All The Pretty Little Lies (Second Sons Duet #1)

8. Vesper

VESPER

I drift off into a hazy sleep, my mind still swirling with the remnants of Oscar and Zaire's visit. The drugged tea lingers in my system, pulling me deeper into unconsciousness. Vivid dreams dance behind my eyelids - snippets of conversations, flashes of concerned faces, and the weight of a decision that will change everything.

When I finally stir, the room is bathed in the soft glow of early morning light. For a moment, I'm disoriented, the memories of last night feeling more like fragments of an elaborate dream than reality. I stretch, my muscles protesting slightly, and reach for my phone on the nightstand.

The screen illuminates, momentarily blinding me. As my eyes adjust, I see a notification that makes my heart skip a beat. A message from Oscar. My fingers tremble slightly as I swipe to open it.

Be ready. Reset your phone and leave it behind. There’s a new one waiting for you in the car.

My heart races as I read Oscar's message. This is it. The moment of truth. I take a deep breath, steadying myself for what's to come. Victor is making his move. Five minutes pass before someone is pounding on my door.

"Vesper! Get up now!" My mother's voice, usually so controlled, carries a note of urgency that sends a chill down my spine.

I scramble out of bed, nearly tripping over the silk nightgown tangled around my legs. "What's going on?" I call back, pretending to have just woken up.

"Get dressed and come to your father's study. Immediately." The sharp click of her heels fade down the hallway, leaving me in a whirlwind of confusion and dread.

My hands shake as I pull on a pair of tailored trousers and a crisp white blouse. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror - my blonde hair a wild mess, my green eyes wide with apprehension. I take a deep breath, trying to steel myself. If Oscar and Zaire’s warning is right, their uncle issued his ultimatum. I needed to play along. I have to make them believe in this facade.

The house feels different as I make my way to Father's study. The usual hum of activity is muted, replaced by a tense silence that seems to cling to the walls. As I approach the heavy mahogany door, I can hear my father's voice, low and dangerous like a gathering thunderstorm.

"...absolutely unacceptable. That Russian bastard thinks he can dictate terms to me? In my own house?"

I pause, my hand hovering over the doorknob. My father rarely loses his composure like this. Whatever's happening, it's bad.

I push open the door, and the scene before me freezes my blood. Father stands behind his massive desk, his face flushed with rage. Mother perches on the edge of a leather armchair, her perfectly manicured nails digging into the upholstery.

Father's eyes lock onto me the moment I enter. "Vesper," he growls, "pack your bags. You're getting on a plane to Moscow today."

The world tilts beneath my feet with the confirmation that they were right. Oscar and Zaire weren’t lying to me. "What? But I thought-"

"Victor Petrov," Father spits the name like a curse, "is demanding your presence, immediately. He says that if you're not there by tonight, the deal's off." He slams his fist on the desk, making me flinch. "This is your brother’s fault. Those nephews of his must have spun quite the story.”

I stand frozen, my mind reeling as I try to school my reactions. Play your part, Vesper. They can’t know.

"Antonio, this is absurd! What about the wedding?" My mother rises from her seat, her perfectly coiffed hair bouncing slightly with the sudden movement. I watch as she paces the room, her designer heels clicking against the hardwood floor. Her hands gesticulate wildly, a rare display of emotion from a woman who prides herself on composure. "The expense alone is staggering. Do you have any idea how much we've already invested in this affair?"

Father's face darkens further if that's even possible. "You think I don't know that, Elizaveta? You think I'm happy about this?" He runs a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, a gesture I've seen a thousand times when he's trying to maintain control. "But we don't have a choice. If we want this alliance to hold, we play by their rules."

I find my voice at last, though it comes out as barely more than a whisper. "And what about what I want?"

Both of my parents turn to look at me as if they'd forgotten I was even in the room. Mother's expression softens slightly. "Oh, darling," she sighs, "You know better than to think you had a choice in this matter. This last minute change is an inconvenience, but it doesn’t change anything.”

"Inconvenient?" I interrupt, my voice growing stronger. "This isn't just an inconvenience, Mother. This is my life we're talking about!"

Father's gaze hardens. "Your life, Vesper, has always been about more than just you. You've known this since you were a child. The family comes first."

