Page 25 of All The Pretty Little Lies

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.

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