Chapter 3
HELENA
The Blackwood Estate is quiet, but it doesn't feel calm.
I’m sitting on the foyer floor, my back against the cold marble of the grand staircase. My laptop is open on my knees. The blue light of the screen is the only light in the dark hall.
The heating in the west wing died three hours ago. The chill is settling into my bones, but I can't bring myself to move.
I hit refresh on my email. Nothing.
I hit refresh on the bank portal. Still nothing.
Just the same glaring red numbers. The same terrifying notification from Apex Heavy Industries that arrived at midnight, threatening to sue us.
Every hour our ship sits in the harbor, we bleed money we don't have.
I’ve spent the last four hours calling everyone—the harbor master, the union rep, the port director.
No one answers. It's as if the entire city is ghosting me.
And my father is gone with fifty thousand dollars of stolen payroll.
I’ve called his cell phone twenty times. Straight to voicemail.
I’ve called the hospitals. Nothing.
I’ve called the police sergeant, a man my father has bribed for years. He’s not in the drunk tank.
Please let him be at a hotel, I pray, though I don't believe it. Please let him be passed out at the Ritz.
But in my gut, I know he isn't. The look in his eyes wasn't that of a man looking for a party.
I turn my screen off.
My reflection stares back from the dark screen. Hollow eyes. Pale skin. A ghost haunting my own house.
I stand up and begin to pace. The click of my heels on the marble echoes in the dark.
Maybe I should just leave, a voice whispers in my head. Pack a bag. Take the car. Drive until the gas runs out and start over as a waitress in a town where the name Blackwood means nothing.
But then I spy the portrait hanging above the fireplace.
My mother. She’s watching me.
I remember this room when she was alive. I remember her sitting at the dining table at 2:00 AM, surrounded by blueprints. I remember the way she charmed the union bosses, the way she stared down the bankers. She built this empire from a single tugboat.
Arthur? He was just the face.
Since the funeral, he hasn't built a single thing. He only destroys. He has spent five years chipping away at the foundation she poured, trading her sweat for whiskey and poker.
If I leave, I let him win. I let his weakness erase her strength.
"I'm not leaving, Mom," I whisper to the dark. "I'll fix it. I don't know how, but I'll fix it."
I’m answered by lights.
They sweep across the front windows, blindingly bright. Blue-white beams cutting through the night.
I freeze, heart hammering against my ribs.
One car? No.
The lights keep coming. Two. Three.
A convoy.
My stomach drops. The police don't come in convoys unless it's a raid, and the bank doesn't send agents at three in the morning.
"Dad," I breathe.
I rush to the window, pulling back the curtain an sliver.
Three black SUVs are parked on the gravel. They look huge, like war machines parked on the lawn.
The engines cut, plunging the driveway into darkness.
Doors open. Men step out.
They aren't police—I can tell by their dark suits. They move fast. No wasted movements. No talking.
Then, the back door of the middle car opens.
Two men drag someone out.
I cover my mouth to stifle a scream.
It's my father. He isn’t walking. They’re hauling him like a sack of garbage. His feet drag on the stones as he sobs, his head hanging low.
The Morettis.
It has to be them. I saw the debt note in his desk last month, a marker for fifty grand owed to a shell company linked to the Italian mob.
I knew he was borrowing from sharks to pay off the bookies, but I thought he was handling it. I thought he was paying interest.
They aren't here for interest. They're here to break his legs.
Panic hits me. Cold and sharp.
I need a weapon. My eyes land on the heavy brass fire poker by the fireplace. It’s ridiculous, a piece of metal against a squad of killers, but it’s all I have.
I grab the handle, my hands shaking.
Suit up, Helena.
I run to the front doors. I don't wait for them to break them down.
If I'm going to die tonight, I’ll die standing, not hiding under a table.
I undo the locks—clack, clack, clack—and yank the door open.
The cold wind hits me like a slap.
"Let him go!" I scream.
I raise the poker like a sword. "Get off my property!"
The men stop. They turn to look at me.
The scene before me is a nightmare. My father is on his knees in the gravel, weeping into his hands. He looks small. Broken.
And standing over him is a giant.
The man in the center turns toward me.
He’s enormous — easily six-foot-four, built like a war machine rather than a businessman. Broad shoulders stretch the fabric of his dress shirt, the dark cloth molded to muscle.
His hair is black and cut brutally short, military neat. A jagged scar slices from his jaw down his neck, disappearing beneath his collar.
And his eyes…
Ice-blue.
The kind that look through people instead of at them.
The air leaves my lungs.
