Page 75 of All The Darkest Truths (Second Sons Duet #2)

"Three..." Mikhail continues, his voice steady as a metronome marking the seconds until my brother's execution.

"Two..."

"One..."

I lower my weapon, a smile spreading across my face as I do. Mikhail's expression shifts, confusion replacing triumph as he registers my unexpected reaction.

“You’ve come to your senses, child. Good.”

“No,” I smile. "You misunderstand, Grandfather. I don't need this gun.” From the corner of my eye, I see movement above us. "Not when I have them," I say, pointing upward.

Mikhail follows my gesture just as dozens of figures rise from the chapel's balcony—men and women with weapons trained on his men below. Our reinforcements. Their faces are hard, determined, marked by the same hunger for justice that's driven me.

"What is this?" Mikhail hisses, his composure cracking for the first time.

"Your reckoning, Mikhail," I answer.

The color drains from Mikhail’s face as he takes in the armed figures surrounding us from above.

Men and women of all ages stand shoulder to shoulder, weapons steady in their hands as they aim at his men below.

Some wear the haunted expressions of those who’ve lost everything.

Others burn with the hard, unyielding focus of vengeance long denied.

“Did you really think I’d walk into Victor’s stronghold without a plan?” I spit. “While you were scheming to use me as bait, I was building my own army—every family you’ve destroyed, every mother, father, sister, and brother left grieving because of you.”

Mikhail’s men shift, the unease rippling through their ranks as they realize they’re surrounded—and outnumbered. The guard holding Luca loosens his grip for a split second, just enough for my brother to slam an elbow into his gut and twist free.

Chaos erupts.

Talon surges up, driving his shoulder into the nearest guard and wrenching the weapon from his hands. Alex moves with brutal efficiency, dropping two of Mikhail’s men before they can even react.

"This ends now. Put your weapons down or die along with him. Your choice."

To my surprise, Mikhail's men hesitate, looking to their leader for direction. The old man stands alone now, abandoned by his guards as they assess the overwhelming odds against them.

"You ungrateful child," he spits, his face contorting with rage. "After everything I gave you?—"

"Everything you gave me?" I interrupt, taking a step closer. "You gave me torture. You gave me captivity. You gave me the fear that my son would grow up without a mother."

My voice rises, echoing through the bullet-riddled chapel. "You turned me into a weapon, yes. But not the one you intended."

Mikhail’s pale eyes flick between the armed figures above and the chaos erupting below. For the first time since I’ve known him, he looks every bit his age—frail, cornered, desperate.

“You’ve lied to me from the beginning. Used me. Manipulated me. Violated me—for your revenge.” My voice shakes, but I don’t lower the gun. “I’m done being a fucking pawn on your chessboard.”

“Everything I did was for our family,” he snaps, the edge in his voice returning. “The Vasilyev name was going to die with me. I needed an heir worthy of our legacy.”

Movement behind me pulls my attention. Luca limps toward us, supported by Alex. Blood stains the side of his suit, but there’s a fierce determination in his eyes as he fixes our grandfather with a look sharp enough to cut glass.

“I was never supposed to be your heir,” I say coldly, keeping the weapon steady. “I was meant to be a vessel. Just like my mother. Just like Luca. Just like every child you’ve stolen and broken.”

Luca’s gaze meets mine, and in that instant, the years of silence, pain, and betrayal fall away. Despite the blood and bruises, he straightens his spine and nods—wordless, but solid. We are done being pawns.

Mikhail's face hardens, revealing the monster beneath. "You ungrateful bitch. I gave you purpose when you were nothing but a broken toy. I showed you who you truly are."

"Yes, you did." My finger tightens on the trigger. "And I'm not what you wanted me to be."

A movement to my left distracts me. Z is struggling to sit up, pressing his hand against his bleeding shoulder. Relief floods through me at the sight of him alive, fighting. Oz stirs beside him, his breathing labored but steady. They're hurt, but they're alive.

Mikhail seizes the momentary distraction, his hand darting beneath his jacket.

I react instantly, muscle memory taking over as I squeeze the trigger.

The bullet hits my grandfather in the stomach.

He staggers backward, shock registering on his face as his hands clutch at the wound.

Blood seeps between his fingers, staining his immaculate suit.

"You shot me," he gasps, the reality of his situation settling in as he slides down against the pew, leaving a crimson smear in his wake.

