Page 173 of Legacy
There’s nothing casual about this life. Nothing optional.
A few minutes later, he pulls into a lot. A black steel door ahead flashes a red neon sign—Opulent.
He parks.
We don’t speak as we get out, but I feel it—the flicker of something passing between us. He waits by the door until I reach him, then opens it and gestures for me to enter first.
The second I step inside Opulent, I feel it.
Not just the hush of air conditioning or the scent of sandalwood and smoke that clings to everything, but the power. The presence. Like the walls themselves have seen things they’ll never speak of.
It’s stunning.
Everything is red and black.
Not the tacky kind either—the deep, seductive kind that makes you think of silk sheets and spilled wine. The lighting is low, tinged in crimson even though there’s no crowd to perform for. A velvet stage stretches across the far wall, framed with black silk curtains pulled open. Four poles gleam like danger and devotion, spaced with precision across the platform. Booths curve along the walls in shadowed alcoves, each one dimly lit with a gold pendant light above it like a halo for sinners.
The bar itself runs long and sleek not far from the stage—obsidian granite that reflects the red lighting like blood in moonlight. Leather stools. Chrome accents. Liquor bottles lined up like soldiers behind glass.
And sitting at the bar, watching me with the kind of smirk that only comes from women who think they’re better than you, is a redhead.
Her hair is a dark auburn, perfectly straight. Her chin tilts in amusement, eyes tracking every step I take like I’m walking into a trap.
I look away.
Barely.
A guy pushing a hand truck stacked with liquor boxes passes in front of us. He looks young. Maybe early twenties. Blonde hair, hood up, blue sweatshirt worn thin like he’s lived in it. His brown eyes lift as we pass and he nods at Angelo.
“Boss.”
Angelo gives him a slight nod in return, but doesn’t break stride.
We approach a black door tucked near the side, where Nico stands like a statue. In his cargos and stringer tee. Posture alert.
“Nico,” I grin, immediately pulling him into a hug before he even reacts. I kiss his cheek, and he chuckles softly in that low, unbothered way of his.
“Bella!”
“Enough,” Angelo growls behind me, but it’s not at me—it’s directed at Nico. I don’t even turn to look. I can feel the weight of Angelo’s possessiveness curling hot behind me like smoke.
“Show Adriana to the bar,” he says, cool and clipped.
“No,” I cut in, spinning to face him. “I want to go with you.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Adriana… you said you would stay there.”
His voice is low. Calm. But firm.
Then he adds, “We promised no lies.”
I can’t hide the tug at the corner of my lips.
I huff, folding my arms, then letting them fall because I know he’s right.
“Fine.”
I wave Nico off before Angelo can give another command, and walk away on my own.
