Page 76 of All The Darkest Truths (Second Sons Duet #2)

At what cost? I see the rest of it in his eyes. The ghosts. The shift. Whatever lines he hadn’t crossed before, he’s crossed them now—and there’s no coming back from it. Not for him. Maybe not for any of us.

I study him in the silence that follows. He looks the same. Same scars. Same cold, steady calm. But the man I once knew—the one who watched the world from a distance, always holding something back—is gone.

What’s left is something colder. Quieter. And I don’t know if he even realizes it yet.

I press a kiss to Luca’s temple and look toward the bloodied figure crumpled at the edge of the altar.

“He’s ready for you,” I say, meaning Mikhail. But I’m not really looking at him. “He’s ready for The Butcher.”

I’m looking at Alex. At what he’s become.

And I wonder if this was always inevitable.

“As far as anyone needs to know, yes.”

Luca’s fingers tighten on my arm, sudden intensity flashing across his battered face. “I need to know he can’t hurt us anymore, Vesper. I need to be sure.”

I pull him closer, my lips brushing against his ear. "He'll wish he were dead by the time Alex is finished with him. He will extract every piece of information we need about his organization, every person still in captivity, every family waiting for justice."

A shudder runs through Luca's body, part relief and part horror at what I'm implying. "And then?"

“That’s for you to decide,” I remark. “You are the head of our family, Luca. It’s your call.”

Luca's hand tightens around mine. "No, Vesper. It's not my call." He shakes his head, a strange mix of relief and certainty washing over his features. “I was never meant to be the head of this family. You are.”

I stare at him. “They’ll never accept me. I’m just a woman.”

“The woman who orchestrated the downfall of two crime empires in a single day.” Luca gestures at the bullet-riddled chapel, at Victor's cooling body, at our sedated grandfather. “The woman who built an army from the broken pieces our grandfather left behind.”

My throat tightens as I struggle to find words. “But you?—”

“I never wanted this,” Luca admits. “I've spent years pretending to be something I'm not. You were born for this, Vesper. Not me. Our family will be in far better hands with you leading it than me.”

I search his face for any sign of doubt, but there's only steadfast certainty in his eyes. Something shifts in his expression, a vulnerability I've rarely seen in my brother.

"There's another reason," he admits quietly, glancing briefly at Alex. "Our world, this life...it's never had room for men like me. The families will accept you with your three men far more readily than they'll ever accept who I truly am.”

All these years, the pressure on him to conform, to be the heir our father wanted. The expectation to marry, produce children, and continue the bloodline, while hiding his true self.

"Luca..." I begin, but he shakes his head.

“It’s okay, V,” he smiles faintly. “You will lead our family into something better than what our father and grandfather built.”

I glance at Alex, who’s watching Luca with quiet intensity. And suddenly, the truth is undeniable. brother has spent his entire life fighting wars no one else could see.

“Are you sure?” I ask.

“Never been more certain of anything.” He squeezes my hand. “The old guard is dying, Vesper. Let them die with their prejudices.”

A sound escapes me—half breath, half disbelief—surprising us both. It’s sharp, almost out of place in this blood-soaked chapel, surrounded by bodies and shattered glass. The absurdity of it all settles over me like a punchline delivered too late.

“What?” Luca asks, his brow furrowing.

“Nothing,” I murmur, shaking my head and squeezing his hand. “It’s just...when I woke up this morning, I didn’t expect to become the head of a crime family before lunch.”

“You mean, two .” Luca’s lips twitch, and then he's grinning, the expression tugging painfully at his battered features but no less real.

Alex glances between us with something like stunned amusement, clearly wondering if we’ve lost our minds.

“I think there’s two men over there who want to see you,” Luca mentions, nodding toward Oz and Zaire.

I support Luca as we make our way toward Z and Oz. My brother leans heavily against me, his breathing labored but determined. Z struggles to his feet as we approach, grimacing through the pain of his shoulder wound. Blood has soaked the entire left side of his tuxedo.

“Took you long enough,” he manages, the corner of his mouth lifting in a pained smirk. “I was starting to think you were going to let that old bastard walk out of here.”

“Never,” I promise, reaching out to touch his face, reassuring myself he's real and alive beneath my fingers. “How bad is it?”

“I've had worse,” Z dismisses, though the pallor of his skin tells a different story. He nods toward Oz, who's now sitting up with Talon's help. “He took one to the chest. Vest caught most of it, but he's got at least two broken ribs.”

Oz coughs, wincing as he presses a hand to his sternum. “Three, minimum,” he corrects, his voice raspy but determined. “Worth it to see Victor's face when you pulled that trigger.”

I scan the chapel, taking in the carnage we've created. Bodies litter the once-pristine floor. Blood stains the marble like abstract art, pooling around fallen forms and broken glass. In death, it's impossible to tell which side they belonged to. Blood is just blood, after all.

Talon appears at my side, his jacket torn and bloodied but his movements sure as he helps support Oz. “We need to get out of here,” he says, scanning the devastation around us. “Police will be here soon.”

“Not in this part of Russia. Victor owns the local authorities. They won't come without his order.”

I turn toward Victor's body, sprawled beside his sons on the altar steps.

Even in death, he looks imperial. A fallen king surrounded by the ruins of his kingdom.

The diamond necklace weighs heavy against my collarbone, I reach up and snap the clasp, letting Victor's diamond collar fall to the floor beside his corpse.

"My son," I remind him. "Victor told me he is at a hunting lodge. Do you know where that is?"

