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

37. Vesper

VESPER

I stand at the edge of the plastic curtains, my heart pounding in my chest as I take in the sight before me. The basement's dim lighting casts eerie shadows across Natasha's prone form, strapped to the cold metal table like a sacrifice on an altar. The air is thick with the metallic scent of blood and the sharp sting of antiseptic, a nauseating cocktail that makes my stomach churn.

Hours have passed since we were all down here, since I witnessed the brutal interrogation that left Natasha in this state. The penthouse above is silent now, its occupants likely lost in uneasy dreams or restless contemplation. But sleep eludes me, my mind a tempest of conflicting emotions and half-formed plans.

I take a tentative step forward, the plastic rustling softly around me. Natasha's chest rises and falls in shallow, erratic breaths, the only sign that life still clings to her battered body. Her face, once beautiful and haughty, is now a canvas of bruises and dried blood. I feel a pang of something. Pity? Guilt? Or perhaps a chilling recognition that in this world, in this life, any one of us could end up on this table.

My fingers twitch at my sides, itching to do something, anything. But what? Tend to her wounds? End her suffering? Alert the others? Each option carries its own set of consequences, rippling out into futures I can barely comprehend.

I think of Oscar, his warm embrace still lingering on my skin. What would he say if he knew I was down here? Would he understand this inexplicable pull I feel towards our enemy? Or would his eyes harden with that calculating look I've come to both admire and fear?

A soft moan escapes Natasha's lips, barely audible but enough to make me flinch. Her eyelids flutter, and for a heart-stopping moment, I think she might regain consciousness. But she remains lost in whatever dark realm her mind has retreated to.

I take another step closer, my reflection ghostly in the polished surface of the medical equipment surrounding the table. My hand reaches out, hovering inches from Natasha's battered face. To touch her would be to acknowledge her humanity, to forge a connection I'm not sure I'm prepared for.

“I thought I might find you down here.”

I freeze, my hand still hovering above Natasha's face, as Alex's voice cuts through the silence like a blade. "It's funny, isn't it?" he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear. "How the people who hurt you the most bring on the heaviest pangs of guilt."

My heart leaps into my throat, adrenaline surging through my veins. I hadn't heard him approach, too lost in my own tumultuous thoughts. The basement suddenly feels smaller, more claustrophobic, with his presence looming behind me.

I turn slowly, my eyes adjusting to the darkness beyond the harsh circle of light surrounding Natasha's makeshift medical bay. Alex stands there, a shadow among shadows, his expression unreadable in the gloom. The faint scent of his cologne, sandalwood and something distinctly masculine, mingles with the antiseptic air.

"I'm not feeling guilty," I lie, the words tasting bitter on my tongue. But even as I say them, I know it's not entirely true. The sight of Natasha, broken and vulnerable, has awakened something in me, a reminder of our shared humanity that I've tried so hard to bury.

Alex takes a step closer, and I resist the urge to back away. His eyes, dark and intense, search my face. "Aren't you?" he challenges softly. "Then why are you down here, Vesper? Why stand vigil over the woman who stole from your body over and over again, and sold you?”

I swallow hard, my mind racing for an answer that won't betray the turmoil inside me. The plastic curtains rustle softly around us, like whispers in the night, and Natasha's labored breathing provides a haunting backdrop to our conversation.

"I needed to see," I finally admit, my voice barely above a whisper. "To understand."

Alex nods slowly, as if he expected this answer. He moves past me, his shoulder brushing mine, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine. He stands over Natasha, studying her with a clinical detachment that both impresses and unsettles me.

"Understanding is dangerous in our world, Vesper," he says, his fingers ghosting over the edge of the metal table. "It leads to hesitation. And hesitation..." He trails off, leaving the consequences unspoken but painfully clear.

I watch him, noting the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenches. There's more here than just a warning there, I realize. There's experience speaking, hard-won and bitter.

