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

11. Oscar （2 years later）

TWO YEARS LATER

OSCAR

Two years. Seven hundred and thirty days of searching, hoping, and coming up empty-handed. Each sunrise brings a renewed sense of determination and each sunset a crushing wave of disappointment. I can't give up. I won't give up. Vesper is out there somewhere, and I'll tear this city apart brick by brick if that's what it takes to find her.

The neon lights of Boston's underbelly flicker and hum as I make my way through the rain-slicked streets. The Second Sons have eyes and ears everywhere, but it's never enough. Every lead fizzles out like a dying ember. But I can't stop. The weight of this guilt sits heavy on my chest, a constant reminder of my failure to protect her.

I pause outside of a seedy bar, its windows clouded with years of grime and cigarette smoke. My reflection stares back at me, a stranger with haunted blue eyes and a perpetual frown. I barely recognize myself anymore. The Second Sons have grown. What started out as a way to save Vesper and our families from Victor Petrov’s influence has become our refuge. Even though Victor still hasn’t connected the dots of our plan to rescue her, my father had quickly fallen out of favor with our uncle after failing him. With my father out of power, our family fell onto hard times. The opulent estate my parents had loved now belongs to one of our cousins, Victor’s new second. With no money of their own and no power, my parents abandoned Boston and returned overseas, leaving Zaire and I to fend for ourselves. Thankfully, we had a nest egg due to some underground side work we’d been doing while at the academy. We had a small fortune saved up, and we’ve managed to grow it to keep us, Alex, and Talon living comfortably.. We may be outcasts and bastards, but we have something that every other heir doesn’t, freedom.

"Oscar," Zaire's voice crackles through my earpiece, tinged with exasperation. "It's time to call it a night."

I clench my jaw, frustration bubbling up inside me. "Not yet. I've got one more contact to check."

"Brother," Zaire sighs, and I can picture him pinching the bridge of his nose, tattoos rippling across his forearms. "It's been two years. We've looked everywhere. She's gone."

"Don't say that," I growl, my hand curling into a fist at my side.

The silence on the other end of the line is deafening. When Zaire speaks again, his voice is softer, laden with a mixture of concern and resignation. "Oscar, we can't keep living in the past. The Second Sons need you here, focused on the present. On our future."

I close my eyes, leaning my forehead against the cool glass of the bar window. Zaire's words cut deep, reopening wounds that have never truly healed. But he doesn't understand. He can't understand the gnawing emptiness, the constant ache of Vesper's absence.

"I'll be back soon," I mutter, ending the call on my earpiece with a tap of my finger before he can argue further.

As I push open the bar door, the stench of stale beer and desperation washes over me. This is where the dregs of society come to forget, to drown their sorrows in cheap liquor, and even cheaper company. But for me, it's another thread in the vast tapestry of Boston's underworld, another potential lead to follow.

I scan the dimly lit room, my eyes adjusting to the haze of smoke that hangs in the air like a shroud. In the far corner, I spot him - Ricky, a grimy fixture in this cesspool of humanity. His eyes dart nervously around the room, never settling on one spot for too long. As I approach, he hunches further over his drink, as if trying to disappear into the sticky surface of the bar.

"Ricky," I say, sliding onto the stool next to him. "We need to talk."

He flinches at the sound of my voice, his fingers tightening around his glass. "I ain't got nothin' for you, Petrov. Now leave me be."

I lean in closer, my voice low and dangerous. "That's not what I heard. Word on the street is you've got some information about the trafficking ring that's moved into town."

Ricky's eyes flick to mine, a flash of fear crossing his face before he schools his features back into a mask of indifference. "Don't know what you're talkin' about."

I slide a thick envelope across the bar, watching as his gaze locks onto it like a starving dog eyeing a scrap of meat. "Maybe this will jog your memory."

His grimy fingers twitch towards the envelope, but I place my hand over it before he can grab it. "Information first, Ricky. Then you get paid."

He licks his lips, eyes darting around the bar once more before leaning in close. The stench of cheap whiskey washes over me as he speaks. "There's a new player in town. Goes by the name of 'The Collector.' Word is, he's got a taste for exotic merchandise."

