Chapter 11
KONSTANTIN
She’s a queen in a glass cage, unaware that the walls are see-through.
I stand in the shadows of my office, high above the concrete floor of the warehouse my men call The Meat Grinder. The air stinks of rust and bleach rising from the drains. It’s a brutal contrast to the clean, expensive world my captive is accustomed to.
I had the camera installed the second I took the company. It's a pinhole lens, hidden inside the smoke detector above her desk. It gives me a god’s-eye view of everything Helena Blackwood does.
She’s sitting there now, clueless that I’m watching the rise and fall of her chest from across the city.
I switch the feed to Camera 4—the Loading Dock.
Down below, the massive yellow mining drills are being hoisted by cranes. They’re the size of houses, covered in industrial grease and warning stickers.
To the customs inspectors, they look like machinery bound for the gold mines. And technically, they are.
It's the perfect camouflage. This legitimate delivery buys us the entry permit into the cartel's territory. But when the Lady Anastasia comes back, she won't be carrying ore. She'll be heavy with the hardware that wins this war.
I switch back to the main feed.
Lev drove her to the office an hour ago with strict instructions: Make it loud.
She’s doing exactly that. She’s creating a spectacle of business. Through the camera feed, I watch her pace the room, the office landline pressed to her ear, shouting orders to the crane operators and the fuel depot.
She’s generating the kind of noise that proves the Blackwood Empire is alive and kicking.
I want the Italians to hear it. I want them to see the trucks and the cranes. If we moved in silence, they would suspect a smuggling run. But doing it in the light? It passes for legitimate business. It's the best camouflage in the world.
She stops to rub her temples, the coiled phone cord stretching tight as she moves, tethering her to the desk. Her posture is rigid, like she’s holding herself together with sheer will.
She’s wearing the charcoal suit I forced her into, but she’s taken off the jacket. Her white blouse stands out against the dark leather of her father’s chair.
"The code is compiled, Boss," Ivan says from the corner of the room, spinning his chair around.
He has set up a temporary command station on the conference table. It’s three monitors and a mess of cables connected to the Blackwood mainframe.
He holds up my black industrial tablet.
"It took sixty minutes after her biometric signature for the algorithm to settle," Ivan explains, tapping the screen. "But it's done. The encryption key for the return shipment is generated."
I take the tablet.
"Secure?" I ask.
"Ironclad," Ivan promises. "This tablet is now the only key in the world that can unlock those weapons containers when they get back from Venezuela. Without it, that cargo is expensive scrap metal. You lose this tablet, and we lose the war."
"I won't lose it." I slide the tablet into the inner pocket of my jacket. It rests against my ribs, a hard, reassuring weight.
I look back at the screen. To the left of the video feed, a second window mirrors her desktop in real-time. I can see every mouse movement, every file she opens, every key she hits before she even presses enter.
Ivan’s spyware is invasive. There are no secrets in that room.
"She’s working," I say quietly, watching her cursor hover over a fuel requisition form. "She authorized the mining drills. Now she’s processing the port fees."
"She’s fast," Ivan notes. "Efficient. Most civilians would be vomiting in the bathroom after what she saw here."
"She’s a Blackwood," I murmur. "Resilience is the only inheritance her father didn't gamble away."
I find myself lingering on her image. I remember the way the wet cotton clung to her skin, the heat of her body, the fire in her eyes when she told me to go to hell.
She’s dangerous. Not because she’s strong, but because she’s desperate. And desperate people are unpredictable.
Suddenly, a sharp beep cuts through the office.
On the monitor, the feed of Helena's computer screen flickers. A line of static cuts across her desktop wallpaper.
"What’s that?" I demand, leaning closer.
Ivan frowns. He turns back to his keyboard, his fingers hovering. "Just a lag spike. The server is updating..."
He trails off. The static doesn't clear. Instead, the cursor on Helena's screen freezes.
"Ivan," I warn.
"I'm checking," he says, typing a command. "It’s weird. The firewall is showing green. No alerts. But the data stream is heavy."
"Heavy?"
"Something is pushing through," Ivan says, his voice tight. "It’s not a hack. A hack would trigger the alarms. This looks like a handshake."
"Explain," I bark.
"Someone is logging in," he says, typing faster now, sweat beading on his forehead. "But they aren't using the external portal. They are bypassing the firewall entirely."
"How? I secured the mainframe myself."
"They found a door we didn't close," Ivan mutters, scanning the code cascading down his screen. "Wait. This isn't a new breach. This is old code. Ancient."
