Page 61 of All The Darkest Truths (Second Sons Duet #2)

VESPER

The Petrov family crest gleams on the side of the Dassault Falcon X like a warning sign.

“Holy shit,” I exclaim as we approach the sleek aircraft waiting on the tarmac.

The private jet is a monument to wealth and power, its polished exterior reflecting the afternoon sun.

It's the kind of luxury that's meant to intimidate, to remind anyone who approaches that they're stepping into Victor Petrov's domain.

Z walks beside me. Oz flanks my other side while Talon brings up the rear.

A flight attendant in a crisp uniform stands at the base of the jet stairs. His expression remains neutral as we approach, but I catch the flicker of recognition when he notices the twins.

“Miss Rossi,” he greets me with a slight bow, his accent thick but his English crisp and deliberate. “Mr. Petrov sends his warm regards.”

Then he spots Talon, and his expression sharpens.

“We do not have a fourth party on our manifest. He cannot be allowed to board.”

“I'm afraid that's not possible,” I say, stepping forward with a confidence I don't entirely feel. “Mr. St. James is my head of security. Where I go, he goes.”

The attendant's jaw tightens. “My instructions were quite clear, Miss Rossi. Three passengers only.”

“Then your instructions are incorrect,” I reply, my voice dropping to the cold, commanding tone I've been practicing. voice of a woman who expects to be obeyed. “Contact Victor if you must, but understand that delaying me will only irritate him further.”

Z shifts beside me, his body language subtly changing to support my stance. “My uncle doesn't appreciate waiting, Sergei,” he adds, surprising me by using the attendant's name. “Especially not for something as trivial as a passenger manifest.”

The attendant, Sergei, hesitates. I can see the mental calculation happening behind his carefully neutral expression. risk of disobeying Victor's explicit instructions versus potentially angering him by delaying our arrival.

“One moment,” he finally says, retreating a few steps to speak into his earpiece in rapid Russian.

“Nice touch. Very mafia princess. It’s a good look for you.”

I resist the urge to smile, keeping my expression impassive as Sergei returns.

“Mr. Petrov has approved the additional passenger,” he announces stiffly. “Please, follow me.”

The interior of the jet is expensive and masculine.

Six plush seats face each other in the main cabin, with a private bedroom visible through a partially open door at the rear.

Everything about the space screams wealth and power.

the crystal decanters of amber liquor secured in a custom cabinet, to the Petrov crest embossed on the napkins.

“Please make yourselves comfortable,” Sergei says, gesturing to the seats. “We'll be departing shortly.”

Z moves through the cabin with the casual familiarity.

“Been a while since you've been on the family jet?” I ask quietly as I take the seat beside him.

"Last time I was on one of these, I was sixteen," he replies, his voice barely audible. “Our father was shipping us off to St. Judes.”

Oz settles across from us, already scanning the cabin with methodical precision. “The layout's been updated, but it's essentially the same aircraft,” he observes.

Talon remains standing, taking his head of security role seriously. “How many crew members?” he asks Sergei.

“Three flight crew, sir. Two pilots and myself. All vetted personally by Mr. Petrov,” Sergei adds with a hint of pride. “I primarily served on your uncle's personal aircraft.”

"Victor's personal staff," Oz adds, exchanging a meaningful glance with his brother. "Interesting choice for our retrieval. Kitty must be stateside.”

“Who’s Kitty?”

“His mistress. The one he hides from our aunt on the other side of the world.”

I settle into the buttery leather seat, feeling the subtle power play unfolding around me. Victor sending his personal crew isn't just courtesy. surveillance. Every word, every gesture will be reported back to him.

“Would you care for refreshments before takeoff?” Sergei asks, moving toward the bar.

“Vodka,” Z replies without hesitation. “Stolichnaya Elite, if my uncle still keeps it stocked.”

“Of course, sir.” Serge selects a frosted bottle from a hidden compartment. “Miss Rossi? Gentlemen?”

“The same,” I say, watching as he pours four crystal tumblers with the clear liquid.

Talon finally takes a seat beside Oz, though his posture remains alert. “How long is the flight?” he asks, accepting his drink with a nod.

“Approximately ten hours, sir,” Sergei answers, handing the last glass to Oz.” We'll be taking a direct route across the Atlantic, avoiding European airspace where possible.”

“Victor's paranoia hasn't changed, I see,” Oz remarks, swirling the vodka before taking a measured sip. “Still avoiding the NATO radar.”

