Page 42 of All The Darkest Truths (Second Sons Duet #2)

LUCA

The guards haven't come for me in days. Their absence isn't mercy, it's just another form of torture.

I trace the familiar crack in the wall beside my bed, following its jagged path with my fingertip.

The sedatives they pump into me run on a timed schedule.

Just as I start to feel the fog lifting, just as my thoughts begin to coalesce into something resembling clarity, another dose arrives through the automated system in the wall.

A hiss, a cloud of mist, and I'm dragged back under.

My sense of time is fragmented at best. Days blur together, marked only by the cycles of drugged sleep and hazy wakefulness.

But something's changed. The guards' focus has shifted to the cell next door, their heavy boots passing my door without stopping, their voices muffled as they cluster around my neighbor instead.

I press my ear against the vent, straining to hear any sign of life from the adjacent cell. Nothing but silence. Not even breathing.

"Hey," I rasp, my voice rough from disuse. "You still alive over there?"

The silence stretches, broken only by the soft hum of the ventilation system. Whoever claimed to know my sister hasn't spoken in days. Maybe they moved him. Maybe he died. Maybe he was never real at all. Just another hallucination courtesy of the drugs.

A distant metallic clang echoes down the corridor. My body tenses, the familiar sound triggering years of ingrained responses. The security door at the end of the hall. Two sets of footsteps. One heavy, deliberate, the other lighter, almost hesitant. Not the usual guard rotation.

I drag myself to the corner of my bed furthest from the door, back pressed against the wall. The strategic position offers the illusion of distance, though in this eight-by-ten cell, nowhere is truly safe.

The footsteps slow as they approach. Voices come from just outside my door. A man and a woman, their tones hushed but urgent.

“This is a mistake," the woman says, her voice carrying a clinical detachment that reminds me of the white-coats who draw my blood.

“Orders from above,” the man responds gruffly. “Just do your job."

A key card beeps, followed by the pneumatic hiss of my cell door sliding open. I squint against the sudden influx of hallway light, momentarily blinded after days in the dim illumination.

A woman in a lab coat enters first, clutching a tablet to her chest like a shield. Behind her looms one of the regular guards, Denny, I think they call him. Built like a concrete wall with about the same level of compassion.

“Subject appears coherent,” the woman notes, clinically assessing me without really seeing me. “Surprising, given the dosage levels.”

“Dosage levels aren't the problem,” I mutter. “Rossi blood burns through your poison faster than you expect.”

Something flickers across the woman's face, irritation, perhaps. She turns to Denny with a curt nod. “Hold him down."

Before I can react, the guard lunges forward, meaty hands clamping around my biceps. I struggle against his grip, but months of captivity have withered my strength. My resistance is pathetic, barely enough to make him adjust his stance.

The woman approaches, pulling a syringe from her lab coat pocket. The liquid inside catches the light, clear with a faint amber tinge. Not the usual sedative.

“What is that?" I demand, panic rising in my throat. “What are you giving me?”

She ignores my question, tapping the syringe and expelling air bubbles with the detachment. With clinical precision, she plunges the needle into my neck.

Heat floods my veins. Unlike the sedatives that dull everything, this hits fast and hard. My muscles go rigid, then melt. The room tilts sideways.

“Secure him to his bed," she instructs Denny, her voice distant through the rushing in my ears. “We need to monitor his movements.”

Rough hands shove me onto the narrow mattress, the frame creaking beneath the force.

Cold metal clamps around my wrists and ankles as restraints click into place.

My heartbeat thunders in my ears, too fast and too loud.

Something's wrong. This isn't like the usual sedatives.

My thoughts aren't clouding. they’re racing, frantic, and sharp.

“What did you do to me?” I gasp, arching against the restraints.

The woman makes a note on her tablet. “Preparation for transport.”

Transport. The word cuts through my panic like a knife. They're moving me. After months in this cell, they're taking me somewhere else. My mind races with possibilities, none of them good.

“Where?” I demand.

“That's not your concern." She checks my pulse, fingers cold and impersonal against my neck. “The compound will keep you conscious but compliant. You'll be able to walk, but unable to resist commands."

Denny smirks, adjusting the restraints tighter. “Boss wants you presentable. Got a family reunion planned."

Family reunion. The words echo in my fractured mind. Vesper. They're using me to get to Vesper.

“No," I growl, straining against the metal cuffs until I feel skin tear. “Leave her alone!"

The woman steps back, nodding to Denny. “Ten minutes until full effect. I'll prepare the transport team."

As the door hisses shut behind her, Denny leans over me, his breath hot with the stench of cigarettes and coffee. “I wonder if your sister is still as sweet as she was when she was here.”

My stomach rolls. Vesper was here? Oh god. Had they…had they done things to her as they had me? The thought makes me retch.

“She’s a pretty little thing. Especially when she is sedated. The things I could do to that pretty body of hers without her even knowing.”

Rage flashes through me, temporarily overriding the chemicals in my veins. “You don't talk about her," I snarl, lunging against the restraints with enough force that Denny actually steps back.

“Easy, tiger." He chuckles, clearly enjoying my helplessness. “Save your energy. You'll need it for the show tonight.”

The drug continues its relentless assault on my system, spreading numbness from my extremities inward while keeping my mind painfully alert. My thoughts race in frantic circles as I process what little information I have. Transport. Family reunion. Vesper.

I'd convinced myself she was safe. Far away from this nightmare.

I imagined her in Russia, living in some palatial estate as Dmitri Petrov's wife.

I hated the thought of my sister being sold off like property to cement our father's alliance with the Russians, but at least she'd be protected.

The room is spinning as realization dawns.

“My sister...she's not with the Petrovs? "

Denny's eyebrows lift, genuine surprise crossing his features before amusement replaces it. “You really don't know, do you? Your sister's been quite busy since your daddy tried to marry her off. She served her purpose for The Collector, and then he sold her like the fucking bitch she is.”

A murderous rage blossoms in my chest, momentarily overpowering the chemical in my veins. I strain against the restraints with such force that the bed frame creaks.

“You're lying," I spit, even as dread pools in my stomach. “My father would have burned this place to the ground if she was taken."

Denny's smile is ugly, revealing tobacco-stained teeth. “Your father's dead, kid. Has been for a while."

The words hit me like a physical blow. My father is dead? For all his cruelty, all his sins, I'd always believed him invincible. The immovable center of our twisted family universe.

“You're full of shit," I manage, though uncertainty creeps in. How long have I been here? What's happened in the world outside these walls?

“Believe what you want." Denny shrugs, checking his watch. "But your sister's coming for you tonight, walking right into the trap set for her. The Collector always gets what he wants. She’s the key to his future.”

My mind races despite the drug's increasing hold. What could Vesper have that's worth all this?

“What does he want from her?”" I growl, fighting to keep my thoughts coherent as the edges of my vision blur.

Denny's smile widens. “Above my pay grade, but I hear it's special. One of a kind. Something only your sister can provide him. Now, rest up. You’ll be seeing her real soon.”