"Have you ever felt it?" I ask, surprising myself with my boldness. "That guilt? That connection to someone you're supposed to hate?"

Alex turns to me, and for a moment, I see a flash of something raw and vulnerable in his eyes. It's gone in an instant, replaced by his usual guarded expression.

Alex's eyes bore into mine, a storm of emotions swirling in their depths. For a moment, I think he might not answer, might retreat behind the walls he's so carefully constructed. But then he speaks, his voice low and rough with remembered pain.

"My mother," he says, the words hanging heavy in the air between us.

I feel my brow furrow in confusion. "Your mother?" I repeat, trying to make sense of this unexpected revelation.

Alex nods, his gaze drifting back to Natasha's unconscious form. "I feel guilty," he continues, "because I didn't kill her sooner."

My breath catches in my throat. The basement suddenly feels colder, the shadows deeper. I search Alex's face, looking for any sign that this is some sort of sick joke, but find only grim resolve.

"I don't understand," I whisper, my voice sounding small and lost in the vastness of this terrible confession.

Alex turns back to me, his eyes now burning with an intensity that makes me want to step back. But I hold my ground, drawn in by the raw honesty of this moment.

"My mother," he says, each word deliberate and heavy, "was the Butcher of Selfoss."

The name hits me like a physical blow. I've heard whispers of the Butcher, a serial killer whose brutality shocked even the hardened members of our world. But to hear Alex claim such a monster as his mother...

"Her body count would shock you, Vesper," Alex continues, his voice eerily calm. "Men, women, children, no one was safe from her artistic endeavors."

I feel bile rising in my throat, but I force it down. "How..." I begin, but the words fail me.

Alex's laugh is bitter, devoid of any humor. "How did I not know? Oh, I knew. I always knew." He runs a hand through his hair, a rare display of agitation. "She was training me. Grooming me to follow in her footsteps."

The horror of what he's saying washes over me in waves. I think of my own childhood, of the subtle and not-so-subtle ways my family prepared me for this life. But this is something else entirely.

"I thought that's how you were supposed to love," Alex says, his voice barely above a whisper now. "To hurt, to create beauty from pain. It took me years to understand how wrong it all was."

I reach out, my hand hovering just above his arm, unsure if touch would be welcome at this moment. "Alex, I'm so sorry," I breathe, the words feeling woefully inadequate.

He looks at me then, really looks at me, and I see the scared little boy hiding behind the hardened exterior. "I was fifteen when I finally put an end to it," he says. "Fifteen years old, and I had to kill my own mother to stop the monster she'd become. Before she had a chance to make me in her image. "

I feel my breath catch in my throat as the full weight of Alex's revelation settles over me. I look at him, really look at him, and see him anew. The precise, calculated movements. The unflinching gaze when faced with violence. The meticulous attention to detail in his ‘playroom.’

"That's why," I whisper, my voice barely audible over Natasha's labored breathing. "That's why you know how to do the things you do."

Alex's eyes meet mine, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before it's quickly masked. "What do you mean?"

I take a deep breath, steeling myself. "What you did to Ivanov." The memory of that night flashes through my mind, the clinical precision with which Alex had extracted information, the way he'd wielded pain like an artist's brush. "She trained you to be a weapon, didn't she? The finger of God to wipe the Earth clean of those she deemed unworthy."

A mirthless chuckle escapes Alex's lips. "Finger of God," he repeats, shaking his head. "That's poetic, Vesper. But no, I was to be her masterpiece. Her magnum opus."

He moves away from Natasha's prone form, pacing the small space like a caged animal. The dim light catches the planes of his face, casting sharp shadows that make him look almost skeletal.

"You've seen my work, Vesper," he continues, his voice low and intense. "The precision. The control. But what you don't see is the struggle. Every. Single. Time."

I watch him, transfixed, as he runs a hand through his hair, leaving it disheveled. It's such a human gesture, at odds with the monster he's describing.

