Page 314 of Legacy
She opens her mouth, ready to argue, but I press a finger to her lips.
“Stay here. Fix the dress. I’ll handle them.”
I smooth a hand through my hair, roll my shoulders back, and head toward the hallway. Each step pulls me farther from the warmth of her, but I don’t look back. I don’t have to. She’s mine.
By the time I reach the foyer, the elevator doors are already open.
Nico nods, stepping aside as the chaos pours in; Elena’s laugh, Riot’s boots on my marble floor, Santo’s shadow in the background with Vasilisa beside him like a star caught in orbit. Luca’s quiet nod. Familiar faces.Family.
I meet them in the entryway with a smile, cool, sharp, like I didn’t just fuck my wife senseless with a dinner party looming.
My hand is still in my pocket.
And Adriana’s panties are right there with me—right where they belong.
Chapter 53
Adriana Scarlet
I’m exhausted.
But elated.
For once, it feels like the Amato’s are settled. The men are talking like the war is behind them, plans streamlined, damage assessed. There’s still a mole somewhere in the mess, but now… information only spreads on a need-to-know basis. Tight. Controlled. Safe.
Santo even cracked a smile at someone other than Vasilisa, which has to mean the world is healing.
And Elena has been wonderful. Easy to talk to. Sharp-witted in a way that makes me like her instantly.
She leans toward me, whispering just as Clara brings out dessert. “He’s been obsessed with you forever, you know. I was maybe fifteen or sixteen when he first met you, and he was the absolute fucking worst to deal with after.”
Angelo grunts. “Elena, keep your thoughts to yourself.”
“Not thoughts if they’re true,” she sing-songs, smirking.
I chuckle, warmth blooming in my chest as I lean my head on Angelo’s shoulder. “I love that you’ve been obsessed with me for years,Mi Esposo.”
His body stills. His hand curls tight around my thigh under the table.
“Careful, Tesoro,” he murmurs with a smirk as his thumb drags along my inner thigh. But there’s something in his voice—something dark and wrecked all at once.
Across the table, Vasilisa says something in Russian, soft and lilting. Santo answers her without missing a beat.
“Yes, Dea, I brought the snack cakes,” he says, sliding one across the table toward her ice cream.
“You promised me two, Santo Dante Amato,” she teases, lips pursed, eyes dancing.
I freeze.
Dante.
The name hits me like a cold gust of wind. My breath catches.
The journal, the one I thought was mine, with torn pages and hidden corners and a love story carved in pain. I read it cover to cover.
Francesca had three children with Massimo.
Marcello.
