Page 151

“The age of old men is over, you say?” He pockets the USB drive without looking at it, his attention fixed solely on me. “Yet here you sit, seeking alliance with perhaps the oldest man of them all.”

“Not seeking,” I correct him, maintaining eye contact. “Offering. There's a distinction.”

“Semantics, Miss Rossi. But I appreciate your...candor.”

He rises with fluid grace that belies his age, moving to a panel in the wall. When he presses his palm against it, the panel slides open to reveal a concealed safe. I watch as he inserts the USB drive into a standalone private computer system.

“You'll forgive my precautions,” he says without turning. “In my experience, gifts from estranged family members often contain surprises.”

“A sensible approach,” I reply, using his distraction to subtly adjust my watch, ensuring the communication function is active. “I'd expect nothing less.”

I remain still, my breathing measured despite the thundering of my heart as Victor works on the computer. Everything hinges on his reaction to what he's about to see. “These records,” he says, his voice deceptively calm, “you obtained them from your grandfather?”

“No,” I admit. “I acquired them after killing Mario. They were extracted from his personal laptop.”

Victor moves back to his seat, lowering himself with the controlled movements of a man restraining violence. “The medical procedures documented here—the harvesting of your eggs, the embryo creation, the implantation into Bianca—you're saying my son was complicit in this?”

“Dmitri was deceived as thoroughly as you were,” I reply, choosing my words carefully. “You needed a male heir, and what better way to guarantee it than by gender selecting the embryo. That is what happened, isn’t it?”

Victor’s lips thin.

“I thought as much,” I smirk. “They played you for a fool, all because of your obsession with a male heir, Victor. A convenient explanation, just enough to keep you from questioning why IVF was necessary.”

Victor's fingers drum once against the arm of his chair, the only outward sign of his agitation.

I steady my breathing, forcing my voice to remain calm despite the tension crackling through the air.

“My eggs. Petrov sperm. Implanted in a woman with no Rossi blood whatsoever.” I lean forward slightly. “The boy whobears your name carries my DNA, not Bianca's. The true Rossi-Petrov bloodline you've always wanted.”

Victor's hand tightens around his empty glass. For a moment, I think he might shatter it in his grip.

“And this...elaborate deception was orchestrated by Mikhail Vasilyev? Your grandfather?”

“With Mario's eager participation,” I confirm. “My grandfather orchestrated my abduction, my...harvesting. Mario provided the false daughter, the perfect puppet to complete their plan.”

Victor rises abruptly and crosses to the fireplace, tension coiled in every step.

“Mikhail was always cunning,” he says at last, his tone distant, like he's sifting through memories better left untouched. “We were young once, allies even, before the families turned on each other.”

“I’ll be honest, Victor. My mother hardly ever mentioned him. I didn’t meet my grandfather until recently—and when I did, everything shifted.”

Victor turns, his expression grim. “She was right to keep you from him. Mikhail has never cared for balance or strategy. Only revenge.”

He moves back to his desk with slow, deliberate steps. The room feels smaller as he settles into the high-backed leather chair, the position elevating him above me in a subtle power play.

“If what you say is true—” he begins.

“It is,” I interrupt, earning a sharp look that would make lesser people flinch.

“If it is true,” he continues, “then verification is simple enough.”

His long fingers hover over the desk phone, pressing a button. When he speaks, the Russian flows from his lips like silk,his tone commanding but calm. I catch only fragments—words for "bring" and "immediately"—my limited Russian, insufficient to grasp the full meaning.

The tension in the air thickens as we wait, neither of us speaking. Victor watches me with unnerving intensity.

The heavy doors swing open a moment later. I glimpse Talon in the hallway, his posture tense as he tries to see past the two burly guards who enter. My heart stutters when I spot a petite figure between the guards—Bianca.

My cousin steps into the room, her hair swept into an elegant chignon paired with an expensive designer dress. She freezes mid-step when she sees me, her eyes widening with recognition before darting to Victor in confusion.