat. His eyes flick to mine. “I know, boss.”

I walk alone toward the yawning mouth of the warehouse, boots crunching on gravel. Above, the crane cables sway, creaking in the wind, metal whispering like a promise.

Steel groans as I push the door open.

The cold hits first. Then the scent—salt, rust, and damp wood, layered with the faint bite of gun oil.

Inside, crates are stacked high, shadows cutting through the weak floodlights that flicker overhead. The hush is deep, like the place is holding its breath, waiting to swallow me whole.

My steps echo as I walk down the central aisle, eyes sweeping the catwalks above, the blind spots between crates, the glint of steel between shadows.

They’re here.

I feel them before I see them .

Figures shift, barely visible, rifles tucked close. Four in the rafters, using the crates as cover. Eight more flanking a cleared space in the center. Four near the side exits.

Sixteen men.

None of them matter once I see her.

My wife.

Tied to a chair under a hanging bulb that flickers, swaying gently like a pendulum. Her hair is tangled around her face, the strands glinting like amber in the harsh light. A bruise blooms on her cheek—fresh, dark, cruel.

That’s not from Gio.

My pulse hammers, rattling in my bones, but I force my feet to keep moving.

Because she’s alive.

As long as she’s breathing, this isn’t over.

Beside her stands Karekin.

I recognize him instantly from intel reports—Arsen Sarkisian’s top enforcer. Fast with a knife, lethal with his hands. And if he’s the one who touched her, I’m going to make sure he dies slow.

His eyes catch mine. He grins, teeth flashing under the flicker of the bulb.

“Angelo Amato,” he purrs, arms open like a saint welcoming a sinner. “Finally.”

My jaw clenches.

“You wanted me,” I say, voice cold steel. “You have me. Let her go.”

Karekin laughs softly, tapping his fingers against the back of Adriana’s chair. She flinches, just barely, but it’s enough to rip something inside me.

“Plans change,” he says, his accent curling around the words.

“That’s not what the message said.”

He shrugs, eyes glinting. “That message was from Arsen. But this—” He spreads his arms, gesturing around the warehouse, the shadows, the rifles trained on me from the catwalks, the men waiting like wolves in the dark. “This is me.”

His hand dips into his jacket, and every nerve in my body locks.

I’m ready to lunge, to rip his throat out—

But instead of drawing the gun, he holds it out to her.

Calm.

Casual.

Deadly.

“I’m going to untie you,” he says softly, “and you’re going to shoot him.”

Adriana’s head lifts.

Her hair falls away from her face, and I see the bruise clearly, see the split in her lip, but her eyes are what stop me cold.

They burn.

Rage. Fury. Terror.

All wrapped into one, shining through the pain.

Her glare could set him on fire.

“You untie me,” she says, her voice low, even, cold, “and I’m going to shoot you. ”

He laughs, a quiet, amused sound, like she’s a child throwing stones at a giant.

Then his hand moves, brushing his knuckles down her cheek.

She flinches, but she doesn’t break eye contact, doesn’t look away, even as her jaw trembles for a moment.

And I can’t fucking breathe.

Every muscle in my body is screaming to move, to tear him apart, to put my hands around his neck and squeeze until the light leaves his eyes.

But I can’t, not yet.

Not until she’s clear.

My fists curl so tight my knuckles crack. My jaw aches from the grind of my teeth.

Karekin’s smile sharpens, darkening .

“If you don’t shoot him,” he purrs, leaning close enough I see Adriana’s nostrils flare, see the way her breath shakes but never stops, “then I will. Or maybe…”

His eyes flick down her body.

My blood boils.

“Maybe I’ll take my time with you first. Sell you. After I’m done.”

He nods once, and a soldier steps forward, pressing a gun to the back of her head.

The sound of the safety clicking off is like a gunshot in the silence.

Come on, Nico. Come on.

My pulse slams against my skull, hammering, deafening.

Karekin kneels, slicing the rope from her wrists with a flick of a knife. The strands fall away, and he grabs her by the wrist, yanking her to her feet so hard she stumbles, her gasp sharp.

He shoves the gun into her hand, his fingers curling around hers, forcing her grip tight around the cold steel.

“Kill him.”

His voice drips with delight.

She stands, swaying for a breath, her legs trembling from exhaustion, her arms shaking, but she doesn’t drop the gun.

Her knuckles are white, her shoulders trembling, but she grips it.

She lifts her head.

And for the first time since I stepped into this hell, I see it.

That fire.

That spine of steel buried under the terror.

She isn’t broken.

She isn’t going to break.

Not for him.

Not for this.

And that’s what scares me most.

Because I know her.

I know what she’s thinking .

She’s going to deviate. I see it in the way her eyes flick, measuring the space, the distance to Karekin’s throat.

She’s going to try to take him out.

And they’ll kill her for it.

Me for her.

Always.

I take a step forward, slow, deliberate, my voice low, steady, meant only for her.

“Scarlet.”

Her head jerks, eyes locking on mine.

Those eyes.

Wide. Shaking. Alive.

Fighting.

God, I could drown in them.

Right now, they’re looking at me like she knows.

Like she knows this is goodbye.