I feel a surge of anger rising within me, hot and fierce. A surge I cannot stamp down. This may be my last chance to say my peace. I can’t die on this hill now without a little push back. "The family comes first? Is that why you're shipping me off like some bargaining chip?"

Father's eyes flash dangerously. "Watch your tone, young lady. This isn't up for discussion."

But I'm too far gone now, the words spilling out of me like a dam breaking. "It never is, is it? Not when it comes to what I want. Not when it comes to my future."

Mother steps between us, her hands raised placatingly. "Please, let's all calm down." She turns to Father, her accent thickening as it always does when she's upset. "Antonio, maybe I could speak with Victor. My family has known the Petrovs for generations. Surely he would listen to reason and allow this alliance to precede as planned."

Instead, his expression twists into something ugly. "Your family?" he sneers. "You mean those vodka-soaked has-beens who couldn't keep control of their own territory? The ones who came crawling to me for protection when the Petrovs started muscling in?" He shakes his head dismissively. "No, Elizaveta. Your connections are useless. They'd probably make things worse.”

I watch as Mother recoils as if she's been slapped, her usually impeccable composure crumbling. "How dare you," she whispers, her voice trembling with hurt and anger. "My family may have fallen on hard times, but they were once respected. They had honor."

Father scoffs. "Honor doesn't mean shit when you're bleeding money and influence. The Petrovs saw weakness, and they pounced. That's how this world works. Victor has the upper hand right now because your fuck up of a son couldn’t control himself for a fucking week."

“You were the one who insisted that our son…,” she spits back before my father cuts her off. They trade barbs back and forth, aiming to cut each other down. I stand there, caught between my warring parents, feeling like a child again.

"Stop it!" I shout, surprising even myself with the force of my voice. Both of them turn to look at me, startled. "Just stop. This isn't helping anyone."

I take a deep breath, trying to center myself. I think of Oscar's message, of the escape plan we've been crafting. I think of the life I could have, free from all of this.

"I'll go," I say finally, the words tasting bitter on my tongue. "I'll go to Moscow."

I turn on my heel and march out of the study, not waiting for my father's dismissal. The heavy mahogany door slams behind me, muffling the renewed argument between my parents. Their voices fade as I climb the grand staircase, my fingers trailing along the polished banister.

I return to my room, looking around my gilded cage for the last time. Whether or not Oscar’s plan works, I will not be returning here. With a sigh, I walk to my closet and find my suitcase. The one my mother had given to me as a Christmas present years ago. The leather is soft and supple beneath my fingers. It's monogrammed with my name- Vesper Rossi- a constant reminder of the weight of my family name.

I begin to pack, selecting clothes that will be suitable for Moscow's weather. Each item I place in the suitcase feels like another brick in the wall of my prison. Designer labels and luxury fabrics, the wardrobe staples for a mafia princess bound for marriage. As I fold a cashmere sweater, my mind wanders to Oscar and Zaire. Are they watching the house, waiting for their moment? Will they be able to get me out before I'm whisked away to Russia? The uncertainty gnaws at me, making my hands shake as I continue to pack.

I pause at my jewelry box, my fingers hovering over the family heirlooms that have been passed down to me. The Rossi diamond necklace winks at me, a small fortune contained in those perfectly cut stones. For a moment, I consider leaving it behind - a final act of defiance. But practicality wins out. If things go south, I might need something valuable to barter with.

The sound of raised voices drifts up from below, reminding me that time is running short. I quicken my pace, shoving clothes and accessories into the suitcase with less care now. My eyes keep darting to the window, searching for any sign of Oscar or Zaire.

As I zip up the suitcase, my gaze falls on a framed photo on my nightstand. It's from happier a time - my whole family at our villa in Tuscany. Luca and I are laughing, our parents looking at us, smiling. Smiles I haven’t seen in a long time. Next to the photo is my phone. I grab it, ready to do what Oscar had instructed. But, I hesitate. I can’t erase it just yet. I take a deep breath, steadying myself for what's to come. With trembling fingers, I open a new text to my brother. The words flow from my heart, a bittersweet mix of love and fear.

Stay safe, Luca Whatever happens, remember that I love you.