Sergei's expression remains carefully neutral. “Mr. Petrov prefers discretion in all matters.”

“I'm sure he does.” I raise the crystal tumbler to my lips. The vodka burns a clean path down my throat, warming my chest. Despite the circumstances, I can't help but appreciate its quality—smooth with just enough bite to remind you of its potency. Like Victor himself, I imagine.

The jet engines whine to life, the vibration humming through the floorboards. A disembodied voice announces our imminent departure in both Russian and English, instructing us to secure our seatbelts for takeoff.

Z downs his vodka in one gulp, his throat working as he swallows. When he sets the empty glass down, there's a new tension in his jaw. “Nine hours in a metal tube with my uncle's eyes and ears,” he says quietly, just for me. “This should be fun.”

I reach for his hand beneath the polished table between us, giving his fingers a brief squeeze. “We knew this was coming,” I remind him.

The plane takes off with ease, as we climb higher and higher into the air until it levels off at cruising altitude.

It makes contacting my grandfather a tad harder.

Every inch of this aircraft is likely bugged, cameras hidden in the glossy wood panels, microphones embedded in the plush leather seats.

Victor's paranoia ensures we're being watched from every angle.

Mikhail expects an update within hours, yet I can't exactly pull out the black tablet and start recording a progress video while surrounded by Victor's staff.

"Sergei," I call, my voice carrying the authoritative edge I've been practicing. “I'd like to freshen up.”

“Of course, Miss Rossi. The lavatory is at the rear of the aircraft, just before the private suite.”

I rise, smoothing the wrinkles from my skirt. "Thank you."

The lavatory is predictably luxurious—Italian marble and gold fixtures, plush hand towels embroidered with the Petrov crest. I lock the door behind me and lean against the sink, finally allowing my composure to slip for just a moment. The face staring back at me from the mirror looks foreign.

This might be the only semi-private space on the entire aircraft. Even so, I scan for cameras, checking corners and light fixtures. Finding nothing obvious doesn't mean they aren't there, but I have no choice but to take the risk.

I pull the black tablet from my purse, powering it on with trembling fingers. The screen illuminates with a soft blue glow, reflecting in the polished marble. I have mere minutes before my absence becomes suspicious.

Opening the recording function, I position myself against the wall, making sure the luxurious surroundings are visible in the frame. Evidence I'm on a private jet, headed to Russia. Evidence I'm following Mikhail's orders.

“I'm en route to St. Petersburg. I've gained his trust enough to secure passage on his private jet. When we land, I'll be taken directly to his compound.”

I lean closer to the camera, allowing determination to harden my features. “Join me in Russia. You’ll have what you want soon enough.”

The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. Mikhail needs to believe I'm committed to his revenge, that I'm willing to sacrifice everything, including myself, to fulfill his twisted legacy.

I stop the recording, quickly reviewing it before sending it through the encrypted channel Mikhail established. The moment the confirmation appears, I delete all traces from the screen and power down the tablet, returning it to my purse.

My hands grip the marble countertop as I steady my breathing. Each lie, each calculated move, brings me closer to Alex and Luca.

A soft knock at the door startles me.

“Miss Rossi?” Sergei's voice filters through. “May I offer you anything further?”

“I'll be right out,” I call, splashing cold water on my face and reapplying my lipstick with precision. Had you asked me if I ever thought I’d be willingly on a flight to Russia to play a game of chess with monsters, I’d have said you were crazy, but here I am.

When I return to the main cabin, Z's eyes find mine immediately, a silent question in their silver depths. I give him an almost imperceptible nod as I retake my seat beside him.”

“Everything alright?” he asks, his voice pitched low enough that only I can hear.

“Yes, I hate flying. I’ll be okay once my stomach settles,” I lie, accepting a fresh glass of vodka from Sergei. “This should help. Thank you, Sergei.”

The flight attendant hovers nearby, his attentiveness bordering on surveillance. “Dinner will be served in three hours.”

“Thank you, Sergei,” I say, setting my vodka down untouched, “I think I'll rest before dinner. The past few days have been...taxing.” I rise from my seat, smoothing my skirt with deliberate calm. “Is the private suite available for use?”

Sergei hesitates. “The suite is typically reserved for Mr. Petrov himself, but as he is not aboard...” He gives a small nod. “Yes, of course, Miss Rossi. Shall I prepare it for you?”

“That won't be necessary.” I glance at Talon, who immediately understands his role. “Mr. St. James will take care of my needs.” The irony of my words is not lost on me, nor on Talon, who fights back a smile.