Page 73 of All The Darkest Truths (Second Sons Duet #2)

I nod, unable to form words as my heart thunders against the restrictive bodice.

The doors swing open, revealing the interior bathed in golden light from stained glass windows.

Rows of wooden pews line either side of a center aisle.

At the far end stands the altar, where Dmitri waits in black, his father at his side.

But it's not them who capture my attention.

Three rows back on the left, I see him. Luca. My brother. He sits stiffly, his expression carefully composed. But when our eyes meet, the fierce love shining there nearly undoes me.

Seeing him this close after all these years is killing me. Every instinct screams to run to him, to throw my arms around him and never let go. But I can’t. Not yet. I have to stay the course. I have to see this through.

Beside him is Alex, tall and solemn, tension radiating from every line of his body.

And behind them, my breath stutters. Sits Mikhail. My grandfather’s thin frame curls into the pew like a spider in its web, his pale stare locked on me. He nods once, barely more than a twitch, his lips curved in something that could almost be a smile.

Music swells from hidden speakers, a traditional wedding march that sounds more like a funeral dirge. Z’s fingers tighten around my arm as we begin to walk. My dress trails behind me like chains, each step deliberate, forced.

Eyes follow us. Victor’s men, the carefully selected guests permitted to witness this farce, and my grandfather’s spies, scattered like shadows among the crowd.

Dmitri stands at the altar, unmoving. His expression is blank, revealing nothing of the rage I saw yesterday.

The bruises on my wrist pulse in sync with my racing heartbeat beneath Oscar’s steady grip.

My future husband watches our approach with that same sharp, ravenous focus—the kind that doesn’t just see everything… it consumes it.

Victor looms beside him, positioned strategically above the proceedings on the raised platform.

From his elevated perch, he commands a view of every corner of the chapel, every face, every potential threat.

The military medals on his chest catch the light, creating the illusion of blood spatters across his immaculate jacket.

When we reach the steps leading to the altar, my feet falter. Z's hand tightens around my arm, steadying me as I struggle for breath against the vise of my bodice. His touch lingers a moment longer than necessary, a silent promise, a reminder that I'm not alone.

The priest steps forward. His Russian accent cuts through the chapel.

“Who gives this woman to be married to this man?” the priest intones, his face impassive as he delivers the ancient question.

Z's fingers dig into my arm for a heartbeat before he forces himself to loosen his grip. I feel his reluctance like a physical thing, his body rigid with tension beside me.

“We do,” Oscar says, his voice even, but there’s a barely contained tension beneath the calm—tight, volatile, ready to snap.

The twins share a glance—quick, charged, full of meaning they don’t speak aloud—before each of them reaches for me. Z’s thumb brushes lightly over my wrist, a fleeting touch. Oscar gives my fingers a soft, reassuring squeeze.

Then, together, they place my hands into Dmitri’s waiting grasp.

The moment Dmitri's skin touches mine, I fight the urge to recoil. His fingers close around mine with possessive strength, the pressure just shy of painful.

“The bride and groom will now ascend,” the priest announces, gesturing toward the altar steps.

Dmitri tugs me forward, the abrupt movement making me stumble slightly on the first step. His grip tightens, steadying me with a roughness that makes Victor's lips twitch with what might be approval. I force my feet to move, each step taking me closer to a future I have no intention of living.

Behind us, I hear Z and Oz take their positions at the foot of the altar steps, their presence a small comfort as I face the two Petrov men who intend to own me.

The priest begins the ceremony in Russian, his voice echoing through the chapel's vaulted ceiling. I understand enough to follow along—declarations of holy union, promises of fidelity. Words that mean nothing in this mockery of marriage.

Victor’s silver stare sweeps over the assembled guests, lingering briefly on my grandfather. If he recognizes Mikhail, he gives no indication.

I steal a glance at Luca and find him already looking at me. He looks thinner than the last time I saw him. But he’s alive. My brother is alive. That truth settles like steel in my spine, just as Dmitri’s fingers tighten around mine.

“We will now exchange vows,” the priest announces in accented English, gesturing for Dmitri to begin.

Dmitri turns to face me, lifting my veil. His features remain unreadable, lips pulling into a faint curve that could be mistaken for a smile by anyone who didn’t know better.

“I, Dmitri Victor Petrov,” he begins, his voice echoing through the chapel, “take you, Vesper Rossi, to be my wife.” The words fall from his mouth with the smoothness of something long rehearsed, completely devoid of warmth.

“I vow to protect what is mine, to strengthen our bloodlines, and to ensure our legacy endures through the children you will bear me.”

Every word drips with possession. No love. No hint of partnership. Just legacy and control. He doesn’t flinch or falter as he continues, delivering vows that sound more like a business agreement than a promise made before God.

“Your family's strength will become Petrov strength. Your body will nurture Petrov heirs. Your loyalty will belong solely to me and the empire we will build together.”

The chapel remains silent as his final words hang in the air. Victor nods with approval.

“And now, the bride,” the priest prompts, turning his face toward me.

I take a measured breath, the corset restricting my lungs as I prepare to speak.

“I, Vesper Rossi,” my voice carries clearly through the chapel, stronger than I feel, “take nothing from you or your family.”

A collective gasp ripples through the assembled guests. Dmitri's fingers tighten painfully around mine as Victor's expression darkens to thunderous rage.

I yank my hands from Dmitri's crushing grip and take a deliberate step back.

“I will not be another decoration in your family's collection of broken women," I continue, my voice gaining strength with each word. "I will not bear children to continue your legacy of violence and control.”