"She taught me to find beauty in suffering," Alex says, his words dripping with disgust. "To see the human body as a canvas, pain as my palette. But she also taught me control. Precision. How to keep someone alive and coherent through unimaginable agony."

I feel my stomach churn, but I force myself to listen. To understand.

He turns to me, his eyes blazing with an intensity that both terrifies and captivates me. "Every time I step into that room, every time I pick up a tool, I feel her ghost over my shoulder. Urging me to go further, to indulge in the artistry she tried to instill in me."

I take a step towards him, drawn by the raw vulnerability in his voice. "But you don't," I say softly.

Alex shakes his head. "No, I don't. But the temptation is always there. Like a voice inside my head.”

I swallow hard, my mind reeling from Alex's confession. The weight of his words hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the antiseptic scent and the soft, rhythmic beeping of the medical equipment. I find myself taking a step closer to him, drawn by some inexplicable force.

"How?" I whisper, my voice barely audible. "How do you keep yourself from going over the edge?"

Alex's eyes meet mine, and I see a storm of emotions swirling in their depths. For a moment, he's silent, and I can almost see the war raging within him, the constant battle between the man he's chosen to be and the monster his mother tried to create.

"Because," he says finally, his voice low and intense, "the world needs monsters like me to balance the scales."

I furrow my brow, trying to understand. Alex continues, his words coming faster now, as if a dam has broken.

"There are true monsters out there, Vesper. People who inflict pain for pleasure, who destroy lives without a second thought. And sometimes, the only way to fight that kind of evil is with a controlled version of it."

He runs a hand through his hair, leaving it even more disheveled. "I use the skills she taught me, yes. But I use them with purpose. To protect. To gather information that saves lives. To maintain a balance in our world that keeps the truly depraved in check."

I watch him, transfixed by the raw honesty in his voice, the vulnerability etched across his features. In this moment, I see Alex as I never have before, not just as the skilled interrogator or the dangerous enforcer, but as a man constantly walking a knife's edge between light and darkness.

"It's a choice," he continues, his voice barely above a whisper. "Every single time, it's a choice. To use these abilities for a greater purpose. To be the monster that hunts other monsters."

I open my mouth to respond, but before I can, a low moan cuts through the air. We both turn, startled, to see Natasha stirring on the table. Her eyelids flutter, and her fingers twitch against the restraints.

The moment shatters, reality crashing back in around us. Alex's expression hardens, the vulnerability I'd glimpsed moments ago vanishing behind his usual mask of cool detachment. He moves swiftly to Natasha's side, checking her vitals with practiced efficiency.

“She’s starting to wake up,” he mutters to himself. “She needs a higher dose.” Alex starts to shift to find another syringe, but I stop him. His blue eyes locking on mine.

I reach out, my hand gently grasping Alex's arm. "Wait," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "I need to talk to her."

Alex's piercing blue eyes lock onto mine, searching my face with an intensity that makes my breath catch. For a moment, I think he might refuse, might remind me of the danger, of the foolishness of showing mercy to our enemies. But something in my expression must give him pause.

"Vesper," he says, his voice low and tinged with concern, "I can't leave you alone with her. It's too risky."

I open my mouth to protest, but he continues before I can speak.

"However," he says, his tone softening slightly, "if you'll allow me to stay, I can wake her up for you. You won't have to wait."

I hesitate, weighing my options. The thought of being alone with Natasha is both terrifying and oddly compelling, but Alex's presence offers a safety net I'm not sure I'm ready to do without. After a moment's deliberation, I nod.

"Okay," I whisper. "Wake her up."

Alex nods, his movements precise and controlled as he reaches for a small vial and a syringe. The glass gleams dully in the dim light as he expertly fills the needle. I watch, mesmerized, as he approaches Natasha's prone form.

