Page 340 of Legacy
The cold hits first. Then the scent—salt, rust, and damp wood, layered with the faint bite of gun oil.
Inside, crates are stacked high, shadows cutting through the weak floodlights that flicker overhead. The hush is deep, like the place is holding its breath, waiting to swallow me whole.
My steps echo as I walk down the central aisle, eyes sweeping the catwalks above, the blind spots between crates, the glint of steel between shadows.
They’re here.
I feel them before I see them.
Figures shift, barely visible, rifles tucked close. Four in the rafters, using the crates as cover. Eight more flanking a cleared space in the center. Four near the side exits.
Sixteen men.
None of them matter once I see her.
My wife.
Tied to a chair under a hanging bulb that flickers, swaying gently like a pendulum. Her hair is tangled around her face, the strands glinting like amber in the harsh light. A bruise blooms on her cheek—fresh, dark, cruel.
That’s not from Gio.
My pulse hammers, rattling in my bones, but I force my feet to keep moving.
Because she’s alive.
As long as she’s breathing, this isn’t over.
Beside her stands Karekin.
I recognize him instantly from intel reports—Arsen Sarkisian’s top enforcer. Fast with a knife, lethal with his hands. And if he’s the one who touched her, I’m going to make sure he dies slow.
His eyes catch mine. He grins, teeth flashing under the flicker of the bulb.
“Angelo Amato,” he purrs, arms open like a saint welcoming a sinner. “Finally.”
My jaw clenches.
“You wanted me,” I say, voice cold steel. “You have me. Let her go.”
Karekin laughs softly, tapping his fingers against the back of Adriana’s chair. She flinches, just barely, but it’s enough to rip something inside me.
“Plans change,” he says, his accent curling around the words.
“That’s not what the message said.”
He shrugs, eyes glinting. “That message was from Arsen. But this—” He spreads his arms, gesturing around the warehouse, the shadows,the rifles trained on me from the catwalks, the men waiting like wolves in the dark. “This is me.”
His hand dips into his jacket, and every nerve in my body locks.
I’m ready to lunge, to rip his throat out—
But instead of drawing the gun, he holds it out to her.
Calm.
Casual.
Deadly.
