Page 51 of All The Darkest Truths (Second Sons Duet #2)

She nods, casting one final glance at me, still avoiding direct eye contact, before turning to leave. “I need to see the man in the next cell. Collector’s orders.”

“Fine, but make it quick. I need a smoke.”

The door closes behind them with that now familiar electronic beep, leaving me alone once more. The woman's words echo in my mind. "I need to see the man in the next cell." Could it be Luca? The timing of our transfer, the urgency in her voice when she mentioned him, it can't be a coincidence.

Ignoring the protest of my battered body, I move to the wall separating my cell from the next, pressing my ear against the cool concrete. Nothing. The walls are too thick for normal sound to penetrate.

I shift my attention to the small vent near the ceiling.

It's too small for escape, but sound might travel through the ventilation system.

Dragging the thin blanket from the cot, I bunch it beneath the vent to give myself a few extra inches of height, then brace myself against the wall as I stand on it.

The vent is just barely within reach when I stretch upward, my fingers brushing the metal grate while I try to ignore the pain radiating through me.

I listen carefully for the sound of the woman who just entered my cell or the guard. Nothing. I take my chance, knowing they can’t kill me if they want Vesper’s cooperation. More pain, I can handle just fine.

“Hello?” I call out, my mouth as close to the vent as I can manage. “Luca? Can you hear me?”

I wait, straining to hear any response through the ventilation system. Nothing but the soft hum of circulating air. I try again, a little louder this time.

“Luca Rossi? If you can hear me, make any sound.”

I hold my breath, listening intently. For a moment, there's only silence. Then, a faint tapping. Three distinct knocks against what sounds like the same metal vent on the other side of the wall.

My heart rate quickens. “Once for yes, twice for no. Are you Luca Rossi?”

One knock. Clear. Deliberate.

Relief floods through me so powerfully my knees nearly buckle. “Are you injured?”

One knock, followed by what sounds like a muffled cough.

“Your sister is coming for you,” I say, the words scraping through my raw throat. “She knows you're alive.”

Another knock, faster this time, urgent. I can almost feel his desperation vibrating through the metal vent.

“Listen to me carefully,” I continue, straining to keep my voice audible to him but not to any potential microphones. “The Collector is your grandfather. Your mother's father. That's why he took you both.”

Two rapid knocks, followed by what sounds like muffled cursing.

“I know it's hard to believe, but it's true. He's using you as leverage to force Vesper to kill Victor Petrov and his family.” I pause, checking the hallway for any signs of movement. “She has seventy-two hours. If she fails, he'll kill us both.”

One slow, deliberate knock. He understands the stakes.

“But we're not dead yet. As long as we're alive, there's a chance.”

My muscles scream as I maintain this awkward position, but I push through the pain. This connection to Luca is too valuable to lose over physical discomfort.

“Tomorrow, they will put you on a video feed. Vesper will see it. Make sure she knows you're alive, but don't try to communicate anything else. The Collector will be watching for any coded messages.” I pause, listening for any response from Luca's side. One deliberate knock comes through.

Suddenly, a new pattern of tapping begins. It's methodical, purposeful. I focus intently, counting each distinct tap. One...three...fifteen...eight...One tap for A, three for C, fifteen for O...letters. He's spelling something.

W-H-O A-R-E Y-O-U?

I open my mouth to respond when footsteps echo in the corridor outside. Heavy boots against concrete, the jangling of keys.

“Shit,” I mutter, carefully lowering myself from my makeshift platform. My ribs scream in protest as I hurriedly straighten the blanket and return to the cot, arranging myself as if I've been resting all along.

The electronic lock disengages. I steady my breathing, schooling my expression into one of exhausted compliance as the door swings open to reveal two guards.

“Dinner,” one announces flatly, sliding a tray across the floor with his boot. The meager meal, some kind of gray stew and stale bread, isn't worth the pain it would take to retrieve it immediately.

I remain motionless on the cot, feeling their suspicious stares. Did they hear me? Are there microphones in the vents?

“The boss wants you healthy enough to stay alive.”

The first guard crouches down as if trying to discern any signs of defiance or rebellion. I meet his stare head-on with a careful mask of defeat.

Reluctantly, I push myself up from the cot, my every movement a pained reminder of the bruises and wounds that mar my body. I shuffle towards the tray, the smell of the stew turning my stomach, but hunger gnawing at my insides.

As I reach for the tray, the second guard shifts uncomfortably, his hand hovering near the stun baton at his belt. I know the consequences of disobedience, of defiance. The boss's reach is long, his punishments unforgiving.

I take a tentative bite of the bread, the taste dry and bland on my tongue. The guards watch me closely. After a few moments of tense silence, the first guard stands, his expression unreadable. “Finish your meal,” he orders, his voice a low growl that brooks no argument.

I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat, and force myself to take another bite. The guards linger for a moment longer before finally ordering me to slide the tray back over and retreating, the sound of the lock sealing me once again in my cell.

Alone once more, I sit back on the cot, the taste of stale bread lingering in my mouth. The guards' words hang heavy in the air, a stark reminder of the fragile line I walk between survival and surrender in this unforgiving world.