Page 107

“Remember, we stick to the plan. I drop you at the entrance, then circle around to the rendezvous point. Z and Oz should already be in position in the tunnels.”

“I know,” I say, trying to keep the tremor from my voice. “We've been over this a dozen times.”

“And we'll go over it a dozen more if that's what it takes to keep you safe," he says, a muscle twitching in his jaw. “The moment anything feels wrong…”

“I activate the tracker,” I finish for him. “I know the plan, Talon.”

The gravel crunches beneath our tires as we round the final curve of the driveway. The mansion's façade comes into full view. Security lights automatically illuminate the manicured grounds.

My stomach knots as memories flood back—my father's study door always closed, the hushed conversations that stopped when I entered a room, the parade of men in expensive suits with cold eyes who would pat my head before disappearing behind those heavy oak doors.

“They're watching us.” He nods subtly toward a security camera mounted discreetly among the climbing roses. “Have been since we passed through the gates.”

I straighten my spine, smoothing my expression into controlled indifference. “Good. Let them see exactly what they expect—a desperate sister coming to save her brother.”

The car slows as we approach the circular driveway in front of the main entrance. Massive stone steps lead up to double doors flanked by Doric columns. Two men stand at attention on either side of the entrance, their suits unable to hide the bulges of the weapons beneath.

“This is where we part,” Talon says, bringing the car to a stop. His hand finds mine, squeezing once, hard. “Remember, princess, no matter what happens in there, we're coming for you.”

I turn to him, memorizing the lines of his face. “I know.” I lean forward to press my lips against his. The kiss is brief but fierce, a promise and a goodbye wrapped into one. “Stay safe.”

“You too.” His voice cracks slightly as I pull away, his fingers reluctant to release mine.

I step from the car into the cool evening air. The crunch of gravel under my boots echoes in the silence as I approach the stairs. Behind me, Talon's car idles for a moment longer than necessary before pulling away, the sound of the engine fading as he circles around to the eastern edge of the property.

One of the guards steps forward as I reach the bottom of the stairs. “Identification,” he demands, his voice flat, emotionless.

“Vesper Rossi,” I reply, my tone equally cold. “I believe I'm expected.”

He nods once, stepping aside to allow me passage.

“We've been instructed to search you before entry,” the second guard states, moving forward with mechanical precision.

I raise my arms without protest, forcing myself to remain still as his hands pat down my body with impersonal efficiency. The search is thorough but not invasive. he real inspection, I suspect, will come later when I'm face to face with The Collector.

“She's clean,” the guard announces, stepping back.

The massive doors swing open silently, revealing the marble foyer. Crystal chandeliers cast prismatic light across gleaming floors.

“This way, Miss Rossi.” A new figure emerges—tall, lean, with the careful movements of someone trained in violence. “The Collector is waiting for you.”

I follow without comment. The house is eerily quiet, our footsteps echoing against marble and hardwood. Paintings of Rossi patriarchs line the hallway.

We turn down a corridor I know all too well, heading toward my father's study. The mahogany door looms before us, the intricate carvings along its frame depicting scenes from Dante's Inferno, my father's twisted idea of humor. My escort pauses, knocking twice before pushing it open.

“Miss Rossi has arrived,” he announces, stepping aside to allow me entry.

I cross the threshold, the familiar scent of leather-bound books and aged whiskey washing over me. The study remains unchanged—walls lined with first editions behind glass, the massive desk dominating the center of the room, leather chairs positioned strategically for intimidation rather than comfort.

But it's the figure standing by the window that draws my attention. He is tall, impeccably dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, his back to me.

“Vesper,” he says, his voice sending ice through my veins. “How kind of you to accept my invitation.”

The Collector turns slowly, his face hidden behind the same expressionless covering from the video. I force myself to breathe, to appear calm, even as primal fear claws at my insides. This man had stripped away everything I was—reduced me to flesh, bone, and terror—and now he sits at my father’s desk. The same chair my uncle died in not all that long ago.

“Where’s my brother?” I demand.

He smiles. “Direct to the point.” He gestures to the chair across from him. “Sit.”