My stomach churns at his words, bile rising in my throat. The thought of Vesper in the clutches of someone like that...I push the image away, forcing myself to focus. "Where's he operating from?"

Ricky shakes his head. "Nobody knows for sure. But there's talk of a big shipment coming in next week. Big enough that overseas guys are coming in for it. Word is that they have something up for auction that is worth millions."

“Can you get me an invitation to that auction?”

“Look, man, I get information. I don’t stick my nose into my boss’ business. If I go asking around about an invitation to something above my pay grade, it’ll get me killed.”

“You’re right,” I admit, knowing damn well that I don’t care if he lives or dies considering he helps get the girls his boss sells. Ricky is a means to an end for me. I find Vesper and his life ends. Plain and fucking simple. The less people like him on Earth, the better. Until then, he’s still useful to me.

“Get me an invite, and I’ll double this.”

I slide the envelope towards him, watching as he snatches it up and tucks it inside his threadbare jacket.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he answers.

As I stand to leave, he grabs my arm, his eyes wide with fear. "You didn't hear this from me, Petrov. If The Collector finds out I talked..."

I shake off his grip, my voice cold. "No one will know. But if I find out you're lying to me, Ricky, you'll wish it was The Collector coming for you instead of me."

As I step back out into the rain-slicked night, my mind races with the new information. The sex trafficking trade in Boston has exploded over the past year, a festering wound on the city's underbelly. Each new lead, each whisper of a new ring or a fresh shipment of girls, sends a spike of anger inside of me. We’ve helped as many as we could over the last two years. No matter how many of them we managed to get out, even more were brought in to replace them.. It’s an uphill battle we continue to lose.

Vesper lingers in my mind as I walk back to our building. Maybe Zaire’s right. Maybe she is gone. Maybe everything that I have done has been for nothing. But, deep down, I think he’s wrong. Maybe it’s the hope that I can find her and redeem myself for what happened despite what Zaire and everyone else seem to think. Vesper has to be still out there. Because if she isn’t, I’m not sure that I can live with myself. It’s already hard to face the man in the mirror every morning, knowing that I broke my promise to her and that she may be out there in danger, hurt, or worse because of me. I gave her false hope that marrying my asshole cousin wasn’t the end for her. That she could be free. I guess that shit is only in fairy tale books now.

The thoughts of her carry me the rainy twenty blocks home to our warehouse which has a converted penthouse on the top floor. It had been a dump when we bought it. A 1900s brick factory that had closed down long ago. The realtor had it on the market for almost ten years when we made an all cash offer in exchange for our paperwork to disappear after it closed. The agent was more than happy to oblige us. After two years of near constant improvements and renovations in our downtime, it finally feels like home. We have everything we need here.

My clothes are soaked. Water practically pours off of me the second I step inside the building. Making my way to the main elevator, I step inside and hit the button for the top floor.

I step out of the elevator into our penthouse apartment, the silence a stark contrast to the chaos of the city outside. The carpet muffles my footsteps as I make my way through the dimly lit living room. Talon's absence is palpable; no doubt he's out chasing his latest conquest.

As I pass Alex's office, I catch a glimpse of him through the crack in the door. He's hunched over his desk, bathed in the blue glow of multiple computer screens. His fingers fly across the keyboard, eyes never leaving the monitors. The sound of ‘Boots and Blood’ by Five Finger Death Punch plays as he works. I consider stepping in, and sharing what I've learned, but I know better when he has music playing while he works. When Alex's in the zone, it's best to leave him be. His playlist acting as a guide to his mood for all of us. The darker the lyrics, the deeper he’s into his task. Talon had made the mistake once of stumbling into his office when he was trying to hack into a government database. It wasn’t pretty. We all learned a lesson that day. If the singer is screaming his lyrics, it’s best to walk away or you might risk stirring the monster inside of him. The last place you want to be is in his playroom in the basement.

The cool night air hits me as I step onto the balcony. Zaire's there, leaning against the railing, his profile illuminated by the city lights. He doesn't turn as I approach, but I know he's aware of my presence. We've always had that connection, an unspoken understanding that goes beyond words.