With a gentleness that surprises me, Alex tilts Natasha's head to the side, exposing the pale column of her neck. The needle slides in smoothly, and I see his thumb depress the plunger, sending whatever concoction he's prepared coursing through her veins.

As promised, Alex steps back, moving out of Natasha's immediate line of sight. He positions himself near the plastic curtains, a silent sentinel ready to intervene if needed. The air in the basement feels thick with anticipation, the soft beeping of the medical equipment the only sound breaking the tense silence.

Moments pass, feeling like an eternity, before Natasha's eyelids begin to flutter. A soft moan escapes her lips, her brow furrowing as consciousness slowly returns. I find myself holding my breath, my heart pounding in my chest as I watch her struggle back to awareness.

Finally, her eyes open fully, unfocused at first, then gradually sharpening as she takes in her surroundings. The realization of where she is, of what's happened, dawns on her face in stages – confusion, fear, and finally, a desperate, wild hope as her gaze lands on me.

"Vesper," she croaks, her voice raw and broken. "Oh God, Vesper, please."

I swallow hard, steeling myself against the wave of emotion threatening to overwhelm me. Natasha looks so different from the composed, dangerous woman I've known – vulnerable, desperate, human.

"Please," she continues. “You have to help me.”

"Help you?" I repeat, my voice barely above a whisper. The words taste bitter on my tongue, memories of betrayal and pain flooding my mind. "Like you helped me, Natasha?"

Her eyes widen, a flicker of shame crossing her battered features before desperation takes over again. "Vesper, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. You have to understand, I didn't have a choice.”

I feel my jaw clench, anger and pity warring within me. The dim light of the basement casts long shadows across Natasha's face, emphasizing every cut and bruise. Her once-proud demeanor is shattered, replaced by a raw vulnerability that tugs at something deep inside me.

"There's always a choice," I say, the words coming out harsher than I intended. But even as I say them, I think of the impossible decisions I've faced, the moral gray areas I've had to navigate in this world of ours.

Natasha's eyes fill with tears, glinting in the harsh fluorescent light. "You're right," she whispers, her voice cracking. "And I'm making a choice now. Please, Vesper. Help me escape. Release me. I can disappear, I swear I'll never bother you or anyone else ever again."

I feel Alex's presence behind me, a silent reminder of the consequences of mercy in our world. But there's something in Natasha's plea that resonates with me, a desperation I understand all too well.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what I'm about to do. "I will help you, Natasha," I say, watching hope bloom in her eyes. "But first, you have to do something for me."

"Anything," she breathes, relief evident in every line of her body.

I lean in closer, my voice low and intense. "Tell me the truth. All of it. Why did my uncle want my embryo? Only then will I even consider releasing you."

Natasha's eyes dart nervously to Alex, still lurking in the shadows, before returning to me. I can see the calculations running behind her eyes, weighing her options, considering how much to reveal.

"Vesper, I-" she starts, but I cut her off.

"No more lies, Natasha. No more half-truths or manipulations. If you want my help, I need complete honesty. This is your one chance."

The basement falls silent save for the soft hum of medical equipment and Natasha's ragged breathing. I can feel the weight of this moment, the potential consequences of what I'm offering. But I need answers, and I'm willing to take this risk to get them.

Natasha's voice trembles as she begins, her words barely above a whisper. "It wasn't supposed to be like this, Vesper. I was desperate."

I lean in closer, my heart pounding in my chest as I wait for the truth I've been seeking for so long.

"Your uncle and aunt," Natasha continues, her eyes glistening with unshed tears, "they wanted a child so badly. An heir. They tried for years, but miscarriage after miscarriage. It was destroying them."

I feel my breath catch in my throat, memories of hushed conversations and my aunt's tear-stained face flashing through my mind.

"Your uncle, he was obsessed. He couldn't accept that he might not have a biological heir to continue the family legacy. So, he reached out, used his connections to find an agency in Russia. That's where he found me."

