Page 54 of All The Darkest Truths (Second Sons Duet #2)

LUCA

The door crashes open like a thunderclap, making me flinch despite myself. After all this time in this hellhole, you'd think I'd be used to it.

“Move, Rossi.” The guard's voice is emotionless as he yanks me from my cell, his fingers digging into my bicep hard enough to leave fresh bruises alongside the fading ones.

I stumble into the hallway, the lights harsh after the dimness of my room. My bare feet slap against the cold tile as they march me down a corridor I've never seen before. This is new. This is different. And different has never meant good in this place.

“Where are you taking me?”

The guard doesn't answer. Of course, he doesn't. They never do.

We stop at a metal door halfway down the hall. He punches a code into the keypad, then shoves me inside with enough force that I stumble, catching myself against the wall. The room is larger than my cell, two beds instead of one, a small table, even a window, though it's covered with metal grating.

The door slams shut behind me. Thirty-seven seconds pass in silence before it opens again.

Another body is thrust inside, this one taller, lankier. He catches himself with more grace than I managed, turning immediately to face the door as it closes. When he turns around, recognition jolts through me like an electric shock.

“Alex?” The name escapes my lips before I can stop it. Alex Rafner from St. Jude's Academy—platinum blond hair now matted with blood, ice-blue eyes rimmed with exhaustion, but unmistakably him.

Recognition flickers across his battered face. “Hey, neighbor.”

Neighbor? Why the hell would he say that unless…fuck, he’s the guy on the other side of the wall. My brain struggles to process this revelation. The man I've been communicating with through the vents is someone I actually know. Or knew, a lifetime ago, when we were just teenagers at St. Jude's.

“You're the one who's been talking to me?” I manage, my voice hoarse from disuse. “Through the vents?”

Alex nods, his movements careful, controlled. He's clearly in pain, though he's trying not to show it. "Good to finally see your face, Rossi. You look like shit."

A strangled laugh escapes me. "You're one to talk."

His face is a tapestry of bruises in various stages of healing—purple fading to green around his left eye, a fresh split in his lip crusted with blood, a row of neat stitches at his temple. The way he's holding himself suggests broken ribs, maybe worse.

“What the fuck happened to you?”

“The same as you, I suspect. Guards with a penchant for violence?”

He moves toward the unoccupied bed, each step measured as if calculating the exact amount of energy required. I notice the careful way he holds his torso, broken ribs, probably. I've had them before. The Collector's guards aren't exactly gentle.

“How long have you been here?” I ask, moving to sit on my own bed.

“Hard to tell. Time works differently in this place. After I rammed a boat into your grandfather’s guards, it got a little hazy after that.”

“You rammed a boat in his guards?” I can't keep the incredulity from my voice.

Alex shrugs, then immediately winces at the movement. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“And how'd that work out for you?”

He gestures to his battered body with his less injured arm. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

"Why are they putting us together?" I ask, suspicion immediately replacing shock. Nothing happens here without purpose, without calculation.

“Motivation for your sister. Her daily proof of life for both of us.” Alex eases himself onto the edge of the bed with a barely suppressed wince. “The Collector wants her compliance. Seeing both of us alive, but suffering, is the perfect leash.”

I study him more carefully, trying to reconcile this battered man with the quiet, reserved classmate I barely knew at St. Jude's.

Back then, he was just another privileged kid, brilliant but distant, existing on the opposite side of my limited social circle.

He had sidled up with the Petrovs immediately upon his enrollment.

Not that it stopped me from casually observing him in the classes we shared together.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you were solidly on Team Petrov the last time I saw you.”

“Still am. Well, Oscar and Zaire. Their uncle, not so much.” A ghost of a smile touches his lips before fading. “It's complicated.”

"We're sharing a cell in some psychopath's private dungeon. I think we're past complicated."

“We’ve been protecting her.”

"We?"

“The Petrov Twins, Talon St. James, and I. We call ourselves The Second Sons.”

“That a stupid fucking name,” I blurt out.

Alex's mouth quirks up in the barest hint of a smile. “Not my choice.”

A moment of silence stretches between us, filled with the hum of the ventilation system and distant footsteps in the corridor.

I take the opportunity to really look at Alex, not just his injuries, but the man himself.

He's changed since St. Jude's. The lanky teenager has been replaced by lean muscle, his once-boyish features hardened into something more vicious.

Alex had always been attractive, even during those awkward years when we were both still figuring ourselves out, all sharp edges and restless energy. Back then, I told myself it was just admiration. Normal. Harmless.

But now...

Now there’s nothing boyish about him. There’s a calm brutality in the way he moves, a quiet strength that draws the eye before I can think to look away. My gaze lingers longer than it should on the cut of his jaw, the line of his throat, the way his shirt clings.

I shift, jaw tight, willing the heat under my skin to settle. It’s stupid. I don’t even know if he’s into?—

No. Doesn’t matter. Shouldn’t matter.

But I still can't stop looking.

And worse, I think he notices.

Shit.

