Page 259 of Legacy
“I gave them to Mrs. Keen to distribute,” he replies, without missing a beat.
Vasilisa frowns, clearly mortified. “Oh no. That’s awkward—I’m so sorry.”
I shake my head, brushing it off. “Not at all. I’d love to go.”
My eyes drift toward Angelo now, just for a second. He hasn’t spoken again, but I know he’s watching. The way he always does when he’s trying not to take control, even though every part of him wants to.
His knee brushes mine beneath the table. It’s the smallest thing. But it steadies me.
Because we agreed. Tonight, we lay it all out.
The truth.
The warehouse. The Armenians. What started the war. What almost cost us everything.
I don’t know how Santo will react.
But I know this: if Angelo’s ready to risk it, then I’m ready to stand beside him.
Even if this table shatters under the weight of what we’re about to put on it.
***
Dinner is quiet and warm, silverware clinking softly beneath a low hum of conversation. Candlelight flickers across the plates, casting everything in that golden haze that makes the room feel warmer than it is.
Vasilisa is mid-laugh, a glass of wine in her hand, her eyes bright as she leans forward slightly across the table.
“You know what I’ve been thinking?” she says, tone conspiratorial.
Angelo raises an eyebrow, Santo glances up, and I brace myself.
“I want to paint you,” she says, eyes on me first, then drifting to Angelo. “Both of you.”
I blink. “Paint us?”
She nods, smiling. “Yes! Not in a formal portrait kind of way. Something more romantic. A pair.”
I smile faintly, setting my wineglass down. “Are you telling us because you’re asking permission, or because we’ll be expected to sit for it?”
Vasilisa lets out a delighted laugh. “No, no. I don’t want you to sit. I actually want something a little more intimate.”
She leans in like she’s about to tell a secret. “I want you both to describe each other. How you see the other person. And then I’ll paint that version of you. Not what the world sees—whatyousee.” Her eyes sparkle. “I think it’ll be romantic, no?”
Angelo shifts beside me, and I can feel the flicker of amusement roll off him. But I nod slowly, lips curving just enough.
“Sure,” I say, voice calm.
But all I can think is: it’s almost time.
I’m watching him.
Measuring the rhythm of his breath. The way he drums two fingers once against his glass before setting it down. He’s thinking. Weighing. Not ready yet.
But soon.
I feel it.
Conversation drifts again, Vasilisa mentioning colors, textures, the idea of capturing memory instead of reality, and I make a few thoughtful noises in response. But my eyes stay on Angelo.