Natasha's words paint a vivid picture in my mind. I can almost see it, the sterile clinic, the air thick with desperation and hope. My uncle, his face etched with determination, signing papers and making promises.

"I was young, naive," Natasha continues, her voice cracking. "The money they offered so much money. It was more than I could ever dream of. Enough to change my life, to help my family. All I had to do was carry a child for nine months."

I feel a chill run down my spine, the pieces starting to fall into place. "But something went wrong," I whisper, prompting her to continue.

Natasha nods, her eyes distant as if lost in the memory. "They had one chance left. One small, precious embryo. Their last hope for a biological child. The day of the transfer came, and I remember lying there, so nervous I could barely breathe."

Her words transport me to that moment, the cold exam table, the hum of medical equipment, the palpable tension in the air.

Natasha's words hang in the air, heavy with the weight of her confession. I feel my heart pounding in my chest, each beat echoing in my ears as I process the implications of what she's saying.

"The doctor's face," Natasha continues, her voice barely above a whisper, "I'll never forget it. The way his eyes widened, the color draining from his cheeks. He muttered something in Russian, his hands shaking as he turned to the nurse."

I can see it all so clearly in my mind's eye, the sterile room, the harsh fluorescent lights, the panic spreading like a virus through the medical staff.

"Stop the thaw!" Natasha's voice cracks as she reenacts the moment. "But it was too late. The embryo, your aunt and uncle's last hope, it was gone. Too late to preserve it, and no one they could implant it into."

My breath catches in my throat. I think of my cousin, no, not my cousin at all, the child I grew up with, played with, loved fiercely. The heir my uncle had pinned all his hopes and dreams on.

"What happened next?" I ask, my voice sounding strange and distant to my own ears.

Natasha's eyes meet mine, filled with a mixture of guilt and desperation. "We lied," she whispers. "All of us. The doctor, the nurses, your uncle...me. We agreed to keep it a secret. To pretend the transfer had been successful."

I feel my knees weaken, and I grip the edge of the metal table to steady myself. The cold steel grounds me, reminding me of where I am, of the gravity of this moment.

"Nine months," Natasha continues, her words coming faster now, as if a dam has broken. "Nine months of living a lie. Of feeling my baby grow inside me, knowing I'd never be able to keep them. He’d bring his wife to visit me. She’d touch my belly, beaming with happiness about the life growing inside of me. All the while, I was dying inside knowing it wasn’t their baby. It was mine."

I close my eyes, overwhelmed by the flood of emotions coursing through me. Anger, pity, confusion, they swirl together in a dizzying cocktail.

"The day she was born," Natasha's voice breaks, tears now flowing freely down her cheeks. "God, Vesper, she was so beautiful. So perfect. I held her for just a moment before they took her away. Before I had to hand her over to your uncle and pretend she wasn't mine."

The basement suddenly feels too small, the air too thick. I struggle to breathe, my mind racing with the implications of this revelation. The cousin I've known my whole life, the heir to our family's empire, is actually Natasha's child. A child born of deception and desperation.

"Why?" I manage to choke out. "Why are you telling me this now?"

Natasha's eyes lock onto mine, filled with a fierce, desperate love. "Because she's in danger, Vesper.”

I feel the world tilt beneath my feet, Natasha's words echoing in my head like a deafening bell. "What do you mean, she's in danger?" I demand, my voice barely above a whisper.

Natasha's eyes dart nervously to Alex, still lurking in the shadows, before returning to me. "Your uncle," she says, her voice trembling, "he made a deal. A terrible, unthinkable deal."

My heart pounds in my chest as I lean closer, desperate to hear every word. "What kind of deal?" I ask, though a part of me already knows the answer, a cold dread seeping into my bones.

"He..." Natasha swallows hard, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "He brokered a deal to trade you for Bianca."

The words hit me like a physical blow, knocking the air from my lungs. I stumble back, gripping the edge of the metal table to keep from falling. "What?" I gasp, my mind reeling.

