Page 67 of All The Darkest Truths (Second Sons Duet #2)

Victor stops before a set of double doors inlaid with intricate marquetry depicting the Russian imperial eagle. He places his palm against a nearly invisible scanner camouflaged within the wooden design.

“Security,” he explains, catching my glance. “Some traditions evolve with the times.”

The doors swing open silently, revealing a study that could have belonged to a czar.

Rich mahogany paneling lines the walls, interspersed with shelves of leather-bound books and artifacts that belong in museums. A massive desk dominates one end of the room, its surface bare except for a single laptop and a crystal decanter of amber liquid.

“Please,” Victor gestures to a seating area near a fireplace where flames leap behind a protective glass screen. “Make yourself comfortable."

I choose an armchair positioned to keep both Victor and the door in my line of sight, a precaution that doesn't escape his notice. His lips curve slightly as he takes the seat opposite me, unbuttoning his suit jacket.

“Mr. St. James,” Victor addresses Talon without looking at him, “I'm sure you understand that what Miss Rossi and I must discuss requires privacy.”

Talon begins to balk at the idea, allowing to let his control over his role crack slightly.

“I’ll be fine,” I assure him.

Talon's jaw tightens, but he offers a curt nod, professional despite his obvious reluctance. "I'll be right outside the door if you need me, Miss Rossi."

The heavy doors close behind him with a soft click that sounds unnervingly final. Victor studies me for a long moment before he reaches for the crystal decanter.

“Vodka?” he offers, pouring himself a measure. “Distilled from wheat grown on Petrov land, using water from our private spring. A family tradition for generations.”

“Please,” I reply, keeping my expression calm despite the nervous energy coursing through my veins.

Victor pours a second glass before he hands it to me. Our fingers brush momentarily, his skin cool and dry against mine. I resist the urge to wipe my hand on my skirt afterward.

“To new alliances,” he proposes, raising his glass.

I mirror his gesture. “To truth.”

The vodka burns a clean path down my throat, warming my chest even as my mind remains ice-cold with focus.

“You've made quite extraordinary claims, Miss Rossi,” Victor begins, setting his empty glass aside. “Claims that, if true, would suggest a level of deception I find...personally offensive.”

“Not claims. Facts.”

Victor's expression remains impassive. He leans forward slightly, the gesture somehow more threatening than if he'd slammed his fist on the table.

“Facts require evidence, Miss Rossi. The files you sent were...intriguing, but hardly conclusive.”

I reach into my handbag, withdrawing a small USB drive. It feels disproportionate to its size—this tiny device carries enough information to topple empires—or at least one man.

“Everything is here,” I say, placing it on the polished surface of the side table between us.

“Medical records from the fertility clinic. DNA profiles. Financial transactions linking Mario to both the clinic and my grandfather.” I pause, letting my next words land with precision.

“And video footage of my time in captivity.”

Victor makes no move to take the drive. “You understand my skepticism, no? The idea that my son—that I—could be so thoroughly deceived...”

"Pride makes for effective blindfolds," I reply, watching his jaw tighten at my audacity. “Especially when the deception aligns with what you want to believe.”

“You have your father’s directness.”

“Thank you for the comparison. Though I hope to avoid his fate.”

Victor's expression shifts, just a micro movement of muscles around his eyes, but it's enough to confirm he knows exactly what happened to my father.

“Unfortunate business,” he declares, finally reaching for the USB drive. He turns it over in his long fingers, examining it like a jeweler appraising a gem. “Your father was a man of honor. At least in his dealings with me, but these things happen. Health is a fickle thing.”

“That it is, but the age of old men running my family is long gone.”

“The age of old men is over, you say?” He pockets the USB drive without looking at it, his attention fixed solely on me. “Yet here you sit, seeking alliance with perhaps the oldest man of them all.”

“Not seeking,” I correct him, maintaining eye contact. “Offering. There's a distinction.”

“Semantics, Miss Rossi. But I appreciate your...candor.”

He rises with fluid grace that belies his age, moving to a panel in the wall. When he presses his palm against it, the panel slides open to reveal a concealed safe. I watch as he inserts the USB drive into a standalone private computer system.