"You're back earlier than I expected," he says, his voice carrying a hint of surprise and relief.

I join him at the railing, looking out over the glittering expanse of Boston. From up here, the city looks almost peaceful, its darker undercurrents hidden beneath a veneer of twinkling lights and towering skyscrapers.

"Got some new information," I reply, my fingers drumming against the cool metal. "A lead on a big auction coming up. Could be our chance to finally get some real answers."

Zaire turns to face me, his eyes searching mine. "Oscar," he begins, his voice soft but firm. "We need to talk about this. About Vesper."

I feel my jaw clench, my body tensing at the mere mention of her name. "What's there to talk about? She's out there, Zaire. I know it."

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. "It's been two years, brother. Two years of chasing shadows and dead ends. You're not living anymore, you're just...existing."

His words hit me like a physical blow, and I take a step back. "What are you saying? That I should just give up? Forget about her? She’s gone because we failed her."

“We did what we could, and it didn’t work. We tried. That’s more than most can say about the situation.”

I turn away, unable to meet his gaze. The city blurs before me as unbidden tears sting my eyes. "You don't understand," I whisper. "I failed her, Zaire. I promised to protect her, and I failed."

I feel his hand on my shoulder, a comforting weight. "You didn't fail her, Oscar. We were all blindsided by what happened. But you can't keep chasing a ghost, Oz.”

I shake off Zaire's hand, unable to bear the weight of his concern. My eyes scan the cityscape, searching for something, anything, to latch onto. The neon signs blur into streaks of color, like tears on the face of the night. I can't shake the feeling that she's out there, lost in that sea of lights, waiting for me to find her.

"Every time I close my eyes, I see her face. I hear her voice. She's not a ghost, Zaire. She's real, and she's out there somewhere."

"I got a potential lead tonight.” I turn back to face my brother, my hands gripping the railing so tightly my knuckles turn white. "This lead...it's different. There's an auction coming up. Big players from overseas are flying in for it. Whatever they're selling, it's worth millions."

Zaire's eyes widen slightly, a flicker of interest breaking through his mask of concern. "What kind of auction?"

"The kind that deals in 'exotic merchandise,'" I spit out the words, disgust coating my tongue. "It's a whole new operation, run by someone called 'The Collector.'"

I watch as my brother processes this information, his brow furrowing in thought. The tattoos on his arms seem to shift in the dim light, like shadows dancing across his skin. For a moment, I'm struck by how different we look now, despite being twins. While I've remained unmarked, Zaire has embraced the family traditions, his skin a canvas.

"Oscar," he says slowly, "even if this lead pans out, what makes you think Vesper will be there? It's been two years. The chances of her being part of this particular auction..."

"I know it's a long shot," I interrupt, running a hand through my damp hair. "But what if she is? What if this is our one chance to find her? I can't...I won't let it slip away."

The city hums below us, a constant reminder of the life that goes on, oblivious to our struggles. A siren wails in the distance, and I wonder briefly if it's racing towards another tragedy, another life about to be shattered.

"We need to be smart about this," Zaire says, his voice taking on the tone he uses when planning operations. "If this auction is as big as you say, we can't just go in guns blazing. We need intel, a solid plan."

I nod, feeling a surge of gratitude for my brother's unwavering support, even when he doesn't fully agree with me. "I've got a contact working on getting us an invitation. Once we're in, we can gather more information, maybe even identify some of the major players."

Zaire's eyes narrow. "An invitation? Oscar, we can't risk exposing ourselves like that. If Victor finds out we have an operation of our own, we’re good as dead. Same for Alex and Talon.”

"Victor won't find out," I assure Zaire, my voice low and steady. "We've been careful, brother. As far as he knows, we’re off traveling the world like our social media accounts would suggest.” Alex had put in a lot of work to throw off Uncle Victor going so far as to sync the location on our phones Victor provides us to mimic the location where we should be at the time. How he did that, I had no fucking idea, but it’s been working. You don’t mess with a tried and true formula until you need to tweak it. If he only knew just how deeply we were operating in the shadows, gaining influence with some of the less powerful families. The Second Sons is the only thing keeping the playing field even now that he lost his Rossi alliance.