Natasha nods, her face a mask of anguish. "Dmitri," she whispers, "he wanted Bianca. He's always wanted her. But her father...he was the second son. Victor would never have allowed it."

The pieces start to fall into place, a horrifying picture forming in my mind. "So, they made me disappear," I breathe, the truth of it settling over me like a suffocating blanket.

"Without you," Natasha continues, her words coming faster now, "Mario could make his move. And he did. God help me, Vesper, he did."

The basement swims before my eyes, the harsh fluorescent lights blurring into a hazy glow. I can hear Alex moving behind me, but his presence feels distant, unreal.

"Bianca," I whisper, thinking of the girl I've known my entire life, the cousin I've loved and protected. "She's not...she's not a Rossi at all?"

Natasha shakes her head, tears now flowing freely down her cheeks. "No," she says softly. "She's not. The alliance. It's all a farce, Vesper. A lie built on lies."

I close my eyes, overwhelmed by the flood of emotions coursing through me. Anger, betrayal, confusion, they swirl together in a dizzying cocktail. Everything I thought I knew, everything I believed about my family, my place in the world – it's all crumbling around me.

"There's more," Natasha says, her voice barely audible over the pounding of blood in my ears.

I look up at her, not sure I can bear to hear anything else. But I nod, silently urging her to continue.

Natasha's words hang in the air, heavy and suffocating. I feel my world tilting on its axis, reality warping around me as the full implications of her confession sink in. But there's more, I can see it in her eyes, a final, terrible truth waiting to be unleashed.

"Victor," Natasha whispers, her voice barely audible over the hum of medical equipment, "he had a condition for the alliance. For Bianca."

I feel my breath catch in my throat, a cold dread seeping into my bones. "What condition?" I ask, though a part of me already knows the answer, a horrifying suspicion taking root in the darkest corners of my mind.

Natasha's eyes meet mine, filled with a mixture of guilt and desperation. "An heir," she says, the words falling from her lips like poison. "A male heir to continue the Petrov and Rossi bloodline."

The basement seems to spin around me, the harsh fluorescent lights blurring into a nauseating kaleidoscope. I grip the edge of the metal table, my knuckles turning white as I struggle to process this new information.

"But Bianca," I start, my voice sounding strange and distant to my own ears, "she's not...she's not even a Rossi. How could she..."

And then it hits me, a realization so profound, so earth-shattering, that for a moment I forget how to breathe. The room goes silent, the constant beep of monitors fading away as my mind races to connect the dots.

"Me," I whisper, the word barely audible. "They needed me."

Natasha nods, tears streaming down her face. "You're the only biological Rossi female, Vesper. The only one who could provide what Victor wanted."

The truth crashes over me like a tidal wave, threatening to pull me under. Every strange occurrence, every unexplained medical procedure, every moment of confusion and fear over the past two years– it all suddenly makes horrifying sense.

"My eggs," I breathe, feeling nauseous. "That's why they...that's why you..."

I think back to the countless times I'd woken up groggy and disoriented, to the unexplained bruises and the vague memories of medical equipment. It hadn't been just once or twice – they'd been harvesting my eggs repeatedly, building up a stock for their twisted plans. But, if I am the mother…who was the father?

“Who donated the sperm?”

Natasha’s face grows pale.

“Dmitri,” I gasp.

“Yes,” she admits. “Victor had to ensure his bloodline so he had Dmitri’s sperm banked a long time ago. Just in case. Once the embryos were created, and deemed viable, Mario took the male and destroyed the female. They implanted it…”

"When did they do the transfer?" Maybe there is still hope to keep my son from them. To take back what was stolen from me. “Tell me who is carrying my son.”

Natasha's eyes meet mine, filled with a mixture of pity and fear. She swallows hard, her throat working visibly before she speaks. "Vesper," she says, her voice trembling, "Bianca gave birth over a month ago.”