Page 61 of The Collector
The Collector had watched his best friend, Amello—Alejandro's son—disappear under the cold, calculated hand of the cartel. No warning, no goodbye. Just gone. One moment, he was there, the only person who made the darkness feel a little less empty, and the next, Amello was erased like he never mattered. The machine didn't flinch. It didn't care. Amello was just another part that no longer fit. And when he was taken, something in The Collector broke. That last thread tying him to anything human snapped. After that, he stopped trying to hold on. He let go. Let himself become what the world had always expected him to be.
Before Alejandro took him under his wing, there was no one to trust, and behind every smile lay a test. He'd learned early that every favor had a price.
He fought his way out of that pit, emerging from the filth like a phoenix rising from the ashes.
The labor camps of his childhood hadn't just raised him—they had forged him. In those places where desperation wore a human face, where the suffering sold their children for a glimpse of hope, his mother had bartered away his future to save herself.The Collector was born from that exchange, stitched together by lies and survival, shaped by the choices others made to stay alive.
His birth father may never have known he existed, but his nature—cold, relentless—had been the last currency his mother could offer. And when the time came, his death would mark the end of the Collector.
And the beginning of something else.
It was Alejandro who brought him to California, opened the gates to a plan built on retribution.
If he were only here now, he could watch the Kings' kingdom fall apart. Amello may have been Alejandro's true son, but the Collector had done his best to fill that role. After all, he owed him as much for guiding him, training him.
After Amello died, Alejandro had asked for only one thing in return for his help—that the Collector make them pay. Not just for the betrayal. But for Amello's death. That request changed everything. The mission to destroy the Kings stopped being just his; it became Alejandro's legacy. A final vow passed from one broken man to another. And the Collector intended to keep it. No matter the cost.
The story his mother told—that he was one of the rightful heirs to a throne within the Kings—was more than mere story; it was a birthright bound in blood and rich in riddles. And now, he was closer than ever to claiming what he believed was rightfully his, not the Kings, but vengeance for the loss of his innocence.
It took a decade to find the woman who brought him into the world, the killer of his innocence and happiness.
The monster who knew happiness at his suffering— the beast whose teeth had torn his soul apart piece by piece to ensure it was full.
When he finally tracked her down at eighteen, he recognized her instantly; they had the same features. The fear trembledthrough her as tears streamed down her face, her desperation palpable. She had woven a web of lies, tangled in fear and guilt, but under duress, the truth emerged. With each layer of her skin he peeled away, her deceptions unraveled. He remembered it like yesterday.
***
His mother sat tied to the armchair in her elegantly designed living room, already dying, clinging to the thin thread of life still pulsing through her veins. Blood soaked in the silk robe cinched at her waist, the garment the only thing holding her together. Everything else had unraveled: her mascara, her dignity, the brittle strength she'd tried to summon when he started working on her hours ago.
She had built this room to impress, to control. Now it bore witness to the cost of everything she'd chosen to forget.
He stood by the fireplace. Silent. Watching his mother with eyes that hadn't known mercy since childhood.
"You're taller than I thought you'd be," she said, her voice thin, fraying at the edges. "Taller than your father."
She tried to reach him, but it was too late. Whatever soul he'd once had—whatever flicker of warmth or need for connection—was long gone. She spoke, pleaded, searched The Collector’s face for something human. He gave her nothing. Because there was nothing left to give. The world had hollowed him out, and now she was staring into the shell she helped create.
"You don't get to treat me like I'm your child," he said. "You lied about me. You sold me. Say it!"
He jabbed the fire poker into the embers, sending sparks shooting into the air. Heat flared around him, but he didn'tback away. She watched him, lips trembling, breath shallow. He didn't want her silence. He didn't want her guilt. He wanted the truth—raw, spoken, undeniable. The words she'd buried. The ones that had carved him into what he'd become.
She flinched, breath catching in her throat, mouth twitching as if the words burned on the way out.
"You wouldn't understand what it was like," she said. "The Kings—what they took from me—my future—your father."
Her voice cracked under the weight of it, but he didn't move. Didn't blink.
He'd spent a lifetime understanding precisely what they'd taken. And now, his mother was going to understand what it cost them both.
"You withheld me before they could take me from you," he said, voice low but cutting. "Don't pretend you were a victim."
"You were a child. I was desperate— I needed leverage to get your father back. When it became clear that nothing I did would bring him back to me. I did what I had to do to survive."
"You were selfish," he said, cutting her off. "Tell me the truth, or I'll peel it from you like before."
Getting her to talk hadn't been easy at first, but the first strip of skin he peeled from her thigh convinced her quickly to tell him what he wanted to know.
She flinched at the word peel, no doubt remembering the pain. Her fingers trembled as she reached for her robe, but the restraints held firm, denying her even that small comfort. The instinct to cover herself hadn't died, not even after everything. It clawed its way through the shock, through the shame—through whatever fragments of dignity she still clung to.