I turn back to the cityscape, my eyes tracing the familiar skyline. The Prudential Tower stands tall and proud, a beacon in the night. To its left, the John Hancock Tower reflects the city lights like a mirror, its glass surface a canvas for the urban glow. These landmarks have become more than just buildings to me; they're silent witnesses to our struggle, and our growth.

"Think about it," I continue, my voice gaining strength. "Two years ago, we were just a couple of outcasts with a crazy idea. Now? We've got a network that spans half the East Coast. The Moretti family in New York, the Caruso in Philadelphia - they're all working with us now. Hell, even the O’Brien in South Boston are starting to come around."

I can see Zaire's reflection in the glass, his face a mixture of pride and concern. "I know we've come far," he admits. "But this auction...it's different. We're talking about major players, Oscar. The kind of people who could wipe us out with a phone call if they found out who we really are."

I turn to face him, meeting his gaze head-on. "That's exactly why we need to be there. To draw out the major hitter. The Collector has something rare to sell.”

The night air is cool against my skin, carrying with it the faint scent of the harbor. In the distance, I can hear the low, mournful sound of a ship's horn.

"We've been building this network for two years," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "Every contact we've made, every favor we've called in...it's all led to this moment. We're not the same scared kids we were when we started this, Zaire. We're smarter, stronger."

I watch Zaire process my words, his eyes scanning the city below us. I can almost see the gears turning in his head, weighing the risks against the potential rewards.

“If this lead doesn’t pan out, I’ll stop chasing her.”

I see the flicker of doubt in Zaire's eyes, the slight tightening of his jaw that tells me he doesn't quite believe my promise. But I can also see the resignation, the willingness to give this one last shot. For me. For us.

"Alright," he says, his voice barely audible above the distant hum of the city. "One last time. But we do this smart, Oscar. No unnecessary risks."

I nod, relief washing over me like a cool breeze. "Thank you," I whisper, reaching out to clasp his shoulder. The familiar texture of his tattoos beneath my palm grounds me, a reminder of the unbreakable bond we share.

As we stand there, the city stretches out before us like a glittering canvas. The Charles River snakes its way through the urban landscape, its dark waters reflecting the lights from the buildings that line its banks. In the distance, the iconic Citgo sign pulses with a steady rhythm, a beacon in the night that has guided countless Bostonians home.

The air carries a mix of scents - the briny tang of the harbor, the rich aroma of coffee from the all-night diner down the street, and the faint whiff of exhaust from the cars far below. It's a smell I've come to associate with home, with the life we've built here in the shadows of this city.

I take a deep breath, letting the cool night air fill my lungs. For the first time in what feels like forever, I feel a spark of hope ignite in my chest. It's small, and fragile, but it's there.

"We should bring Alex and Talon in on this," Zaire says, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled between us. "If we're going to pull this off, we'll need all hands on deck."

I nod, my mind already racing with possibilities. "Alex can start digging into The Collector and see if he can find any digital footprints. Talon's contacts in the underground fighting scene might have some useful intel as well."

As if on cue, the sound of the front door opening reaches us, followed by Talon's booming laugh. I can't help but smile; his energy is infectious, a stark contrast to the brooding atmosphere that often surrounds me these days.

"Speak of the devil," Zaire mutters, a hint of amusement in his voice.

We make our way back inside, the warmth of the penthouse enveloping us like a cocoon. Talon is in the kitchen, his massive frame dwarfing the sleek, modern appliances. He's rummaging through the fridge, no doubt in search of a post-workout snack.

"Anyone want to order delivery?" he calls out, his voice muffled by the refrigerator door. "There’s nothing good in here." He steps back, shutting the fridge, and takes notice of Zaire and me. “Why do you both look so serious? Did someone die? Please say it was Victor.”

“We’d be celebrating if that son of a bitch dropped dead, asshole.”

“Fair point.” Talon comments. “So, what’s going on?”

"We've got a lead," I say, leaning against the kitchen island.

“Well, shit, I’ll order pizza. Sounds like we have a lot to talk about, and I’m not doing it on an empty stomach.”