"Yes, I did," I reply, watching him with the same cold detachment he showed me. “How does it feel to be at someone else’s mercy?”

I approach him as he slumps against the pew, clutching his stomach.

"You think this is over? My organization will hunt you down. They'll find your son. They'll?—"

I watch his own men dropping their weapons. “Your men are abandoning you. Look at this legacy you built. Not even those you’ve paid to protect you will stand by your side now.

Footsteps sound behind me as Alex, Luca, and Talon move to flank me.

"No, they won't," Luca interrupts. “Your organization is finished."

I feel something cool press into my palm. Talon's fingers brush against mine as he discreetly transfers a syringe filled with clear liquid. I close my hand around it, understanding immediately.

I lower myself to one knee beside my grandfather, feigning concern as I lean closer. My free hand slips beneath the folds of my dress, concealing the syringe from the view of anyone watching.

“Watching you die will never take away the pain from the destruction you’ve caused, but it will help,” I say loud enough for the room to hear, keeping my voice steady while I fix him with a cold, unwavering stare.

“What are you doing?” he sputters, confusion cracking through his composure.

I reach for his hand, as if to offer comfort, and gently turn it over to expose his wrist. “Ensuring justice.”

The needle slides into his vein with smooth precision, my thumb pressing the plunger before he can react.

He jerks slightly, eyes going wide as he feels the liquid entering his bloodstream. “What have you?—”

“Not poison,” I say quietly, almost kindly. “They need you dead, and I need you alive just a little while longer." I lean closer, my lips nearly touching his ear. “All they’ll know is that the man responsible for their pain is gone.”

For the first time, real fear crosses Mikhail’s face. Not fear of death, but of erasure. Of losing the legacy he’s sacrificed everything to build. His body begins to slacken, muscles giving in to the sedative. His eyelids droop, panic still flickering in the depths of his dulling gaze.

Within seconds, he goes limp, head lolling to the side, his empire unraveling faster than he can stop it.

"It's done," I announce, rising to my feet. "Mikhail Vasilyev is dead.”

A collective exhale ripples through the chapel. The armed figures in the balcony lower their weapons, some crossing themselves in silent prayer, others embracing as decades of fear dissolve in an instant.

I look up at the balcony where dozens of faces stare down at us. These people have lost everything to my grandfather's obsession. Children stolen, bodies violated, futures shattered. They deserve more than just Mikhail's apparent death.

"This isn't over," I call out, "What my grandfather built still exists. The facilities where he kept your loved ones, the labs where he stole pieces of you, they're still operating."

I step forward, the bloodied wedding dress trailing behind me like a battle flag as I address the assembled families.

"I know what was taken from you. I know because it was taken from me, too.

" My hand moves instinctively to my abdomen, to the internal scars hidden beneath.

"But I swear to you, on everything I hold dear, I will find every single facility.

Every lab. Every hidden bunker where The Collector kept his prizes. "

A woman's voice calls down from above. “My daughter was taken five years ago. We never found her body.”

“I will find her,” I promise, holding her tear-filled stare.

“If she’s alive, I’ll bring her home to you.

If her genetic material is still stored somewhere, I’ll return it to your family.

And if she was sold—” my voice hardens, steady with purpose, “I’ll hunt down whoever bought her and make them pay. ”

A murmur ripples through the chapel, low and rising. Grief-stricken families who moments ago clung to despair now sit straighter, eyes fierce. The chapel now thrums with something more powerful than vengeance. Hope. Fueled by rage, yes, but hope all the same.

I move through the wreckage—shattered glass, blood-slick tile, the stench of gunpowder clinging to the air—until I reach him.

Alex.

He’s holding Luca upright, one arm braced around him like its instinct. His chest rises and falls in steady, measured breaths, but his eyes...they’re darker than I remember. Distant.

He looks up when I stop in front of him. No smile. No relief. Just the quiet intensity that’s always surrounded him like a second skin. Only now, it feels heavier. Sharper. Like the edges inside him have finally cut through to the surface.

“You stayed alive,” I say softly. My voice cracks before I can stop it. “You kept him safe.”

Alex doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look away. “I did what I had to do.”

He transfers Luca into my arms, careful, efficient. But I feel it—something in him falter. Just for a second.

“I brought him back,” he says.

But he doesn’t finish the thought. He doesn’t need to.