He’s massive, towering well over six feet, with shoulders that strain the fabric of his tuxedo. He isn’t wearing a coat, despite the freezing wind.
He stands completely still, his hands in his pockets, watching me with eyes that feel like dead voids.
He doesn't look like a loan shark. He looks like a king fresh off a battlefield.
His attention lands on the fire poker in my hands before shifting to my face. His expression doesn't change. No fear. He isn’t amused. He’s... assessing me.
"Miss Blackwood," he says.
His voice is deep, wrapped in a heavy accent. It isn't Italian. It's harsher. Russian?
"Put the toy away," he says. "You might hurt yourself."
"Who are you?" I demand, gripping the handle tighter. "What did you do to him?"
"I didn't do anything," the stranger says, stepping forward. He moves smoothly. "He did this to himself."
He gestures to his men. "Bring him inside."
"No!" I step into the doorway, blocking the entrance. "You are not coming in here! I'll call the police! I have the commissioner on speed dial!"
The stranger stops at the bottom of the steps, meeting my threat with a smirk.
"The police?" he asks. "The commissioner works for the people your father borrows from. If you call him, he will ask me if I need help burying the bodies."
My blood runs cold. He isn’t lying.
"Who are you?" I ask.
"My name is Konstantin Morozov," he says. "And we have business."
He walks up the steps.
I can't move. He looms over me, radiating a terrifying heat. He smells of expensive scotch and cigar smoke. Up close, I can make out a scar running down the side of his neck, disappearing into his collar—a jagged, ugly line.
He reaches out. Gently, he takes the poker from my hand.
My other hand flies up, gripping the handle as I fight to hold on. But I don't have the strength to stop him.
He pulls it free and tosses it aside. It clatters loudly on the marble floor.
"After you," he says.
He walks past me into the house, violating my sanctuary.
He enters the foyer like he owns it. He looks up at the chandelier, then at the staircase, his gaze sweeping over the family portraits with pure disdain.
His men drag my father in behind him and dump him on the Persian rug.
Arthur Blackwood curls into a ball. He refuses to look at me.
"Dad?" I drop to my knees beside him. "Dad, look at me. Who is this man?"
My father squeezes his eyes shut. "I'm sorry, Helena. I'm so sorry."
"Sorry for what?" I shake his shoulder. "What did you do? How much do you owe him?
"He doesn't owe me money," Konstantin informs.
I look up. The Russian is standing by the fireplace, running a finger along the mantle. He picks up a Ming vase—my mother's favorite—and inspects it casually.
"He lost," Konstantin continues, setting the vase down.
"He played a game he couldn't afford and bet something he didn't have the right to lose."
He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a folded document. He tosses it onto the floor between us.
I recognize the document instantly. The heavy paper. The gold seal.
The Blackwood Empire Deed.
The world tilts.
"No," I mutter. I grab the paper and scan the lines.
Transfer of Ownership... Blackwood Shipping... All Assets....
And at the bottom, my father's signature. It’s shaky. But it’s his.
"You... you sold the company?" I stare at my father in disbelief. Horror chokes me. "You gambled the company?"
He sobs. "I had a winning hand, Helena! I had a Full House! He cheated! He must have cheated!"
"I didn't cheat, Arthur," Konstantin says. "You're a bad player."
I scramble to my feet, clutching the deed.
"This is illegal," I spit. "He was drunk. No court will uphold a contract signed at a poker table at 3:00 AM!"
"Actually," Konstantin interrupts, holding the paper up to the light like he’s inspecting a work of art. "It was 2:45 AM."
He looks at me with feigned innocence.
"And he wasn't drunk. He was optimistic. There’s a difference."
My mind whirls. It’s too much at once.
"I own this house," Konstantin continues, stepping closer, not giving me a chance to make sense of any of it. He invades my personal space, forcing me to tilt my head back to look him in the eye. "I own the chair you sat on. I own the ships in the harbor. I own the air in your lungs."
"Get out," I hiss. "I don't care what this paper says. This is my family's home. My mother built this place."
"Your mother?" Konstantin's eyes narrow. The temperature in the room goes cold. "Your mother built nothing."
His words are laced with venom.
He gestures around the grand hall. "This marble? The fleet? It was all bought with blood, Helena. Your father paid for this luxury with lives. He built his throne on a graveyard."
I blink, confused. Then, anger, hot and defensive, surges through me.
"Liar!" I shout, stepping toward him. "You're a liar! My father is many things. He's a drunk. A gambler. A coward. But he’s not a murderer! Don't you dare come into my house and rewrite our history to justify stealing it!"