Page 220 of Legacy
This place doesn’t scream power—it whispers it. Quiet. Confident. The kind of control people choose to hand over.
I don’t like it.
It’s too calm.
Too curated.
And I don’t trust anything that doesn’t bleed when it’s cut.
I scan the room automatically.
No guards. No tension.
Just one man.
Leaning against a sleek table, dressed in a gray shirt and dark jeans, sleeves pushed up to reveal tattoos; colorful, sprawling, vibrant.
Artistic.
Not strategic.
Definitely no visible weapons. Nothing hidden at the ankle. No tension in the stance.
If Maksim were the predator in a nightmare, this guy is the daydream version—Twilight Zone Maksim.
Same cocky posture. Same dark blond hair. Piercings in his face.
But where Maksim looks like he’s calculating how fast he can break your spine, this one smiles like he already knows the punchline to the joke.
“Don Amato,” he says, standing straight as I approach. “Wasn’t sure you’d come in person or send someone.”
His voice is smooth. Relaxed. Not casual enough to be disrespectful. But it’s not deferential either.
“Luciano said it was urgent,” I reply.
He nods and hands me a folder. “Should be quick. Everything’s prepped—club expansion, licensing, transfer forms. Just sign the tabs.”
I take it. Flip it open.
He’s not lying.
Everything’s clean. Precise. Flagged with neon tabs like he’s in a fucking startup instead of a club that probably sees more leather and rope than a cavalry unit.
He’s trying to make this painless.
And I should be grateful.
But I’m not.
Because even though he hasn’t said a word about her, even though his posture is non-threatening and his tone is almostfriendly—
I know.
I look up at him again.
At the tattoos. The easy stance.
He’s not armed.
