Page 6 of Legacy
My lungs forget their rhythm, my chest frozen under the weight of his gaze.
He stands, towering over me in a way that should make me feel small, but doesn’t. Not exactly. He tilts my chin up with a single finger, andI have no choice but to meet his gaze—those impossible eyes dragging every secret I’ve ever had to the surface.
“So, Scarlet,” he says, voice velvet-wrapped and edged with something wicked, “what brings you here tonight?”
I open my mouth to answer.
“Let’s go, Angelo,” a voice cuts in, sharp and impatient.
Angelo.
My stomach lurches. Something about that name slams into my chest like a warning bell.
He doesn’t react, just sighs, slow and annoyed; like he’s not finished with me yet. And maybe he isn’t.
Angelo’s hand drops from my face, and I feel the loss immediately, like cold air rushing in where warmth used to be. He exhales, sharp and irritated, before turning toward the newcomer.
The man who interrupts is tall and severe, with buzzed hair and slate-gray eyes that feel like they’ve seen too much. There’s a similar power between them—commanding, unreadable—but where Angelo radiates a kind of dangerous charm, this one is colder, more precise. Calculated.
“I’m kind of busy, Santo,” Angelo mutters, his voice edged withannoyance.
Santo.
The name hits with the same gravity as Angelo’s.
Santo’s gaze slides from Angelo to me. His eyebrows lift, just slightly, before settling into a look of faint disbelief.
“Seriously?” he says flatly, eyes narrowing at Angelo.
There’s a shift in Angelo’s stance; he turns toward Santo, body angled like a shield. “What?” he bites back.
The tension crackles between them, silent but heavy. Santo leans in, muttering something low and sharp under his breath. I could strain to listen, but honestly? I don’t want to know.
I slip away quietly, weaving back through the crowd and slipping out onto the balcony once again. The air is cool and crisp, brushing against my skin like silk, and I breathe it in greedily.
Out here, the stars feel closer, less distant, more alive. I kick off my heels and sigh with relief as my bare feet press against the smooth stone floor.
For a moment, everything is still.
Then the glass door slides open behind me.
I freeze, certain it’s Luciano again, ready to scold me like I’m five. But then I catch the scent—warm and dark and a little dangerous.
Spiced tobacco and something sweeter. Masculine.
Angelo.
I don’t turn around. I can feel him, his chest close behind me, radiating heat. His hands settle lightly on the balcony rail, bracketing mine. His breath grazes my ear, low and rich and unhurried.
“You smell sweet,” he murmurs, inhaling like he’s memorizing me. “Like cherries.”
Shivers erupt down my spine.
I turn to face him and immediately regret it, because he’srightthere. His face is all sharp edges and midnight temptation, and under the moonlight, his gray eyes look almost silver. Softer, but no less intense.
His hand reaches up, brushing a loose curl behind my ear with such gentleness it makes my chest tighten. Then his finger hooks beneath my chin, lifting until I’m looking straight at him again.
“Scarlet,” he breathes, like he’s tasting the name. Like it belongs to him now.
