Page 108

“I’ll stand, thanks.” I keep my voice even, refusing to give in to even the smallest of his power plays. “I didn’t come here for pleasantries.”

The Collector tilts his head, studying me through the smooth, vacant eyeholes, silent and calculating.

“Still defiant,” he muses, his tone almost appreciative. “After everything you've lost, everything you stand to lose, you refuse to bend.” He steps around the desk, his movements fluid and controlled. “I've always admired that about you, Vesper.”

I force myself to hold my ground as he approaches, though every instinct screams at me to retreat. The subdermal tracker in my arm suddenly feels heavy, a reminder of what's at stake. Stall. Buy time. Give the twins a chance to find Luca.

“You said this was a transaction,” I say coolly. “I'm here. Where's my brother?”

He stops just beyond arm's reach, close enough that I can smell his cologne. "All in good time. We have much to discuss, you and I.”

“I have nothing to discuss with you,” I say, my voice sharper than I intend. “I came alone, as directed. It's time for you to hold up your end of the deal. Give me my brother.”

The Collector’s voice slices through the air, laced with amusement so cold it raises the hairs on my arms. He turns away, gloved fingers drifting across the edge of my father’s desk like he owns the place.

“So impatient,” he murmurs, tone patronizing. “Do you know how many deals were made in this very study, Vesper? Hundreds—maybe thousands. Your father was quite the negotiator.”

He moves to the painting behind the desk—a Caravaggio, if I remember right—and traces the ornate frame with a kind of reverence that makes my stomach turn.

“Every transaction that built the Rossi empire happened right here,” he continues, voice coated in unsettling nostalgia. “Deals that secured your family’s power, your wealth, your reputation. Always in the Rossi’s favor.”

My patience thins with every word. “I didn’t come here for a history lesson.”

“No?” He tilts his head. “But history is exactly why we’re here. Your family’s. Yours.Ours.”

I dig my nails into my palms, using the sharp sting to stay focused. Every second he wastes is another chance for Oz and Z to move through the tunnels. Keep him talking. Keep him distracted.

“Then let’s talk about that history,” I say, tone steady. “Starting with why you’re so obsessed with my family.”

He exhales, something close to a sigh, though it carries a weight that feels far too pleased. “Obsessed is such an adolescent word. I prefer...invested. Deeply invested.”

“Is that why you took me? Why you went after my brother?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, the room seems to contract around his silence, heavy and crawling. When he finally speaks, it’s with a voice like velvet stretched too tight over something sharp.

“Because you were always the missing piece. And your brother...was leverage.”

“I took you because I saw an opportunity to topple the Rossi empire. To right the wrongs done unto my family.”

He turns back to face me, one gloved hand resting on my father's desk as if he has every right to touch it.

“Your grandfather was a thief, Vesper. Did you know that? Not the kind that robs homes in the dead of night, oh no, ElioRossi was far more sophisticated.” His voice drips with venom. “He stole through contracts and handshakes, through promises made and conveniently forgotten.”

I keep my expression neutral, though my mind races. This revelation feels significant, a piece of the puzzle I've been missing. My paternal grandfather had been dead for years when I was born. My parents rarely talked about him at all. My mother, especially.

“Have you ever heard your father speak of the Vasilyev family?” The Collector asks, his head tilting slightly as he studies my reaction.

I search my memory, trying to recall if I'd ever heard the name mentioned in hushed conversations or angry arguments. “No,” I answer honestly. “He never mentioned them.”

“Of course he didn't. Why would he burden his precious daughter with the knowledge of those his family destroyed?” He moves toward the liquor cabinet, pouring himself a measure of amber liquid without offering me any.

“Dima Petrov was cut from the same cloth as your grandfather,” he continues, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “A man who took and took until there was nothing left for anyone else. He slaughtered his way to the throne of Russia, leaving corpses and broken families in his wake.”

He takes a sip. “The Petrovs and the Rossis, two dynasties built on the bones of better men. Your father and Victor Petrov merely continued what their fathers started.”

Something in his tone shifts, a personal hatred seeping through the careful control he usually keeps in place.

“The Vasilyev family ruled Russia for generations,” The Collector says, his voice taking on a haunting, reverent quality. “We were the true kings, not through divine right, but through blood, sacrifice, and cunning. We built an empire that stretched from St. Petersburg to Vladivostok.”