Page 73 of Legacy
He put a photo in there?
Why? To remind me who owns me now?
I reach for it, but speedy Valentina snatches it first.
Her eyes widen.
“Adri….he’s beautiful,” she breathes out, tucking her phone away for once.
“Right?! You’re going to make the most gorgeous grand babies for me!”
My mother says it so brightly the sharpness stills me.
No.
No babies.
Angelo Amato won’tevertouch me.
“Everything’s packed, señora,” one of my brother’s men announces from the living room.
My mother claps her hands. “Perfect! Then let’s go. I’m starving. We’ll stop by that Cuban place, Valentina.”
Valentina’s already at my side, holding out the photo.
She doesn’t say anything, just gives it to me, and I feel the air shift the second my fingers graze the edge.
“You coming with us?” my mother asks, plucking the old prom dress off the bed like it suddenly holds meaning again.
“No,” I murmur. “I’ll stay here a bit longer.”
She shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
They leave without fanfare; heels clicking, laughter echoing down the hall. Just like that, the apartment goes quiet. Ghosted by my own blood.
I sit on the edge of the bed, thumbing the black and white photo.
It’s not posed.
Angelo’s seated in a chair, one hand curled near his mouth, like he was caught mid-thought. The sleeves of his white dress shirt are rolled to the elbows, tattoos lining his arms, the top button undone. His watch glints under low light. He looks tired. Dangerous…Beautiful.
Like a man used to being obeyed.
His eyes aren’t looking at the camera. They’re looking just past it, like something offscreen has his attention. Or maybe someone.
My heart clenches.
My phone buzzes.
Angelo.
‘Your flight leaves at 11:15 AM. Plane will wait if needed. The car will be outside at 9:45.’
No apology. No flourish. Just cold, calculated logistics.
I blink at the message, then back at the photo in my hand.
Suddenly the walls of this place feel too close. Too empty. Too final.