I hit send, watching the message disappear. A lump forms in my throat as I navigate to the phone's settings. With a few quick taps, I initiate a factory reset. The screen goes black, and then flashes to life with the startup logo. I place it gently on the nightstand, the final connection to my old life left behind.

My feet sink into the plush carpet as I make my way to the door. The house feels different now, charged with an electric tension that makes the hair on my arms stand on end. As I descend the grand staircase, my father's voice echoes through the halls, a storm of Russian expletives crackling with fury. I catch snippets of his conversation - "incompetent," "disaster," "fix this now" - each word laced with venom.

At the bottom of the stairs, I pause, my hand resting on the cool marble banister. My mother stands by the front door, her usual composure shattered. She opens her mouth to speak, but no sound comes out. Instead, she reaches for me, pulling me into an embrace that feels foreign.

As Mother releases me from her embrace, her eyes lock onto mine, shimmering with unshed tears. "Be strong, my darling," she whispers, her voice barely audible over the gentle hum of the arriving town car. "Russia is not easy for women, but you are a Rossi. You will endure. Just like I do."

Her words settle over me like a heavy cloak, a mix of expectation and comfort that I've known all my life. I nod, not trusting my voice to remain steady if I speak. The weight of the moment, the finality of it all, threatens to overwhelm me.

"Do as you're told," Mother continues, her fingers gently smoothing my hair, a gesture so achingly familiar it makes my heart clench. "Everything will be okay if you just follow their lead. Remember, this is for the family. Do not disappoint your father. Do your duty. Give them an heir. It’s easier after that."

The town car gleams in the morning sun, its sleek black exterior a stark contrast to the lush greenery of our estate. The driver, a stone-faced man I don't recognize, steps out and approaches us with fluid efficiency. He reaches for my bag, and I relinquish it without protest, feeling oddly detached from the whole process.

Mother's hand rests on the small of my back, guiding me towards the vehicle. Each step feels like I'm moving through molasses, my legs heavy with reluctance and fear. I scan the windows of our sprawling mansion, searching for any sign of Father, but he's nowhere to be seen. His absence speaks volumes, a silent declaration of his expectations.

As we reach the car, Mother turns me to face her one last time. Her eyes roam over my face as if committing every detail to memory. "You are stronger than you know, Vesper," she says, her voice thick with emotion. "Never forget that."

She ushers me into the back seat, the leather cool against my skin. As the door closes, I catch one last glimpse of her - my beautiful, complicated mother - standing tall and proud despite the tears now flowing freely down her cheeks. The image burns itself into my mind, a bittersweet farewell to the life I've always known.

The driver slides into his seat, and the engine purrs to life. As we pull away from the house, I press my hand against the window, watching as my childhood home grows smaller in the distance. The manicured lawns and wrought-iron gates that once felt like the boundaries of my world now seem laughably insignificant compared to the vast unknown that lies ahead.

I sink back into the plush seat, my mind racing with possibilities. Will Oscar and Zaire's plan work? Or am I truly bound for Moscow and a life I never chose? The uncertainty is both terrifying and exhilarating, a cocktail of emotions that leaves me feeling dizzy and breathless.

As we merge onto the highway, I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

As the car cruises down the highway, my fingers drum nervously against the leather armrest. The weight of everything I've left behind presses down on me, making it hard to breathe. I glance at the driver, his stoic profile revealing nothing. Does he know about Oscar and Zaire's plan? Is he in on it, or just another pawn in this dangerous game?

My eyes dart to the floor of the car, searching for any sign of the promised phone. At first, I see nothing but pristine carpeting. Then, as we round a bend, a glint of metal catches my eye. There, partially hidden beneath the front passenger seat, I spot the edge of a smartphone.

My heart races as I lean forward, feigning the need to adjust my shoe. With trembling fingers, I grasp the device and quickly tuck it into my lap. The driver's eyes flick to the rearview mirror, but he says nothing. I hold my breath, waiting for him to pull over or call my father, but the car continues its steady pace down the highway.

Once I'm sure he hasn't noticed, I power on the phone. The screen flickers to life, displaying an unfamiliar interface. It's a burner phone, I realize, with no personal information or unnecessary apps. There's only one notification: a new message from an unknown number.