The chapel erupts. Victor’s face contorts into something almost unrecognizable, twisted with such raw rage that spittle gathers at the corners of his mouth. “What is the meaning of this?” he hisses through gritted teeth.

“This is your reckoning, Victor.”

The chapel falls into stunned silence at my declaration. Victor's face contorts with rage, a vein pulsing at his temple as he takes a menacing step toward me.

“Guards!” he barks, his voice echoing through the sacred space.

Armed men materialize, weapons drawn, as they converge on the altar. Behind me, I hear the unmistakable sound of guns being cocked—my grandfather's men revealing themselves among Victor's security detail.

“I wouldn’t,” comes Mikhail’s voice, calm and cold as he rises from his pew. “My men have been in your household for years, Victor. Did you really believe I’d let you live after what you took from me? Do you think I’d give you my granddaughter?”

Recognition flickers across Victor’s face as he truly registers who my grandfather is. “Mikhail,” he breathes, disbelief and rage tightening his jaw and stiffening his posture.

“Get her!” Victor roars.

Dmitri lunges, but Z is faster. He vaults up the altar steps and slams his fist into his cousin’s jaw with a sickening crack. Dmitri stumbles back, blood spilling from his split lip.

Oz appears at my side, a gun already in his hand. He fires once. The shot hits Dmitri square in the chest. Blood blossoms across his crisp white shirt as he collapses.

“Dmitri!” Victor bellows, his voice tearing through the air like a war cry. “Kill them! Kill them all!”

Pandemonium erupts. Victor’s men surge toward Mikhail’s with ruthless force. Bullets rip through the stained-glass windows, the thunderous blasts sending vibrant, razor-edged shards raining down on the terrified wedding guests.

I can’t move. I’m frozen, caught in a surreal tableau of chaos and vengeance. The aisle is littered with shattered glass and slick with crimson.

And then I see him.

Victor’s face shifts—no longer cold and calculating, but contorted with something I never expected: grief. Real, gut-wrenching grief.

He shoves past his own men, falling to his knees beside Dmitri’s body.

“My son,” he chokes, and the rawness in his voice stills the room for a breath.

He gathers Dmitri into his arms, cradling him with a tenderness that feels almost impossible amid the carnage.

Blood soaks his immaculate suit as he presses one shaking hand to the wound, the other cupping Dmitri’s pale face.

His silver head bows low, whispering something I can’t hear over the gunfire still cracking around us.

For the first time since I've met him, Victor Petrov looks broken, vulnerable, a father losing his only child. His hand strokes Dmitri's hair back from his face with trembling fingers, watching his legacy dissipate in front of him.

“Get her out!” Talon’s voice cuts through the mayhem as he fights his way toward us, his movements fluid and brutal as he takes down two of Victor’s guards. “I’ve got Luca and Alex.”

I rip away the veil, tearing it from my head as the chapel dissolves into warfare. I reach beneath my skirts, fingers closing around the cold metal of the gun.

“Vesper, move!” Z shouts, tackling me as bullets spray across the altar where I stood seconds before. The impact knocks the breath from my already constricted lungs as we crash to the floor.

“Can you run in this fucking monstrosity?”

“No,” I gasp, struggling against the unyielding corset. “I can't breathe, let alone run.”

Z's knife appears in his hand. With swift movements, he slashes through the laces binding my torso, the bodice immediately loosening as blessed air fills my lungs. “Better?”

“Much,” I manage, taking my first full breath since they'd laced me into the dress hours ago.

Oz drops beside us, his gun raised as he fires over the altar rail. “We need to move.”

“Not without my brother or Alex.”

“Talon is getting them. We have to get you out.”

“I'm not leaving without them!” I grab Z's arm, my fingers digging into his sleeve. “Not after everything we've done to get here.”

A bullet shatters the altar beside us, sending splinters of wood flying. Z shields me with his body, his muscles tensing as fragments pepper his back.

“Trust Talon,” Oz urges, firing another round over the rail. “He'll get them out. We have a plan for this.”

I spot Victor through the chaos. He’s still cradling Dmitri, but something in his posture has shifted—stiff, coiled, dangerous. His head lifts, scanning the battlefield until his focus lands on me. The hatred etched across his face chills my blood.

“You,” he mouths, the word clear even across the distance.

He gently lowers Dmitri to the ground, arranging his son's limbs with tender precision before rising to his feet. Blood stains the front of his immaculate suit, turning the military medals into grotesque ornaments as he draws a gun from beneath his jacket.

“We need to move. Now.” Z’s voice cuts through my horror as Victor begins advancing, shooting his own men when they get in his way.

Z grabs my hand, dragging me toward a side exit as bullets scream past us.

Oz covers our retreat, his movements swift and merciless as he takes down two of Victor’s men closing in on our position.

“Move!” Z shoves me forward as we dash between pews, the heavy wedding dress hampering my every step despite the loosened corset. I stumble, the massive skirt tangling around my legs as gunfire erupts to our right.

A bullet tears through Z's shoulder, spinning him sideways. Blood sprays across my dress as he staggers against me. Oz whirls around, rushing to his twin's side just as another shot rings out. The bullet catches him in the chest, sending him crashing into the nearest pew.

“No!” My scream tears through the chaos as both men fall.

I lunge toward them, but a powerful arm clamps around my waist, yanking me backward with brutal force. Cold metal presses against my temple, the unmistakable pressure of a gun barrel against my skin.