Page 155
Story: All The Darkest Truths
The servant moves efficiently, pouring the clear liquid into crystal glasses. I notice Victor glance at his platinum watch, a flash of irritation crossing his face as he checks the time. His fingers drum once against the polished table.
“Shall we begin?” I suggest reaching for my glass.
“Not yet.” Victor's tone remains pleasant, but there's an edge to it now. He adjusts his cufflinks, an unnecessary gesture that speaks volumes about his growing impatience. Another glance at his watch confirms what I already suspect, someone important is missing.
The silence stretches uncomfortably as servants bring out the first course—delicate plates of caviar nestled on beds of ice. Victor finally takes his seat at the head of the table with a barely suppressed sigh.
“My son,” he announces, “is late. As usual.”
As if summoned by his father's displeasure, the doors swing open once more. Dmitri Petrov strides into the dining hall with unhurried confidence.
The years have hardened Dmitri into something foreign. He's filled out since I last saw him, his once-lanky frame now muscled and imposing beneath his tailored suit. His features are a striking amalgamation of his cousins. His hair is cropped shorter than I remember, accentuating the sharp angles of his jawline. A thin scar bisects his left eyebrow.
Dmitri moves with grace toward his designated spot, watching me with every step. There’s no warmth in his gaze—only calculation, curiosity, and something shadowed I can’t quite name.
He settles between his father and Oscar. The three generations of Petrov men form a visual dynasty across the table. His movements are measured as he unfolds his napkin and places it in his lap, all while keeping that unwavering focus on my face. It’s as though he’s trying to reconcile the woman before him with the girl he once knew—the one who vanished before their arranged marriage could be fulfilled.
“Vesper,” he finally says, my name rolling from his tongue with a hint of his father’s accent.
“Dmitri,” I reply.
His gaze drops to the necklace resting against my throat, his expression flickering briefly before returning to careful neutrality.
Victor clears his throat. “Now that we're all present,” he says with pointed emphasis, “we can begin.” He lifts one elegant hand, signaling the servants who line the walls.
They spring into action. The soft clink of fine china and the gentle ring of crystal glasses fill the room as the first course is placed before each of us.
I lift my fork, feeling Victor's gaze pressing against my skin as I sample the delicate blini topped with glistening black caviar.
No one speaks. The only sounds are the gentle scrape of silver against china and the occasional crystalline note of a glass being set down. Talon's knee presses against mine beneath the table. A silent reminder that I'm not alone.
Z sets his glass down with a soft clink. The servants reappear as if summoned by the sound, whisking away our barely-touched appetizer plates with efficiency.
Attendants emerge from hidden doors, bearing silver platters that steam in the chandelier light. They place a portion of what appears to be venison, surrounded by roasted root vegetables, before each of us.
Victor lifts his knife and fork, the silver catching the light.
“I find myself in a rather unexpected position,” Victor says, voice calm but laced with weight. “This morning, I executed a woman who deceived me for years...only to discover the rightful Rossi heir seated at my table.”
“It seems fate has corrected its own mistake. The alliance that should have been formed years ago can now proceed as originally intended.”
I feel Z tense across the table.
“A union between our families,” Victor continues, dabbing his lips with his napkin, “through the marriage of my son Dmitri to Vesper Rossi.”
The words hang in the air. Dmitri's expression remains unreadable, though his eyes never leave my face.
“Now that his first wife is no longer with us,” Victor adds with chilling casualness, “there are no obstacles to this arrangement. The paperwork is already being prepared.”
Z’s fork clatters against his plate, the sharp sound slicing through the silence of the dining hall and pulling every gaze to him. His face is tight, unreadable, a muscle twitching in his jaw as he calmly picks the utensil back up. The air around him hums with barely restrained tension.
“Are you unwell, nephew?” Victor inquires.
“Fine, Uncle,” Z responds, his voice strained. “The meat is...exceptional.”
Victor chuckles humorlessly. “There is, however, one matter we should address before proceeding further.” He sets down his knife and fork, folding his hands on the table's edge. “Your...relationships with my nephews and your security guard.Do not deny it, Miss Rossi,” Victor continues, swirling the vodka in his glass. “Sergei was quite thorough in his report of your activities aboard my jet. Quite thorough indeed.”
Dmitri's head snaps toward his father, then back to me, his jaw clenching visibly.
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