I open it, my pulse pounding in my ears. The words on the screen make my breath catch in my throat:

Put on your seatbelt and hold tight. Things are about to get interesting.

A mix of fear and exhilaration courses through me. This is it. The moment of truth. I fumble with the seatbelt, clicking it into place just as the car takes a sharp turn onto an exit ramp. The sudden movement throws me against the door, and I grip the armrest tightly.

The peaceful highway scenery gives way to a maze of industrial buildings and abandoned warehouses. Confusion furrows my brow. This isn't the way to the airport. The driver's knuckles tighten as he grips the steering wheel, his eyes darting between the road and the rearview mirror.

“Where are we going?” I ask, playing my part. The driver doesn’t respond. “Hello, I’m talking to you. This isn’t the way to the airport.”

The driver's eyes flash with anger in the rearview mirror. "Shut up!" he snarls, his composure finally cracking.

But before I can react, the world explodes into chaos. A thunderous crash rocks the car as something slams into us from behind. The impact throws me forward, my seatbelt cutting into my chest as it strains to hold me in place. My head whips back, stars bursting behind my eyes.

We're spinning now, the world outside the windows a dizzying blur of gray and green. I can hear the screech of tires, smell burning rubber and something acrid - gasoline, maybe? My stomach lurches as we continue to rotate, faster and faster.

Then, another impact. This one comes from my side, the metal of the car door crumpling inward with a sickening crunch. The window shatters, showering me with tiny shards of glass that sting my exposed skin. I see the driver lurch forward, the seatbelt that would have stopped his motion gone, and watch in horror as he’s thrown from the car through the windshield.

The car, hit from another side, begins to flip. The world outside the windshield becomes a violent phantasmagoria - pavement, sky, pavement, sky. Each rotation slams me against a new surface - the roof, the door, the shattered windshield. Pain explodes across my body, but there's no time to process it, no time to do anything but try to protect my head as I continue to roll.

One flip. Two. Three. I lose count, my senses overwhelm me, the cacophony of twisting metal, shattering glass, and my own strangled cries. Time seems to stretch and contract, each second feeling like an eternity and yet passing in the blink of an eye.

Finally, the car stops. It comes to a rest on its roof, the frame groaning as it settles. For a moment, everything is still. The only sound is the tick-tick-tick of cooling metal and my own ragged breathing.

I'm hanging upside down, suspended by my seatbelt, which is tightly pressing into my stomach, holding me in place. Blood rushes to my head, pounding in my ears. Every inch of my body screams in protest as I try to move. My vision swims, dark spots dancing at the edges.

Through the broken windshield I can see figures approaching. I can’t tell who it is, my thoughts are too fragmented to make sense of anything. The door next to me is ripped open with a screech of protesting metal. A figure crouches down, peering into the wreckage. For a moment, hope flares in my chest. Oscar? Zaire? But as my vision clears, I realize it's a stranger - a man with cold blue eyes and a face like carved granite.

"Well, well," he says, his voice a low rumble that sends chills down my spine. "Looks like our little princess survived the ride."

I try to speak, to demand answers, but my tongue feels thick and uncooperative in my mouth. The man's lips curl into a cruel smile as he takes in my battered state.

"Good," he says, reaching into his jacket pocket. "You're worth more alive."

My eyes widen as he pulls out a syringe, its contents a murky amber color. I try to struggle, to pull away, but I'm trapped by the twisted metal and my own injuries. Panic surges through me, lending strength to my leaden limbs.

"No," I manage to croak out, my voice barely above a whisper. "Please..."

But my pleas fall on deaf ears. The man's hand darts forward, quick as a striking snake. I feel a sharp pinch in my neck, followed by a burning sensation that spreads rapidly through my body.

“Be a good girl, princess. Don’t fight what comes next. It’ll be easier for you if you don’t.”

The world begins to tilt and blur around the edges. Colors bleed into one another, sounds becoming muffled and distant. I try to fight against the encroaching darkness, but it's a losing battle. My eyelids grow heavy, each blink lasting longer than the last.

The last thing I see before consciousness slips away is the man's face, those icy blue eyes watching me with a mix of satisfaction and contempt. Then, like a candle being snuffed out, the world goes black.