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I follow him across the mosaic floor, conscious of Talon's footsteps behind us. Victor leads us down a hallway lined with portraits. Generations of history seem to press down on me as we walk further into the palace, the opulence growing more intimate yet no less impressive.

Victor stops before a set of double doors inlaid with intricate marquetry depicting the Russian imperial eagle. He places his palm against a nearly invisible scanner camouflaged within the wooden design.

“Security,” he explains, catching my glance. “Some traditions evolve with the times.”

The doors swing open silently, revealing a study that could have belonged to a czar. Rich mahogany paneling lines the walls, interspersed with shelves of leather-bound books and artifacts that belong in museums. A massive desk dominates one end of the room, its surface bare except for a single laptop and a crystal decanter of amber liquid.

“Please,” Victor gestures to a seating area near a fireplace where flames leap behind a protective glass screen. “Make yourself comfortable."

I choose an armchair positioned to keep both Victor and the door in my line of sight, a precaution that doesn't escape his notice. His lips curve slightly as he takes the seat opposite me, unbuttoning his suit jacket.

“Mr. St. James,” Victor addresses Talon without looking at him, “I'm sure you understand that what Miss Rossi and I must discuss requires privacy.”

Talon begins to balk at the idea, allowing to let his control over his role crack slightly.

“I’ll be fine,” I assure him.

Talon's jaw tightens, but he offers a curt nod, professional despite his obvious reluctance. "I'll be right outside the door if you need me, Miss Rossi."

The heavy doors close behind him with a soft click that sounds unnervingly final. Victor studies me for a long moment before he reaches for the crystal decanter.

“Vodka?” he offers, pouring himself a measure. “Distilled from wheat grown on Petrov land, using water from our private spring. A family tradition for generations.”

“Please,” I reply, keeping my expression calm despite the nervous energy coursing through my veins.

Victor pours a second glass before he hands it to me. Our fingers brush momentarily, his skin cool and dry against mine. I resist the urge to wipe my hand on my skirt afterward.

“To new alliances,” he proposes, raising his glass.

I mirror his gesture. “To truth.”

The vodka burns a clean path down my throat, warming my chest even as my mind remains ice-cold with focus.

“You've made quite extraordinary claims, Miss Rossi,” Victor begins, setting his empty glass aside. “Claims that, if true, would suggest a level of deception I find...personally offensive.”

“Not claims. Facts.”

Victor's expression remains impassive. He leans forward slightly, the gesture somehow more threatening than if he'd slammed his fist on the table.

“Facts require evidence, Miss Rossi. The files you sent were...intriguing, but hardly conclusive.”

I reach into my handbag, withdrawing a small USB drive. It feels disproportionate to its size—this tiny device carries enough information to topple empires—or at least one man.

“Everything is here,” I say, placing it on the polished surface of the side table between us. “Medical records from the fertility clinic. DNA profiles. Financial transactions linking Mario toboth the clinic and my grandfather.” I pause, letting my next words land with precision. “And video footage of my time in captivity.”

Victor makes no move to take the drive. “You understand my skepticism, no? The idea that my son—that I—could be so thoroughly deceived...”

"Pride makes for effective blindfolds," I reply, watching his jaw tighten at my audacity. “Especially when the deception aligns with what you want to believe.”

“You have your father’s directness.”

“Thank you for the comparison. Though I hope to avoid his fate.”

Victor's expression shifts, just a micro movement of muscles around his eyes, but it's enough to confirm he knows exactly what happened to my father.

“Unfortunate business,” he declares, finally reaching for the USB drive. He turns it over in his long fingers, examining it like a jeweler appraising a gem. “Your father was a man of honor. At least in his dealings with me, but these things happen. Health is a fickle thing.”

“That it is, but the age of old men running my family is long gone.”