Page 109

His fingers tighten around the glass. “Until Dima Petrov decided he wanted it all.”

I remain silent, watching as he paces before the fireplace, his shadow dancing grotesquely across the study walls.

“He came in the night," The Collector continues. “With men loyal only to money, not honor. The Vasilyev compound burned. Women, children, it didn't matter to him. Dima wanted no challengers to his new throne.”

The realization hits me like a physical blow. “You're a Vasilyev,” I breathe.

His eyes lock onto mine through the smooth covering, burning with an intensity that makes me step back without meaning to. He lifts the disguise with deliberate slowness.

The face beneath is handsome in a harsh, unforgiving way—high cheekbones marred by scars, a strong jaw, and bright green eyes. Eyes like my mother’s...like mine.

“Mikhail Vasilyev,” he introduces himself with a slight incline of his head, a mockery of gentlemanly courtesy. “Your mother never mentioned me, did she?”

The room tilts beneath my feet as pieces lock into place. “That's not possible,” I gasp, though the evidence stands before me, unmistakable in the curve of his cheekbone, the set of his jaw. Features I've seen in photographs of my mother's youth. Features I see in Luca.

“I'm your grandfather,” he says. "Your mother was Elizaveta Vasilyev before she became a Rossi."

My legs threaten to give way beneath me. I grip the back of the leather chair for support, my mind reeling with implications. “You're lying.”

“Am I? Look at us, Vesper. The resemblance is undeniable.”

I stare at him, seeing the ghost of my mother in his features, the echo of Luca, even pieces of myself.

“After the Petrov massacre,” he continues, moving toward my father's desk with the confidence of someone reclaiming what was always theirs, “a handful of us survived. We scattered, went underground, and bided our time. But Dima was relentless in his hunt.”

The Collector—Mikhail—runs his fingers over the polished wood of my father's desk. “In order to get my revenge for what the Petrovs did to my family, I made a deal with Elio Rossi for the most precious thing in my life.”

“My mother,” I gasp.

“My daughter,” he corrects, something possessive coiling through his tone. “I traded her to Elio Rossi for protection from the Petrovs—for the promise that one day, we would destroy them together.” His mouth twists, the bitterness in his voice unmistakable. “Your grandfather took my daughter and my revenge in the same breath.”

My grip tightens on the back of the chair as the weight of his words sinks in. My mother—always cold, always distant—is suddenly cast in a different light. Not just distant. Dispossessed. An unwilling bride bartered away as part of a political alliance. The pieces of my family history shift, falling into a more disturbing pattern.

“She hated him,” I whisper, memories rising unbidden—her tight smiles, the way she flinched from my father’s touch. “She always hated him.”

“As she should have,” Mikhail says with a grim nod. “Antonio Rossi was no better than the Petrovs. Power-hungry. Ruthless. He married my daughter for her bloodline, nothing more.”

“If you were really her father,” I snap, “why didn’t you help her? Why leave her in a marriage she despised?”

Mikhail’s face hardens. “Help her?” he repeats, voice turning cold. “I tried. When I learned the kind of man Antonio truly was, I sent men to extract her. She refused to leave.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Believe what you will. Elizaveta chose to stay for you and your brother. She knew what Antonio would do if she tried to take his children.” His expression hardens. “By then, I had lost everything. My family, my power...even my own daughter chose the Rossi name over her birthright.”

The revelation hits me like a physical blow. “So my mother is the reason you became The Collector? You turned your rage against her choice into...this?”

“Your mother was merely the catalyst, Vesper. The Rossis betrayed me, just as the Petrovs destroyed my family. I watched as these families—these dynasties built on blood and betrayal—continued to thrive while everything I loved turned to ash.” “My bitterness became purpose. I decided I would dismantle them all, piece by precious piece. The children of the families who destroyed mine would become my greatest commodity.”

I feel sick as understanding dawns. “You take their children...to sell them.”

“Not just any children.” His smile is chilling. “The sons and daughters they cherish. I take what these families value most—their legacy, their future. And I profit from their desperation.”

“That's monstrous.” The word feels inadequate for the horror before me.

“Monstrous?” Mikhail approaches me slowly. “What's monstrous is what these families did to mine. What your father's family did to your mother. What the Petrovs did to generations of Vasilyevs.” He stops just inches from me. “I simply turned their own tactics against them.”

“And Luca and I? What was your plan for us?”