Page 78 of All The Darkest Truths (Second Sons Duet #2)

"Stay behind me," Oscar orders as we approach the east entrance—a service door partially concealed by ornamental shrubbery. Despite his injuries, he positions himself protectively in front of me.

The door is secured with both a keypad and a biometric scanner.

I remove Victor's hand from the insulated bag, suppressing a shudder as I press the cold, stiff fingers against the glowing panel.

For a heart-stopping moment, nothing happens.

Then a soft beep and the lock disengages with a mechanical click.

"We're in," I relay into my comm as Oscar eases the door open, weapon raised.

The interior of the lodge is warm after the biting cold outside, the air heavy with the scent of pine and wood smoke. We move silently through a utility corridor, passing a laundry room and storage closets.

"Thermal readings show two heat signatures in the room at the end of this hall. One adult-sized, one small."

My son. My breath catches in my throat.

“And the other guards?”

"Moving toward the west wing. Looks like Alex and Luca's distraction is working."

We advance down the corridor, our footsteps silent on the plush carpet.

A soft cry pierces the silence—high-pitched, unmistakably infantile. The sound stops me in my tracks, a physical force slamming into my chest. My son's voice. The first time I've ever heard it.

Oscar's hand closes around my arm, steadying me as emotion threatens to overwhelm my focus. "Steady. We're almost there."

We reach the end of the hallway where a wooden door stands between us and my child. I press my ear against it, listening. The infant's cries have quieted to soft whimpers, followed by gentle shushing sounds. A woman's voice.

"A nanny," Oscar breathes.

"Or a guard. We need to be sure."

Oscar nods, positioning himself to the side of the door. I take a deep breath, forcing my racing heart to slow as I grasp the handle. With one fluid motion, I push the door open, weapon raised.

The room beyond is a nursery straight from a fairy tale. Soft golden light spills from a crystal chandelier, illuminating hand-painted murals of Russian forests and mythical creatures. A massive crib carved from wood dominates the center, draped with silken canopies.

Beside it stands a woman in her sixties, silver-streaked hair pulled into a severe bun.

She wears a simple black dress with a white apron, her weathered hands frozen in the act of tucking a blanket around the crib's occupant.

Her eyes widen with alarm as she takes in my weapon, my blood-splattered tactical gear.

“Step away from the crib,” I order in broken Russian.

The woman’s expression hardens, her body instinctively shifting to shield the crib.

“Who are you?” she demands, voice steady, showing no fear despite the gun aimed at her chest. “Where are the guards?”

“They’re indisposed,” Oscar answers as he steps in behind me. “Move away from the child. Now.”

Something flickers across the woman’s face as she studies me—something sharp, assessing. Recognition settles in, followed closely by a quiet resignation.

“You’re her,” she says softly. “The mother.”

My finger twitches slightly on the trigger. “Step away from my son.”

She hesitates, glancing between Oscar and me before settling on my face again. “He looks like you,” she murmurs, more to herself than to us. “I always wondered why the child’s eyes were green when neither of his parents had them.”

"Last warning," Oscar says, as he moves closer, weapon trained on the woman's chest.

With a resigned sigh, she takes two steps back from the crib. "I am not armed," she says. "I am only Irina, the nurse."

I keep my gun trained on her as I edge toward the crib, my heart threatening to burst from my chest. The soft whimpering grows louder as I approach, and for the first time, I catch a glimpse of my son.

Time stops.

He's perfect. Impossibly small yet somehow exactly as I'd imagined in my dreams. A dusting of dark hair crowns his head, his tiny fists waving in frustration at being disturbed. But it's his eyes that steal my breath—vibrant green, identical to mine, blinking up at me with innocent curiosity.

"Hello, little one," I coo, my voice cracking as I holster my weapon. "I've been looking for you for a very long time."

The baby stills at the sound of my voice, his tiny features scrunching in concentration. For a heartbeat, we simply stare at each other. His little mouth opens in an 'o' of surprise.

"He knows you," Irina declares from behind me.

My arms hover above the crib, suddenly unsure. I’ve killed without blinking, toppled empires with a word—but this? Reaching for something so small, so breakable, terrifies me more than anything I’ve ever faced.

“It’s okay,” Oscar says softly behind me. “He’s waiting for you.”

I inhale, then slide my arms beneath the tiny bundle.

