Chapter 10
KONSTANTIN
The interior of the car is hermetically sealed against the world, silent save for the low, aggressive hum of the engine.
One hand rests on the wheel, my grip loose but controlled. Beside me, Helena stares out the window, dressed in her corporate armor: a sharp charcoal pencil skirt, a high-necked silk blouse, heels that could puncture a lung. To the outside world, she’s the untouchable Director of Operations.
But I know the truth.
My gaze drifts to her waist where the white blouse tucks into her skirt. Beneath that expensive fabric, on the skin of her hip, a bruise blooms in the shape of my thumb.
A souvenir from the docks. A reminder of how hard I gripped her when I carried her to the car two nights ago. A brand. Mine.
The road snaps back into focus as my jaw tightens until my teeth ache.
Two nights.
Forty-eight hours since I woke with her in my bed, and the memory still tastes like ash.
Weakness lasted only a few hours in the dark—long enough to forget she’s the daughter of the man who helped order the hit on my family.
Long enough to hold her hand, breathe in the scent of her hair, and sleep beside her like a man instead of a monster.
That was a mistake. Weakness is a crack in the foundation, and cracks bring down empires.
Since that morning, I’ve been cold. I’ve buried myself in the work, pushing her away, forcing her to run the office while I watch from the shadows. I needed to reset the board. To remember who I am.
I’m not her lover. I’m the executioner sent to burn her legacy to the ground. I’m the son of a dead King, fighting to reclaim a stolen crown.
We turn off the highway, leaving the gleaming glass skyscrapers of the financial district behind. The scenery shifts rapidly, decaying into the industrial sector where clean streets are replaced by rusted corrugated iron, barbed wire, and the heavy, metallic smell of the river.
"Where are we going?" Helena asks. Her voice is steady, but her fingers tighten on the strap of her purse. "This isn't the way to the tower."
"The tower is for clean hands. Today, you need to see where the real work happens."
The SUV rolls to a stop at the heavy steel gates of a sprawling warehouse complex near the rail yards.
Above the entrance, a faded sign reads Morozov Industrial Processing.
The cameras lining the perimeter, however, are anything but outdated—state-of-the-art lenses swiveling smoothly to track our arrival.
The guards spot the car. Then they see me.
The gates open instantly.
“Welcome to the Meat Grinder,” I say.
“The what?”
“That’s what the locals call it. We process heavy machinery here. Loud, dirty work—and where the real money is made.”
The SUV idles beside a loading dock.
Lev waits for us. At his side stands Ivan, a young man with wire-rimmed glasses clutching a tablet.
The engine dies with a quiet click.
“Out.”
She slips from the car, vividly out of place. She steps over a puddle of hydraulic fluid, her nose wrinkling at the smell, and walks to the edge of the loading dock, peering out at the gray, churning water of the river, distancing herself from the grit.
A female guard emerges from the shadows of the loading dock.
She’s tall, with platinum blonde hair cut into a sharp bob and a holster on her hip. Her gait has a confident sway.
"Konstantin," she purrs, ignoring Lev entirely as she stops inches from me, her expression bold and inviting. She places a hand on my chest, her red fingernails scratching lightly against my lapel. "It's been a while since you came down to the pit."
"I’m working," I say, removing her hand.
"You're always working." Her eyes slide to Helena, looking her up and down with a sneer of amusement. "And who is the stray? New secretary?"
"Director," I correct. "Go check the perimeter."
The guard smirks, lingering for a second too long, her gaze dropping to my mouth before she turns. "My shift ends at midnight, Boss. If you need... anything."
She winks and saunters off toward the fence.
A headache pulses at the base of my skull. There isn’t time for this.
“Lev, keep her here,” I order, gesturing to Helena. “I need to input the manual override at the gate.”
With that, my back turns to them as I stride a few paces toward the heavy steel control panel mounted on the wall. The code is punched into the keypad.
“Does she always touch him like that?” Helena asks in a harsh whisper, loud enough for me to hear despite her attempt at discretion.
My finger hovers over the keypad.
“She’s friendly,” Lev replies neutrally.
“Friendly?” A bitter laugh escapes her. “She practically offered to give him a lap dance right here on the concrete. Is that his girlfriend?”
“No,” Lev answers, not giving an inch.
“Then what is she?” she presses. “She acted like she owns him.”
A smirk threatens as the second sequence is entered.
“She’s a distraction,” Lev says carefully, clearly trying to navigate the minefield. “She likes the power of being near the Boss. But she’s just a guard.”
