Chapter 10 #2
"And this," I say, pointing to the younger man, "is Ivan. You haven't met him. Ivan is my eyes."
Ivan steps forward, chewing gum. He could pass for a college student with his messy hair and expensive sneakers, but his eyes are dead.
"Director Blackwood," he says. "I monitored your retinal scan on the Atlantic Loop. Your biometrics are impossibly symmetrical."
"Ivan runs our cyber-warfare division," I explain. "If it has a microchip, he owns it. He can erase your bank account or crash a plane from his laptop."
Helena looks between the three of us. The Muscle, The Brains, and The King-in-waiting.
"Why are you introducing me to your inner circle?" she asks quietly.
"Because you are part of the organization now," I say. "Come."
We walk onto the warehouse floor, and the Grinder’s noise roars.
Sparks fly from distant grinding wheels, showering the concrete in orange fire, while massive cranes move overhead, carrying tons of scrap metal.
Helena flinches as a heavy chain drops near us with a deafening clang, but she keeps walking. She holds her head high.
"In the boardroom, Helena, I play the part of the CEO," I say, my voice carrying over the industrial noise. "I wear the suit. I speak the language of profit and loss."
I stop and turn to her, spreading my arms.
"But here? Here, I’m Vor Morozov. I’m the head of this family. This is my territory. The laws of your government don’t apply inside these walls. Only my word."
We reach the center of the floor, where a group of my men stands in a tight circle. In the middle of them, a man is on his knees.
He wears a torn suit, and his face is already bruised. His wrists are zip-tied behind his back.
As we approach, the men part for me, lowering their heads in deference.
"Who is he?" Helena whispers.
"This is Petrov," I say calmly. "He works for the High Council in Moscow. Or he did. Until they found out he was skimming off the top of the pension fund."
The man looks up, weeping. "Boss, please! I didn't mean to!"
The man whimpers through the gag as I take his hand again.
Helena’s voice is tight behind me. “What did he do?”
I don’t look at her.
“The Council sent him.”
I bend the finger slowly until the bone snaps. The man screams into the cloth.
I release his hand.
“They wanted him reminded of the rules.”
I stop in front of him and unbutton my suit jacket.
Shrugging out of it, I turn to Helena. "Hold this."
She takes it automatically, the expensive fabric draping over her arms.
Her eyes widen, taking in the scene before her. "Konstantin..." she whispers. "You don't have to do this."
"Watch," I command. "This is how order is kept."
I roll up my white sleeves in preparation for the hands-on demonstration.
I won't use a weapon. A gun is too merciful. A knife too swift. Effective pain requires contact.
As I step forward, Petrov tries to scramble backward, but Lev is there, planting a boot in the center of his back.
I descend on Petrov with brutal violence, grabbing him by the collar and driving my fist into his nose. A wet crunch fills the air, and blood sprays across the concrete.
Petrov screams. I strike him again and again.
This isn’t a loss of control. I’m calm, though the frustration of the last forty-eight hours goes into every blow. I’m punishing him, and myself, for the softness I felt in that bed.
I grab his hair, yanking his head back. He gasps, blood bubbling from his lips, one eye already swollen shut.
"Look at her," I growl, twisting his head until he’s facing Helena. "Apologize to the Director for your greed.”
She stands a few feet away. Her spine is rigid, shoulders squared like she refuses to give the room the satisfaction of seeing her flinch. Her dark hair spills over her shoulders, her gaze sharp and unwavering as she watches the blood drip to the floor.
"I'm s-sorry," he chokes out, blood dripping from his chin onto his ruined shirt.
Looking up, I lock eyes with Helena. My hands are covered in blood. A man lies broken at my feet. I want to see if she breaks. I want to see if she runs.
I raise my fist and deliver a final, cracking blow to Petrov's ribs, with my focus still on Helena.
"Do you see?" I ask her wordlessly.
She flinches at the crackle of bone snapping. Her face is ashen as she clutches my jacket to her chest.
But she doesn't look away or run.
Her pupils are blown wide. She’s terrified, yes, but she also looks fascinated. She’s watching the blood on my hands with intensity, unable to tear her gaze away.
Something dark coils in my gut.
I release Petrov. He slumps to the floor, unconscious, breathing in ragged gasps.
I stand, rolling my shoulders. My knuckles are split and bloody.
I walk over to her and take my jacket back from her trembling hands.
"Clean this up," I tell Lev. "Get him a doctor, then send him back to Moscow. Tell the Council the debt is paid."
I grab Helena's elbow. "Office. Now."
I march her up the metal stairs to the glass-walled office that overlooks the floor and kick the door shut, finally cutting off the noise of the grinders.
I walk to the corner sink, grab a wet wipe, and scrub the blood off my hand. Helena stands by the door, watching.
"You enjoyed that," she whispers.
"It was necessary," I say, tossing the bloody wipe into the trash.
I walk to the desk and tap a thick file marked THE VENEZUELA CONTRACT.
"The Venezuelan deal," I say, tapping the file.
She blinks, likes she’s trying to shift gears from the brutality she just witnessed to corporate logistics.