He hits a key and points to a string of text flashing red on the bottom monitor.
ACCESS PROTOCOL: FOUNDER_ROOT_01
"What is that?" I ask.
"It's a Legacy Root Key," Ivan says, his face pale. "It’s a hardcoded backdoor built into the original server architecture twenty years ago. It bypasses all modern security protocols. It’s designed for total administrative override."
I stare at the screen. "Who has that key?"
Ivan turns to look at me. "It’s not a digital key, Boss. It’s a passphrase. A manual code."
"Who knows it?"
"Only the people who built the company," Ivan says. "It would have been set up by the original owner to monitor the system without being tracked."
My blood runs cold.
"Arthur," I whisper.
"It has to be," Ivan confirms. "Or Helena. Those are the only two people alive who would know the Founder's Key."
"Helena is sitting right there," I point at the screen. "She isn’t typing anything."
"Then it's Arthur," Ivan says. "Someone just manually entered Arthur Blackwood’s private override code from a remote terminal. That is the only way they could get past my firewall without triggering a lockdown."
The realization hits me like a punch.
They didn't hack us. Arthur opened the door.
"Source?" I demand.
"Tracing..." Ivan trails, typing. "It’s bouncing through a proxy. Finding the origin now. Got it! It’s coming from a server node in Little Italy. The Moretti private network."
"Block it."
"I can't," Ivan mutters, swearing under his breath. "The Founder's Key grants absolute authority. It overrides my kill switch. I can't stop the message."
On the security feed screen, a window pops up on Helena’s desktop.
It’s a simple, black chat box. The cursor blinks.
SENDER: DAD
The air leaves the room.
"Read it," I command.
Ivan enhances the image. The text appears letter by letter, stark white against the black background.
DAD: Midnight. North Gate. I have a team. Security will be blind for 120 seconds. Run to the gray van. I’m coming for you, sweetheart. - Dad.
Helena’s reaction plays out on the camera feed. She stops breathing. The receiver of the landline slides from her hand and clatters onto the desk. She stares at the message, her eyes widening with a desperate, heartbreaking hope.
She believes it.
She reaches for the keyboard and starts to type: Dad? Is it y—
"Cut the line," I bark at Ivan. "Don’t let her reply."
"I’m trying!" Ivan hits a key. "I can't stop the incoming message, but I can kill the local connection before her reply goes out."
On the screen, Helena hits enter. An error message flashes: CONNECTION FAILED.
She tries again like it’s a glitch. She doesn't know I’m the ghost in the machine, silencing her.
She stares at the message from her father one last time, memorizing it. Then, the window vanishes. Auto-deleted from the sender's end. It was a one-way drop. A command, not a conversation.
She sits back, trembling, and looks at the clock on her wall.
Midnight.
Then, she moves, grabbing the landline receiver she dropped. Her fingers fly across the keypad, dialing a number I know by heart. Her father’s personal cell.
She presses the phone to her ear, eyes squeezed shut, praying for a connection.
Silence.
Then, a harsh, automated voice echoes in her ear and through my speakers.
"Number not authorized."
She slams the phone down in frustration before trying again. This time, she dials 9-1-1.
"Number not authorized."
She drops the receiver. It dangles by the cord, swinging back and forth like a pendulum.
The fog of illusion has lifted. She realizes the truth. I haven’t given her a phone. I’ve given her a leash.
"She’s trying to verify the source," Ivan notes. "Blocked."
"Good."
I turn away from the screen, my mind racing.
"It wasn't a hack," I say, pacing the small room. "Arthur gave them the Founder's Key. He handed it to Moretti."
"Maybe he hired them?" he suggests. "Maybe he went to Moretti for help?"
"He’s a prisoner in his own home," I snap. "I have three guards stationed at his estate. He can't take a piss without me knowing. He’s secure."
I pull out my phone and dial the lead guard at the Blackwood Estate.
It rings and rings.
Voicemail.
I call the second guard.
Voicemail.
A cold feeling settles in my gut.
"Lev," I shout into the radio.
"Go ahead, Boss," Lev’s voice crackles in my ear. He’s at the tower, patrolling the lobby.
"Where is she?"
"She’s in her office. I have men at the elevators."
"Keep her there," I order. "Lock the floor down. Don't let her leave that room. If she tries to walk out, restrain her."
"Understood. What’s happening?"
"Arthur Blackwood sold us out," I say, grabbing my keys. "I'm going to the Estate."
The gates of the Blackwood Estate are open.
They hang crookedly off their hinges, metal twisted, rammed open.