Page 47 of All The Darkest Truths (Second Sons Duet #2)

“Of course he didn't. Why would he burden his precious daughter with the knowledge of those his family destroyed?” He moves toward the liquor cabinet, pouring himself a measure of amber liquid without offering me any.

“Dima Petrov was cut from the same cloth as your grandfather,” he continues, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “A man who took and took until there was nothing left for anyone else. He slaughtered his way to the throne of Russia, leaving corpses and broken families in his wake.”

He takes a sip. “The Petrovs and the Rossis, two dynasties built on the bones of better men. Your father and Victor Petrov merely continued what their fathers started.”

Something in his tone shifts, a personal hatred seeping through the careful control he usually keeps in place.

“The Vasilyev family ruled Russia for generations,” The Collector says, his voice taking on a haunting, reverent quality. “We were the true kings, not through divine right, but through blood, sacrifice, and cunning. We built an empire that stretched from St. Petersburg to Vladivostok.”

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?”

Mikhail regards me with something almost like pride. “You were special cases. My own blood. I had different plans for you.”

“Which were?”

“To use you as I was used.” He shrugs, as if discussing a business transaction rather than human lives. “Your father's empire has grown too powerful. Victor Petrov's influence is too vast. I needed leverage against both.”

He steps closer, and it takes everything in me not to recoil. “You were to be my crowning achievement, the granddaughter who would dismantle both dynasties from within.”

“And Luca?”

“Insurance.”

“But you sold me? If you needed me that badly, why did you let me go?”

A cruel smile twists Mikhail's lips. “I never truly let you go, Vesper. I merely...repositioned you.”

“What does that mean?” I demand, my stomach clenching.

“What better vengeance than watching my own granddaughter dismantle the Petrovs from the inside out? It’s revenge served exactly how I wanted it. All it took was the right buyer…or should I say, buyers.”

A chill runs through me. “You knew who was buying me.”

“Of course I did.” His smile is cold, calculated. “The Second Sons. A collection of cast-offs and spares, building their own power base in opposition to Victor Petrov. The four individuals who tried to keep you from your destiny.”

“You planned this,” I gasp. The realization dawning with horrifying clarity. “You arranged my sale to the Second Sons knowing they'd protect me from Victor.”

“I arranged everything,” Mikhail confirms, setting his glass down on my father's desk with deliberate precision.

“But why?” I demand, struggling to keep my voice steady as rage and horror war within me. “Why this elaborate game?”

“Because the best revenge is the one where your enemies destroy themselves.”

My hands tremble with horror, with the sickening realization that my entire life has been orchestrated by the man standing before me.

“And what about Luca?” I demand, forcing strength into my voice. “What role does my brother play in your grand revenge fantasy?"

“As I told you, granddaughter, he’s my insurance policy.”

“He's a human being.”

“He's a Vasilyev,” Mikhail corrects. “As are you. Despite your father's surname, the blood that flows through your veins is mine. Royal blood. Blood that belongs on the throne of Russia.”

“What exactly are you proposing?”

Mikhail steps closer, his expression shifting into something almost paternal. “A simple exchange. Your brother's freedom...for your cooperation.”

“My cooperation in what?”

“Reclaiming what's rightfully mine.” He gestures expansively. “The Petrov empire. The Russian throne. It's your birthright, Vesper. Your destiny.”

I stare at him, momentarily speechless. “You want me to...what? Stage a coup against Victor Petrov?”

“Exactly.”

“You're insane,” I spit, but the words lack conviction as my mind races through the implications. “Victor Petrov has an army, billions in resources, and decades of entrenched power. I can't just walk in and take the throne.”

“Not alone, no,” Mikhail concedes, circling me like a predator. “But you won't be alone. You'll have me, my resources, my connections. And most importantly—" a malicious smile forms on his face, "—your son, and my heir to both families.”

“You can’t have him,” I snarl.

“Then you can’t have your brother. Without your cooperation, I have no reason to keep him alive.”

The words hang in the air between us like a garrote, choking off any response I might have formed. I swallow hard, forcing myself to think past the blind panic threatening to consume me.

“You claim to care about family legacy,” I say, measuring each word carefully. “Yet you're willing to murder your own grandson if I don't comply?”

Mikhail's expression doesn't change. “I've spent decades rebuilding from the ashes, Vesper. I've sacrificed everything—comfort, morality, even my humanity—to reach this point. One grandson is a small price to pay for the restoration of the Vasilyev dynasty.”

“Show me proof that Luca is still alive,” I demand, playing for time. “Recent proof. Not some pre-recorded video you could have filmed days ago.”

“Cautious. Good.” He reaches into his jacket, retrieving a sleek tablet. His fingers dance across the screen before he turns it toward me.

The image that appears steals my breath, Luca, strapped to a metal chair, his head lolling forward.

A digital timestamp in the corner shows today's date and current time.

As I watch, a gloved hand enters the frame, gripping my brother's hair and yanking his head up.

“Say hello to your sister,” a voice commands off-screen.

Luca focuses slowly on the camera. “Vesper?”

His voice is weak, raspy from disuse or screaming. I can't tell which. But he's alive. My knees nearly buckle with relief. The feed cuts abruptly, Mikhail's finger sliding across the screen with casual cruelty.

“Satisfied?” he asks, tucking the tablet away. My face must give me away because he doesn’t give me a chance to answer. “No? Maybe you need a little more incentive? The Collector pauses, turning towards the closed office door. “Bring him in.”

My heart slams into my ribs, time suspended as the door crashes open.

A guard shoves a figure through the doorway, the man stumbling forward before catching himself against the wall. His head is bowed, blond hair matted with dried blood. But I'd know that silhouette anywhere.

Alex.

He’s alive.