"Venezuela?" she asks. "What about Apex Holdings? I thought you owned Apex? You told me that it was a shell company you used to bait me into the meeting."
"Apex is a shell," I agree, leaning against the desk. "I created the obstacles to see if you would jump through the hoops. Owning the client doesn't make the contract worthless."
"But the logistics were frozen," she argues. "The bridge loan from Mr. Rossi? The environmental permits? That deal was dead in the water."
"I resurrected it," I say calmly, flipping the file open. "Mr. Rossi has been paid in full. The environmental permits were rubber-stamped by the EPA this morning. I created the roadblocks to test you, Helena. Now that I need the road clear, the obstacles have been removed."
I point to the manifest.
"The logistics are already in place. Apex has placed a legitimate order for 20 heavy-duty mining drills to be shipped to Caracas. The charter leaves in three days."
She walks forward slowly, studying the schematics. "Mining drills?"
"Standard industrial equipment. Lead-lined. Perfectly legal. We have a government contract with Venezuela."
The tension bleeds from her shoulders.
"It's... legal?" she asks, skepticism warring with hope.
"Yes. You wanted to do legitimate business. Here it is."
I see her mind working. She thinks that if she handles this clean job, maybe she can redeem herself for the Atlantic Loop. She thinks she can be a real Director again.
"Okay," she nods. "I can do that. I can sign off on mining drills. It's legitimate."
"Good," I say before pausing, letting her ease settle in. "Because once those drills land in Caracas, Ivan needs you to authorize the return manifest."
She freezes. "Return? What do you mean?"
"It’s a two-way trip, Helena. We aren't bringing the drills back. We’re bringing the casings.”
"What is in the casings?"
"Inventory," I reply. "Missiles. Assault rifles. C-4 explosives. Military-grade weaponry. The hardware the High Council needs to secure the Eastern border."
"Against who?" she demands. "Who are you fighting?"
"The Morettis." I say the name, letting the hammer fall. "The Italians."
"The Morettis?" she whispers, horror twisting her features. "My father has their name in his ledgers. Moretti Finance. He took loans from them."
"He did more than take loans," I say. "He opened the door for them."
"What does that mean?"
"It means your father is the reason they are powerful enough to challenge us," I say, cutting the conversation short. I’m not ready to tell her the rest. Not yet.
I turn away, looking out the glass wall at the warehouse floor.
A savage satisfaction rises in my chest.
I’ve been planning this for years. While the High Council cowered and signed treaties, I was building my arsenal. I was securing the ships. Now, with Helena's signature, I’ll have the weapons.
There won’t be a skirmish with the Italians. I’m going to slaughter them, taking them all out at once. Every Moretti who breathed the air the day my parents died will be wiped off the face of the Earth. I’m done waiting.
I shift back to her.
"We are going to war, and I intend to win."
Her face falls, hope vanishing into horror.
"No," she says. "No. I won't do it."
"You will."
"I won't run guns!" she shouts, stepping back. "I won't be an arms dealer. I won't help you smuggle explosives into the country. You have money, you have power. Why risk everything for this?"
I stare at her. She doesn't understand. She thinks this is about profit.
"My father was the Pakhan," I say. "He sat on the High Council. He ruled the Russian underworld until he was murdered. That seat, that throne... It’s my birthright."
I move closer to her.
"The Council is weak. They are losing ground. They need these weapons to secure their territory. The man who delivers this shipment, the man who solves their problem, he becomes the King."
I point to the file.
"This isn't a shipment of guns, Helena. This is my crown. And you’re going to help me take it."
"I won't!" she snaps. "I agreed to the drills because I thought it was real business! I thought you were finally letting me do something clean! I won't smuggle missiles for your war. I won't help you become the King of the Bratva."
"You don't have a choice."
"I do!" she shouts. "I’m not signing that return manifest. I’m done."
Pushing off the desk, I close the distance in two strides. She backs up until she hits the glass wall overlooking the warehouse floor.
I slam my hands against the glass on either side of her head, caging her in, and lean close.
"You think you have a choice?" I growl, inches from her face. "You think you get to have morals now?"
"I won't help you," she whispers, trembling.
"You already have," I remind her. "You’re already a criminal. You signed the Atlantic Loop. You’re in the mud with me."
I lower my head, my lips brushing her ear.
"This ship leaves in three days. You’ll sign the return manifest. You’ll authorize the explosives. And you’ll do it with a smile."
"Or what?" she challenges, though her voice breaks. "You'll kill me?"
I pull back enough to look her in the eye. I don't threaten her father explicitly. I don't need to.
I let the weight of the violence she has witnessed settle between us. I let her remember the sound of Petrov's ribs cracking. I let her see the monster that I am.
"Sign the papers, Helena," I command. It’s final.
She stares at me, searching for mercy, but finds none.
She knows. She knows exactly what happens if she says no.
Defeated, she nods. She reaches for the pen, her hand shaking violently as she scrawls her name across the authorization line.
"Good girl," I whisper.
I step back, buttoning my cuffs.
"Ivan is waiting for the code. Don't keep him waiting."