Z pushes himself fully upright, swaying slightly before steadying himself. "I know the place. It’s his private retreat.”

"Then that's where we're going," I declare.

"You're not going anywhere except a hospital," Luca protests, eyeing the twins' injuries with growing concern. “All of you need medical attention.”

“We have a doctor.” I shift to look in the direction I had last seen the good doctor, only to find his lifeless body draped across a pew. “Correction, we had a doctor.”

“We've come too far to stop now,” I say, scanning the room for any survivors loyal to Victor. “We’ll get another doctor. They can’t be that hard to find with the kind of cash Victor probably has in his sock drawer. But first, we find my son.”

Z nods, his face set with unwavering determination despite the blood soaking through his sleeve. “The hunting lodge is about two hours north.”

“How many men?” Talon asks, already calculating the odds.

“Protecting his only heir? A half a dozen, maybe more," Z replies. “Elite security. They'll die before letting anyone near the boy.”

“Then they'll die,” I state simply.

Luca studies my face, perhaps seeing something there that concerns him. “Vesper, you're not thinking clearly. Look around you—we're all injured. We need to regroup, come up with a plan.”

“I have a plan. Find my son and kill anyone who stands in my way,” I counter, checking the ammunition in my gun.

“She's got a point,” Oz manages, wincing as the effort sends pain shooting through his ribs. “We didn't come this far to wait.”

Alex returns to our group, wiping his hands methodically on a handkerchief. There's blood under his fingernails, but his expression is calm, almost satisfied. “Mikhail has been secured. We can drop him off on our way to get your son. Does the estate have a dungeon?”

Oz and Zaire glance at each other. “Would a holding cell do?”

Alex considers their answer before nodding. “I can make it work.”

“What about the mess?”

Alex smiles, opening his mouth. “I have a…”

“The fuck you do,” Talon interjects. “We are on the other side of the planet right now, and you are telling us with a straight face that you have someone who can clean up this mess. Dude, I know you’re like some technological god, but there is no way.”

Alex's smile widens. "You underestimate the reach of proper planning, my friend. I've had assets in place across three continents for years.”

“This particular contact is a former Spetsnaz. Very discreet. Very thorough.” Alex looks around the chapel. “Good thing he offers bulk discounts.”

"Of course he is," Talon mutters, shaking his head in disbelief. "Next, you'll tell me you have a helicopter waiting on the roof."

"Helicopter, no." Alex smiles back at him. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s a Learjet at Pulkovo. I can get a helicopter if you’d like, though.”

Talon throws his arms up in exasperation. "Why am I even surprised? What else are you hiding? A submarine? A secret moon base?" His voice rises with each suggestion, the stress of the day finally cracking his usually unflappable demeanor.

I can't help the small smile that forms despite everything. There's something oddly comforting about Talon's indignation in the midst of all this blood and chaos.

"I think we should focus on the task at hand," I interject, watching as Z struggles to stay upright. The blood loss is taking its toll, his face growing paler by the minute. "My son is waiting."

Oz clears his throat, wincing as the movement jostles his broken ribs.

"The hunting lodge has a panic room," he says, his voice strained but clear.

"Victor had it installed after an assassination attempt in the early 2000s.

Biometric scanner for access. Victor's handprint or retinal scan is the only way in.”

My focus drifts to Victor's corpse. “Then we'll bring Victor with us.”

Z lets out a short, harsh sound that might’ve been a laugh if it hadn’t ended in a grimace. “That’s my queen. Always thinking.”

“We need to be practical,” Oz cuts in, voice steady despite the strain. “Everyone’s bleeding, we’re exhausted, and storming a secure location with half-dead men isn’t a strategy—it’s suicide.”

I turn to argue, but he lifts a hand.

“The mansion is fifteen minutes away. We regroup there. Patch ourselves up, gear up properly, and go in with enough blood in our veins to actually fight.”

“He’s right,” Talon adds. “Victor’s estate is fully stocked—armored vehicles, weapons, medical supplies. Everything we’ll need.”

My instinct screams at me to run, to tear the world apart until my son is safe. But logic wins out. I glance around—the blood, the bruises, the way Z can barely stay upright. We won’t save anyone if we die on the way.

“What about Victor’s loyalists?” I ask. “His staff, the guards. We can’t show up like this and declare he’s dead. The ones protecting my son—those are his elite. They won’t just fall in line. If they suspect he’s gone, they’ll disappear with the kid.”

A slow smile creeps across my lips as the pieces click into place.

Z raises a brow. “What are you thinking, moya koroleva ?”

“Victor’s dead. So is Dmitri. By their own rules of succession, everything passes to me—through my son. And until he’s of age...I hold the crown.”

Talon’s brows knit as he works through it. “So what you’re saying is?—”

“What I’m saying is, we don’t go in as rebels.” I meet Oscar’s eyes, steady and sure. “We walk in as rightful heirs. And we take what belongs to us.”

Oscar studies me for a beat, pain and pride written across his face. “You or Z want it?” I ask.

He exhales, sharp and quiet, and shakes his head with a small, pained smirk. “The Petrov empire was never meant for us, solnishko. Z and I spent our lives running from it.”

He glances toward his twin, something unspoken passing between them.

“Besides,” he adds, voice lower now. “You’ve earned it more than either of us ever did.”

Z nods, his complexion pale with blood loss but his expression sharp. “Uncle will be rolling in his grave knowing a woman, especially you, is taking control. Makes it all the sweeter.”

"Then it's settled," I declare, stepping over broken glass toward the chapel doors. "Let's go claim what's ours. It’s time I meet my son.”