“You'll forgive my precautions,” he says without turning. “In my experience, gifts from estranged family members often contain surprises.”

“A sensible approach,” I reply, using his distraction to subtly adjust my watch, ensuring the communication function is active. “I'd expect nothing less.”

I remain still, my breathing measured despite the thundering of my heart as Victor works on the computer. Everything hinges on his reaction to what he's about to see. “These records,” he says, his voice deceptively calm, “you obtained them from your grandfather?”

“No,” I admit. “I acquired them after killing Mario. They were extracted from his personal laptop.”

Victor moves back to his seat, lowering himself with the controlled movements of a man restraining violence. “The medical procedures documented here—the harvesting of your eggs, the embryo creation, the implantation into Bianca—you're saying my son was complicit in this?”

“Dmitri was deceived as thoroughly as you were,” I reply, choosing my words carefully. “You needed a male heir, and what better way to guarantee it than by gender selecting the embryo. That is what happened, isn’t it?”

Victor’s lips thin.

“I thought as much,” I smirk. “They played you for a fool, all because of your obsession with a male heir, Victor. A convenient explanation, just enough to keep you from questioning why IVF was necessary.”

Victor's fingers drum once against the arm of his chair, the only outward sign of his agitation.

I steady my breathing, forcing my voice to remain calm despite the tension crackling through the air.

“My eggs. Petrov sperm. Implanted in a woman with no Rossi blood whatsoever.” I lean forward slightly. “The boy who bears your name carries my DNA, not Bianca's. The true Rossi-Petrov bloodline you've always wanted.”

Victor's hand tightens around his empty glass. For a moment, I think he might shatter it in his grip.

“And this...elaborate deception was orchestrated by Mikhail Vasilyev? Your grandfather?”

“With Mario's eager participation,” I confirm. “My grandfather orchestrated my abduction, my...harvesting. Mario provided the false daughter, the perfect puppet to complete their plan.”

Victor rises abruptly and crosses to the fireplace, tension coiled in every step.

“Mikhail was always cunning,” he says at last, his tone distant, like he's sifting through memories better left untouched. “We were young once, allies even, before the families turned on each other.”

“I’ll be honest, Victor. My mother hardly ever mentioned him. I didn’t meet my grandfather until recently—and when I did, everything shifted.”

Victor turns, his expression grim. “She was right to keep you from him. Mikhail has never cared for balance or strategy. Only revenge.”

He moves back to his desk with slow, deliberate steps. The room feels smaller as he settles into the high-backed leather chair, the position elevating him above me in a subtle power play.

“If what you say is true—” he begins.

“It is,” I interrupt, earning a sharp look that would make lesser people flinch.

“If it is true,” he continues, “then verification is simple enough.”

His long fingers hover over the desk phone, pressing a button. When he speaks, the Russian flows from his lips like silk, his tone commanding but calm. I catch only fragments—words for "bring" and "immediately"—my limited Russian, insufficient to grasp the full meaning.

The tension in the air thickens as we wait, neither of us speaking. Victor watches me with unnerving intensity.

The heavy doors swing open a moment later. I glimpse Talon in the hallway, his posture tense as he tries to see past the two burly guards who enter. My heart stutters when I spot a petite figure between the guards—Bianca.

My cousin steps into the room, her hair swept into an elegant chignon paired with an expensive designer dress. She freezes mid-step when she sees me, her eyes widening with recognition before darting to Victor in confusion.

“What's happening? Why is...why is she here?” she questions, her voice small as she takes another hesitant step forward.

The color drains from her face as she stares at me, her manicured hand rising to her throat in a gesture both defensive and stunned.

Gone is the confident woman I remember from my father’s study.

Bianca looks fragile, uncertain—like she’s seeing a ghost. Her own personal bogeyman, the one about to destroy her life for stealing mine.

“Cousin,” I greet her, forcing warmth into my voice despite the circumstances. “It's been a long time.”

“You shouldn't be here,” she hisses, glancing nervously at Victor. “You disappeared.”

I lift my hand to my chest. “It doesn’t appear that I did, cousin. What is it that they say? The stories of my disappearance are greatly exaggerated, or is that about death? Either way, here I am.”

