Page 257 of Legacy
The doors open and she steps in, radiant and glowing like something out of a dream.
Vasilisa.
Looking like spring as usual, fresh and soft and utterly untouchable.
But it’s the way Santo watches her that makes my breath catch. He looks at her with clarity.
That kind of devotion could shift the entire evening. She’s definitely our way in.
He steps behind her, tall and cut from shadow. His presence is sharp, nearly silent, but his eyes never leave her. Not when she walks. Not when she smiles. Not even when she speaks.
“Adriana!” Vasilisa beams as soon as she sees me, her voice bright and lilting with excitement. Her arms open as she rushes forward, that dress floating behind her like a wisp of cloud.
I barely have time to brace myself before she throws her arms around me in a soft, fragrant hug.
“It’s been too long,” she says, pulling back just enough to squeeze my arms. “You look beautiful. I can never get over how gorgeous you are.”
I smile despite myself. “It’s as if you haven’t looked in a mirror.”
She laughs, eyes shining, and I catch Angelo watching us with quiet amusement—and something darker, softer, that’s only for me. Santo stands a few paces behind, a statue in a pressed black suit, his eyes flickering briefly over me in acknowledgment before returning to her.
Angelo moves toward him.
“Little brother,” he says simply.
“Angelo” Santo replies, his voice flat.
The tension hits like a shift in barometric pressure, too heavy, too thick to pretend it’s not there.
I step closer, just enough to catch the low words passed between them.
“I’m not here for you,” Santo says, voice cold, eyes still on Vasilisa. “I’m here for my wife. And what she wants…” He pauses, jaw tight. “She gets.”
Angelo’s mouth tics at the corner, something restrained flashing in his eyes, but he doesn’t answer. Not to that.
“Unless you’re finally ready to tell me the truth about you and Korsakov, don’t waste my time, Angelo,” he says quietly, his tone devoid of heat but no less cutting.
I glance at Vasilisa, who’s blissfully unaware—or pretending to be. She loops her arm through mine and grins.
“Santo, you’re killing the evening,” she says lightly, cheeks flushed.
She leans in slightly, whispering like we’re co-conspirators. “We don’t see each other enough. I was sure to tell him tonight is aboutusnot him.”
“Come on,” I say, gently leading her toward the dining room. “Let’s sit. You can tell me all about married life.”
She hums, smiling to herself. “Finally swapping secrets.”
Behind us, I feel the men follow. But I don’t turn.
Not yet.
Because we’re walking into a strategy. A quiet battlefield dressed in crystal and candlelight.
And I need to be kind to the cloud wrapped around my arm.
The dining table is set, the soft glow of the chandelier casting everything in a warm light. Clara did beautifully. Even the silver catches the flicker of the candles like it knows tonight is something worth holding your breath for.
I sit across from Vasilisa, who’s talking animatedly about her latest art project. Her voice is light, hands moving as if painting the air between us.