He weighs almost nothing, but the moment he rests against my chest, I feel the world shift.

No battlefield ever made me feel this exposed.

I cradle his head instinctively, surprised by how natural it feels…

and how fiercely I already want to protect him.

The scent of him fills my senses, powder and innocence and something uniquely his own. His warmth seeps through my tactical gear, melting the last frozen fragments of my heart as I draw him closer.

“I’ve got you now," I sob against his downy hair. “No one will ever take you from me again."

His tiny hand escapes the blanket, five perfect fingers splaying before curling around my index finger with surprising strength. The connection is electric. physical manifestation of the bond that's drawn me across continents and through blood to find him.

“Remarkable grip." Oscar steps closer to peer down at the infant's face. His expression softens as he takes in the delicate features. “Strong like his mother.”

I can’t look away from my son’s face. There’s a depth in his expression, an intensity in his small features that feels far too knowing for someone so young.

“We need to move. The others can only hold position for so long.”

I nod, reluctantly dragging my attention back to Irina, who watches us with a calm, unreadable expression.

“What is his name?” I ask. “What have they been calling him?”

Her lips press into a thin line. “Nikolai Dmitrievich Petrov. After Victor’s father.”

The name hits like a blow. The Petrov legacy, forced onto him before he ever had a voice. I shake my head, rejection immediate and final.

“That’s not his name.”

“What will you call him then?” Oscar asks, eyes fixed on the doorway, his posture alert.

I turn back to my son, memorizing every detail. A name rises, quiet but certain, as if it’s been waiting all along.

“Matteo," I declare.

The baby blinks up at me, as if considering the sound of his true name. His fingers tighten around mine in what I choose to interpret as approval.

“Matteo," Oscar repeats, a smile warming his voice. “It suits him."

I turn to Irina, who stands watching us with that same unreadable expression. "Is there anything he needs? Formula? Supplies?"

Something softens in her weathered face. "There is a bag by the changing table. Everything is prepared. I...I always knew this day would come."

Oscar moves swiftly to retrieve the bag, checking its contents with efficient movements. "Looks complete. Formula, diapers, extra clothes."

“You prepared for this?" I ask Irina, studying her more carefully now.

“A mother's love is not something to be trifled with. Even Victor's power has limits. I have cared for him since birth. He is a good baby. Strong. Rarely cries unless he wants attention."

The sound of distant gunfire filters through the thick walls. My arms tighten instinctively around Matteo, who whimpers at the sudden pressure.

“What will you do with me?” Irina asks, her chin lifting slightly.

I study the older woman's face, searching for signs of deception or threat. Instead, I find only a weary resignation and something that might be relief.

“Did you care for him?" I ask her. “Truly care for him?”

Irina straightens her spine, dignity radiating from her despite her circumstances. “I have cared for him since the moment he arrived. Every feeding, every bath, every cry in the night—it was me who comforted him.”

There's no boast in her words, only simple truth. My arms tighten protectively around Matteo, but I recognize the genuine concern when she looks at him.

“Let her go. Thank you for loving my son and protecting him until I found him.”

“You would release me? Just like that?”

“You kept him safe,” I reply. “That's worth something to me.”

Oscar's head tilts slightly as he listens to his earpiece. “We need to move. Now. Security protocols have been triggered in the west wing.”

“Go,” Irina urges, suddenly animated. “Take the service corridor behind the kitchen. It leads to a garage with snowmobiles. The keys are in a box by the door.”

I hesitate, studying her face. “Why help us?”

A ghost of a smile touches her weathered lips. “I have raised many children for powerful men. None of them ever came looking for their babies themselves. This one deserves a mother who would burn the world to find him.”

Matteo stirs against my chest, his tiny face scrunching with displeasure at the noise.

“Oscar, lead the way,” I command, adjusting my hold on Matteo to keep one hand free for my weapon if needed. “Irina, thank you.”

The older woman nods once, dignity in every line of her body. “Be good to him. He likes to be sung to when he cannot sleep.”

My throat tightens with unexpected emotion. “I’ll remember that.”

“Here,” she says as she grabs a thick blanket from the edge of his crib. “This will keep him warm.”

I take the blanket, wrapping it around Matteo's tiny body before tucking him securely against my chest. “Thank you,” I say again.

She nods, her weathered face softening as she looks at Matteo. “Go. Be the mother he deserves.”