Chapter 16 #2
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 trembled through 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't back 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.
"Fine," she said, voice cracking. "The truth is, I tried to use you. To control your father. He was rising through the Kings, and I—I thought if I gave them a son, they'd make me his equal. Let me be his wife, not the woman he married."
She looked at him then, eyes searching for something that might soften the blow. But he didn't react.
He'd already lived the consequences of that choice. Now his mother would, too.
"You only gave him one of his sons," he said, voice sharp with accusation. Why? So, you could use me as a weapon against him?"
He stepped closer, eyes locked on hers, daring her to look away.
"Tell me, Mother—how did you choose between us? Was I smaller? Weaker? Less perfect?"
She didn't answer. Her breath hitched, eyes flickering with something between guilt and fear. But The Collector didn't need her words to know the answer. He'd lived it. Every scar, every silence, every year spent in the shadows had already told him.
Her eyes flickered with old fire, then shame. "It wasn't supposed to be permanent."
"You threw me in with killers and thieves. And they turned me into something you didn't plan for?"
She looked up, blinking through tears. "I didn't mean for you to become— this. I didn't intend for you to be there forever. But when I tried to get you back, you had become too valuable to them. They wouldn't give you back."
"A valuable killer? That's rich," he said, stepping forward. "I became exactly what they needed, and did what I needed to survive that Hell. You forced me to become a part of it. Now I'm a monster at best."
She opened her mouth, but no words came out.
"You know the irony? The best part—Mother," he continued.
"They will never even realize who I am when I take them down, thanks to you.
The coyote, the one that was your middleman in the sale.
Dead. I left him in the desert to rot. I hope the real coyotes have ripped his flesh away to nothing by now.
That's the only thing I can be grateful to you for: that you kept my birth, my life, from ever being known by them.
But you? You built me, you bartered my soul so you could position yourself as his Queen.
Now it's time you pay for the kingdom you never got—by dying and never breathing a word of my existence. "
"What will you do?" she whispered.
He studied her for a moment, then bent so they were eye to eye. "I'm going to kill you today. I'm not going to let you live long enough to watch it all burn—to watch the Kings fall, your empire crumble, and the boy you sold become the man who collects it all."
She stared at him. Disbelief etched into every line of her face. "You'll die," she said, voice trembling. "They'll kill you."
He didn't blink. Didn't flinch.
"They already tried," he said. "And they failed. I hope they try," he said softly. "I really do. I hope he kills his ONLY son."
"His only son?" Realization dawned in her eyes. "Are you going to kill your brother?"
Her words hung in the air broken and without hope, shimmering with the weight of sudden understanding.
His eyes were as cold as steel when he answered her.
"He's not my brother," the Collector said quietly. "He's the legacy that thrived while I rotted. The chosen son. He got everything you denied me. The heir to my father's name and position. Now he's going to find out what it feels like to rot until I'm ready for him to die too."
Her face paled.
"I'm curious what you thought would happen when I found out that you gave him a name. A future. And me nothing but a death sentence? That I would forgive you? And embrace him."
Her hands trembled. "I never thought that far ahead. I just knew you were both my sons. And I intended for you to be my way back to him and your father," she said, a cascade of tears dripping down her chest.
He stepped closer, the air thick with resentment. "No. He was a son. I was a tool."
"Please don't kill him. Kill me. I'm the one responsible. You can't punish him for what I did. I—I love you both in my own way, even though you don't think so. You are all that's left of the only love I've ever known."
The Collector didn't move. Didn't speak. The fire crackled behind him, casting flickers of light across her tear-streaked face.
He'd waited years for this moment—for truth, for reckoning, for the chance to choose what came next. But love? That word held no weight with him. Not anymore.
"You should've thought of that," he said, voice like ash. "Before you turned love into leverage.
The Collector's gaze didn't soften. If anything, it sharpened. "He's not innocent in this," he said. "And when the Kings fall, he'll fall with them. Because you made it so."
The fire hissed behind him, casting flickering shadows across her face. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words wouldn't come. Not this time.
"And now that I have my pound of flesh from you, mother," he said, waving the skin he'd so painstakingly tattooed a female demon on, in her face.
"Why don't you die?" He raised the needle to her carotid artery and injected her with poison that would only take moments to kill her. He didn't need to watch; there was no coming back from the darkness that was already beginning to take her down.
The Collector walked away, the firelight flickering behind him like the last breath of a dying star. His mother lay crumpled in a pool of blood and regret, her final confession still echoing in the room like a curse.