Page 322 of Legacy
She blinks. “What?”
“Open your own firm.”
She starts to shake her head, but I don’t let her get the words out.
“Yes. Open your own. Like your lawyer.”
Her brows knit together. “Mylawyer?”
“Vanessa Reyes,” I say, smirking. “She works exclusively for men like me.”
Her mouth opens, then closes.
“You researched my lawyer?” she asks, laughing softly.
“Of course I did. She was fucking up my plans.”
She exhales, that reluctant smile blooming again.
“Maybeyou’re right.”
“Of course I’m right, I’m Angelo Amato.”
She shoves me playfully away and shakes her head.
“Okay Don Amato… feed me before we feed anymore of your ego.”
***
The bedroom’s quiet, just the low hum of the AC and the occasional honk from the street below.
I lean back against the headboard, one arm behind my head, the other holding my phone. The text to Maksim is short:
‘Next move tomorrow. Don’t fuck it up.’
His read receipt comes in seconds later, followed by a thumbs-up emoji and a middle finger.
Typical.
I toss the phone onto the nightstand and let my head fall back, exhaling slow. It’s the first time in weeks the house feels like a house. Not a battlefield. Not a trap.
Just quiet. Safe.
She’s humming softly behind the bathroom door. Water runs. Then shuts off. A cabinet closes.
And then the door opens.
I look up—and the air leaves my lungs.
Satin.
RedSatin.
Thin straps. Bare legs. That sleepy softness in her eyes, like she didn’t even try to be this gorgeous but still is. Her hair’s damp at the ends, twisted and clipped up loosely, a few strands falling around her face.
My chest pulls tight.
Dio, she’s mine.