“She seems very comfortable with him,” Helena mutters. “I guess he has a type. Blonde. Armed. Available.”
“Employees are often comfortable, Miss Blackwood,” Lev says. “But there’s a difference. She works the floor and stays on the concrete.”
Over my shoulder, the scene behind me comes back into view.
Lev has leaned closer to her, lowering his voice.
"The Boss never brings distractions upstairs," Lev says. "He never brings a woman into the War Room. He doesn't show them the maps. He doesn't show them the secrets."
"Then why am I here?" she whispers harshly.
"Because you are not a distraction," Lev says. "You are the first woman he has ever brought into the heart of the operation. That makes you significant."
She blinks, stunned by the admission, as a soft flush rises on her cheeks. She isn’t scowling, like one would expect.
A dark, irrational spike of anger hits me in the gut.
Why is she blushing at him?
She looks at me with hatred, but she stands there whispering with my Lieutenant like they’re old friends? I don't like the distance between them. It’s too small.
I slam the final key on the pad.
I stride back toward them, my boots hitting the concrete hard to shatter their shared moment. I want her attention back on me, even if it’s angry.
"Lev," I bark, sharper than necessary. "Stop gossiping. We are on a schedule."
Helena jumps, guilt flashing across her face. Lev straightens his expression into a mask of stone, stepping away from her.
"Boss," he nods respectfully as I approach.
"Lev."
I stop, glancing at Helena. She’s twenty feet away now, facing the water, out of earshot.
I lean in close to my second-in-command, dropping my voice to business.
"Report," I command. "What is the chatter from Moscow?"
His face tightens. He glances at Helena's back, then returns his gaze to me.
"The High Council called this morning," he murmurs. "They are impatient, Konstantin. They see the Atlantic Loop moving, but they don't see the consolidation of power."
I clench my jaw. The High Council. The seven old men who rule the Bratva, holding the seat that belongs to me—the seat of the Pakhan. The seat my father sat in before Arthur Blackwood had him killed.
"They are questioning your control," he continues. "They say a man who cannot control his own merger cannot lead the Bratva, and they are asking about the voting shares."
"Explain," I say, though I already know.
"Arthur Blackwood still owns fifty-one percent of the company," he recites, his voice low. "He’s the majority shareholder. Legally, he can still outvote us."
"And if he dies tomorrow?" I ask.
"If he dies, or if a judge declares him mentally incompetent, that fifty-one percent transfers directly to his next of kin. To Helena."
I look at her. The wind whips her hair across her face. She’s so small against the massive cranes.
If Arthur dies today, she becomes the majority owner of Blackwood Logistics instantly. She would have the power to fire me, block my shipments, or sell the company to the Feds. She would be untouchable.
"I can’t let that happen," I say coldly. "I cannot let the daughter of my enemy hold the keys to my kingdom."
I think of the document sitting in the bottom drawer of my desk in the penthouse. The marriage license I had my lawyers draft weeks ago, waiting only for a date and a signature.
"The marriage license," I tell Lev. "Is it still in my desk?"
"Yes, Boss."
"Good. I’m moving the timeline up."
He raises an eyebrow. "You are going through with it? It’s extreme."
"It’s the most strategic move," I explain. "It’s a two-pronged trap. First, the shares. If I marry her before Arthur dies, her inheritance becomes a marital asset. When the shares transfer to her, I’ll ensure she signs her voting proxy directly over to me and absorb her power completely."
I pause, collecting myself.
"And second," I add, "there’s the matter of the courts. Spousal privilege."
He nods. "She cannot testify against you."
"Exactly. A wife cannot be compelled to testify against her husband. If the Feds get to her or if she breaks and tries to go to the police, she’ll find that her voice has been legally removed. By marrying her, I’m not just taking her company but gagging her for life."
"She’ll fight it," he warns. "She’s not the type to go quietly to the altar."
"Let her fight," I say. "I enjoy the struggle."
"And the prisoner?" he asks, shifting gears. "The Council sent him over an hour ago. They said he needs correction."
"Is he prepped?"
"He’s zip-tied in the circle. Waiting for you."
"Good."
I step away from him.
"Helena," I call.
She turns, her expression guarded, and walks back toward us.
"You know Lev as my bodyguard," I say, gesturing to the giant man. "But that is a simplification. He is my Lieutenant. When I need a problem removed physically, he is the hammer."
Helena looks at him, her eyes wary. He gives her a stone-faced nod.