“Sit,” Victor orders her. Bianca sheepishly complies, settling herself into the chair next to mine.

“I don't know what she's told you,” Bianca begins, her voice trembling slightly despite her obvious attempt to appear composed. "But whatever it is?—"

“Is it true that you are not Mario Rossi's biological daughter?” Victor cuts her off.

I watch as the blood drains from Bianca's face, her lips parting in silent shock.

“I...I don't...” she stammers, her fingers twisting the expensive fabric of her dress.

“A simple question,” Victor continues as he rises. “One with a simple answer. Yes, or no.”

“You dare question my identity,” Bianca’s voice sharpens.

Gone is the simpering fool. What remains is cold, calculated steel.

“I am Bianca Rossi. Daughter of Mario Rossi. This—” she gestures at me with a sneer, “—this is nothing but a desperate ploy from a woman who abandoned her responsibilities and now regrets it. She's lying to you. Can’t you see? She disappeared for years and now suddenly reappears with these...these fabrications? This woman wants what I have. My position. My husband. My son.”

The vehemence in her voice is impressive. If I didn't know better, I might believe her myself.

“Call my father,” she insists. “He will verify it.”

“Your father is in no position to answer anything, Bianca,” I interject. A wide smile forms on my face. “He’s dead. I shot him myself.”

She stills. “You…you killed my father?” She shoves herself from her seat, launching herself towards me. “You fucking bitch!”

“Enough,” Victor cuts her off, his voice sharp as a blade. He rises from behind his desk, towering over all of us as he gestures to one of the guards. “So it is true. You deceived me, Bianca.”

“I am a Rossi!” Bianca screams, her voice cracking with desperation. “You have no proof! Just the words of a woman who abandoned her family!”

Victor's expression doesn't change as he studies her. I watch his hand slip beneath his desk, the movement so smooth it's almost imperceptible.

“I have all the proof I need.”

The gunshot is deafening in the confined space of the study.

I flinch instinctively as crimson mist erupts from the back of Bianca's head, spattering across the antique wallpaper behind her.

Her body crumples instantly, collapsing in a heap at my feet.

Warm droplets of her blood speckle my cheeks and hands.

For a moment, I can't process what I've just witnessed. Bianca's eyes remain open, frozen in that final moment of terrified realization, but the light behind them is already gone. A pool of blood spreads beneath her head, seeping into the intricate pattern of the Persian rug.

“Such a waste,” Victor remarks, lowering the pistol with casual indifference. He glances at the guards who haven't moved a muscle. “Clean this up. And inform my son his marriage has been...terminated.”

My heart hammers against my ribs as I force myself to remain still, to betray no emotion despite the horror unfolding before me.

I can't tear my gaze away from her face. The woman who stole my life, now just an empty vessel on expensive carpet.

“Miss Rossi!” Talon's voice cuts through my shock, his footsteps pounding in the hallway outside. “Vesper!”

The doors burst open as he fights his way past the guards, his face twisted with alarm. He freezes when he sees the scene. Me, still seated, splattered with Bianca's blood, Victor, standing calmly with the gun still warm in his hand, and Bianca's body sprawled between us.

Victor places the pistol on his desk with deliberate care, the metal making a soft click against the polished wood. He straightens his cuffs before walking toward me with measured steps.

“My apologies for the...theatrics,” he says, extending his hand to help me up. “Some problems require immediate solutions.”

I stare at his offered hand, noting the absence of blood spatter on his immaculate suit.

Somehow, he'd managed to execute Bianca without getting a single drop on himself.

I place my trembling fingers in his, allowing him to pull me to my feet.

My legs feel unsteady beneath me as I step carefully around Bianca's body.

“Come,” he says, extending his hand to help me up. His palm is warm and dry as it envelops mine, pulling me to my feet with surprising gentleness. “You shouldn't have to witness the...unpleasantness of cleanup.”

I allow him to guide me away from Bianca's body, my legs moving mechanically. The smell of gunpowder and copper fills my nostrils, making my stomach roil.

“My guards will escort you to suitable quarters where you can refresh yourself,” Victor continues, his tone as casual as if we're discussing dinner plans rather than standing over a corpse. “You will dine with me within the hour. We have much to discuss about our new alliance.”