Page 211 of Legacy
Wooden steps leading down.
Damp-smell wafting up.
My heart doesn’t race.
I’ve grown up around men like him. Around violence. Around shadows.
But this… this feels personal.
He flicks a switch, and a single hanging bulb crackles to life, casting a warm glow over the most brutal collection I’ve ever seen.
Blades. Hooks. Ropes. Steel tables stained in old memory. Tools you don’t find in a hardware store.
It smells like blood, leather, oil—and the kind of history you don’t write down.
And something older.
Something likesin.
He steps into the center of the room.
“This is where I work,” he says, like he’s giving me a tour of an office.
I say nothing.
Just take it in.
The table. The cuffs. The drain in the floor. The stained concrete.
He watches me carefully, maybe expecting me to flinch.
But I don’t.
I’ve seen things. I’ve lived things.
My brother never dirtied his own hands, not that I ever saw. But Angelo? Angelo wears the blood. Carries it in his silence.
Now I understand. Why they call him Sinner.
Not because he sins, but because he never pretends he doesn’t.
“You’re not scared,” he says finally.
“I’ve seen worse,” I answer honestly.
He nods.
Then gestures toward the far wall, where two metal chairs sit bolted to the ground.
“This is where we did it.”
I look at him. “Did what?”
He runs a hand over his jaw, voice distant now. Cold.
“Where Scythe and I took care of the men who took our mother.”
My blood stills.