I lean back against the wall, studying him. There's something different about him from what I remember. Back then, he was always hunched over a laptop, avoiding eye contact, speaking only when absolutely necessary. This Alex carries himself differently, like a weapon at rest.

“So my sister..." I begin, unsure how to phrase the question burning in my mind. “You've been what, her guardians?”

“It started that way. Your grandfather sold her to the highest bidder once he was done with her. We got her out.”

The implication hangs in the air between us. I feel my jaw tighten. “You bought my sister?”

“Yes?”

“Let me get this straight. My apparently long lost grandfather kidnapped my sister, and then sold her to you?” I seethe through gritted teeth. “Is that what you are telling me?”

“That about sums it up,” Alex shrugs. “Some details and context are missing, but pretty spot on to where we find ourselves now.”

“Details and context,” I echo, feeling my hands ball into fists. “I'd fucking love to hear those. You bought my fucking sister.”

“We saved her life. An alternative buyer would have used her as a broodmare to stake a claim to your family’s legacy. So yes, we bought her. And then we gave her back her freedom.”

“That's a convenient story.”

“It's the truth. You can ask her when you see her in a few days.”

“You mean when she kills Victor Petrov and his family?" The words taste bitter on my tongue.

“He deserves it,” Alex shrugs. “But, I think she’ll enjoy killing your cousin Bianca more, considering she is passing off Vesper’s son as her own.

I feel like I've been sucker-punched. "Vesper has a son?"

“Not by choice.”

“Who's the father?” I finally ask.

“Dmitri Petrov,” Alex says, his voice flat. “It wasn't consensual.”

“He raped her?" Something cold and vicious unfurls in my chest.

“With the help of your darling new grandfather, they took her eggs,” Alex shifts on the bed to find a less painful position. “I think you can draw the conclusion from there.”

“I'll kill him.”

“Get in line, Luca. Though let’s be honest, Vesper will beat us both to it if we make it that far,”

I try to process this information, but my mind keeps snagging on the same impossible fact. “My sister has a child,” I say it aloud, testing how the words feel. "I'm an uncle."

“Yes,” Alex confirms, watching me carefully.

I stand and pace the small confines of our shared cell, energy suddenly coursing through me despite my weakened state. The pieces are clicking together with sickening clarity, my capture, Vesper's torment, and now this impossible task set before her.

I stop pacing and face him. “Do you think she can do it?”

Alex considers the question. “Yes. She’s not the same person you remember. The Collector made sure of that.”

I sink back onto the bed, trying to reconcile the sister I knew with this new version Alex describes. “What did he do to her?”

Alex’s expression tightens. “It’s not my story to tell. But she survived. She always survives.”

“So you and my sister,” I say after a moment, keeping my voice casual. “How complicated is 'complicated'?”

“Would you believe me if I said I'd die for her?”

"I believe you've already tried,” I reply, nodding toward his injuries.

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Fair assessment.”

“And the others? The Petrovs and St. James?”

“The last thing I want to do is dive into your sister’s sex life with her brother.”

Sex life? Jesus, is Vesper sleeping with one of them? More than one? All of them? How the fuck did that happen? He has to be messing with me. Vesper’s naive, innocent, or well, was. I can’t see her going down the non-traditional route when it comes to relationships.

“Are you saying…?”

“She’s well-protected and cared for. The three of them circle around her like her own personal pack of protectors. If we make it out of this, and you get to see her again, you’ll understand what I mean.”

The way he hesitates before choosing that word tells me everything I need to know. I feel a strange mixture of protectiveness and resignation wash over me. My sister, always the center of gravity, pulling others into her orbit whether she means to or not.

“Tell me what she's like?” The question slips out before I can reconsider. “Vesper, I mean. Now.”

“She's...” He pauses, searching for the right words. “Stubborn as hell, smarter than she gives herself credit for. Savage when cornered.”

I nod, picturing my sister, the one I remember, not this hardened version he describes. “And the scars? The ones that don't show?”

Alex's jaw tightens. “Deep. But healing, I think. Before all this—” he gestures vaguely to our surroundings, “—she was starting to find herself again. To trust.”

“And now?”

“Now she's probably burning the world down looking for us.” A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “The Collector thinks he's using us to control her, but he's just given her something worth fighting for.”

I absorb this, trying to reconcile the sister I remember with the woman Alex describes.

“She always protected me, you know. Even when we were kids.

I was supposed to be the one protecting her this time.

And look how well that turned out for both of us," I gesture at our cell with my good hand. “Some protector I turned out to be.”

“Don't underestimate your importance to her. The only reason she's playing along with your grandfather's game is you.”

I snort, wincing as the movement jars my ribs. “And you.”

“Primarily you,” he corrects. "I'm just...additional motivation.”

There's something in his tone I can't quite place—not quite bitterness, not quite resignation.

Before I can question it further, the electronic lock on our door beeps.

We both tense, instinctively shifting into more defensive positions despite our injuries.

Four guards enter, batons extended at their sides.

“I hope your sister enjoys the show, Rossi. I know we will.”