Chapter 16
HELENA
I wake in the center of the master bed.
There’s a lingering ache in my muscles, a physical memory of being stretched and claimed. Every time I move, I feel the ghost of his hands on my hips, the pressure of his weight pressing me into the mattress.
I roll over, seeking the warmth that should be beside me, but the black sheets are cold.
Konstantin is gone.
A flush of heat travels up my neck.
Last night, I was on my knees begging the man who destroyed my life to burn me out. I gave him everything.
I let him use me like a doll against the window, and I thanked him for it. I feel a violent urge to shower. To scrub my skin until it’s raw. To wash the scent of him and the memory of my own desperate pleasure down the drain.
But then, my father’s voice cuts through the shame.
Business realignment.
My father didn't care about my innocence. Why should I cling to it?
I lie in silence, staring at the ceiling. For the first time in days, the penthouse doesn't feel like a cage. It feels like a fortress. I’m no longer the prisoner looking for a window to break. I’m the resident.
I lift my left hand into the shaft of morning light.
The sapphire ring on my finger glitters, a massive array of stones weighing my hand down.
It’s a mark of ownership.
I look at it, and the terrifying truth settles in. I don't want to take it off.
I hated him for trapping me. Hated him for the handcuffs. But last night, when he stripped away the civilized world and showed me the monster beneath, I didn't run away. I ran toward him.
I crave the violence in him because it drowns out the betrayal of my father. I love the way he looks at me, not as a daughter to be sold, but as a prize to be kept at all costs.
I’m done fighting the title.
I push myself up, swinging my legs out of bed.
Fine, I think. If the world treats me like a piece on a chessboard, I’m done being the pawn. I’ll be the Queen.
I walk to the bathroom. A fresh robe is waiting. On the marble counter, a note sits in jagged, black handwriting.
Dinner is at 8:00. Wear the velvet. The ship leaves at 9:00.
I run my thumb over the ink. No "good morning." He doesn't ask how I am. He just gives orders.
I don't crumble the note. I leave it there, a battle plan for the evening.
The day passes in a blur.
The staff moves around me, stepping out of my way when I walk through the penthouse. They address me as ‘Mrs. Morozov,’ with hushed reverence.
By 7:00 PM, the sun sets. The city outside plunges into glittering darkness.
I sit at the vanity in the dressing room, staring at my reflection. The makeup artist Konstantin sent just left. My lips are painted a dark red and my eyes are lined with kohl, making them look predatory.
The dress is hanging on the door. It’s midnight blue velvet, with long sleeves, a high neck that covers the bruises on my throat, and a back that plunges dangerously low.
I stand, let the robe fall, and step into the velvet.
The fabric is heavy, dragging against the floor. It hugs my waist and hips, creating a silhouette of absolute control.
I fasten the emerald necklace my husband provided and look in the mirror one last time.
The woman staring back isn't the terrified girl dragged out of her home.
She’s a stranger.
I touch the cold glass of the mirror, tracing the reflection of my own eyes.
They look deadlier.
“Are you still in there, Helena?” I ask the reflection in barely a whisper.
No answer. Just the glitter of the emeralds and the dark lips that Konstantin claimed.
I’m terrified of this woman, but she’s the only one strong enough to survive the night.
The tremble in her hands is gone. Her shoulders are set. She looks like a woman who sleeps with the devil and wakes up deciding she likes the heat.
I turn off the light and walk out.
My husband is waiting in the living area.
He’s standing by the fireplace, one hand in his pocket. He’s wearing a black tuxedo, looking immaculate.
He turns at the tap of my heels on the marble.
His eyes scan me thoroughly. He lingers on the high neck of the dress, knowing exactly what marks lie beneath it, then traces the dip of my waist.
The glint in his eyes is familiar. It’s the same hunger that burned me last night, but now it’s contained.
"Perfect," he murmurs.
He walks over to me, stopping inches away. He doesn't touch me, but the gravity between us pulls at my skin.
"You remember the stakes?" he asks, his voice low.
"I remember," I say. "The Council. The dinner. The Venezuelan shipment."
"It’s not just a dinner," he warns. "It’s an inquisition."
He sips his drink.
"Sokolov is bringing three others. The old guard. They know about your father. That he’s with the Italians. And they believe you’re a spy, a liability I picked up out of lust. You have to be prepared because they’ll come at you. Try to break you."
A cold spike of adrenaline rushes through my veins, but I push it down.
"Let them try," I say.
He searches my face. I feel him register the change in me. He sees the steel that wasn't there yesterday. The wife who is ready to stand beside him in the blood and the dirt.
"Good," he whispers and checks his watch. "Because they’re here."
The elevator chimes. The heavy doors slide open, and four men step out.
They’re older, dressed in dated expensive suits, carrying themselves with the arrogant gait of men who haven't heard the word 'no' in decades.
The Bratva High Council.
The man in the lead must be Sokolov. He’s short, thick set like a bulldog, with silver hair and eyes. He leans on a cane that looks more like a weapon than a support.
Behind him are three other men. They look at the room, and then at Konstantin.
"Konstantin," Sokolov rumbles, ignoring me completely.
"Sokolov," Konstantin nods. No bow. No handshake. He stands his ground. "Welcome to my home."
"Your home?" Sokolov sneers, looking around with disdain. "It’s cold. Glass and steel. No soul. But..." His eyes finally slide to me,"...you have decorated well."
The insult lands like a slap. I’m a decoration. A pretty thing to look at while the men talk.
"Gentlemen," Konstantin says, his voice hard. "May I present my wife. Helena Morozov."
Sokolov doesn't smile. He stares at me, his gaze stripping me down to my value.
"Blackwood's daughter," Sokolov corrects. "We heard the news. A quick marriage. Impulsive."
"Necessary," Konstantin says smoothly. "Dinner is served."
We move to the dining room.
I sit at the opposite end of the table from Konstantin. The four Elders sit between us like a jury.
Dinner is a battlefield disguised as a meal.
The staff serves the first course, a cold beet soup. No one eats.
The air is thick with unsaid accusations. The only sound is Sokolov’s spoon scraping the bowl.
Sokolov breaks the silence.
"The port is busy tonight," he says. "I saw the cranes moving. The Lady Anastasia is at the dock."
"She’s loaded and ready," Konstantin replies. "Twenty units of mining machinery. The perfect cover."
"Is it?" Sokolov asks. He wipes his mouth and turns his chair toward me.
"Because I hear rumors. I hear the Italians are moving into the south. Feds sniffing around the north gate."
He pauses, eyes drilling into me.
"And I hear the Director of Operations," he sneers, "is the daughter of the man who invited the Italians into our city."
The table goes silent.
"My father made his choice," I say, keeping my composure. "And I made mine."
"Did you?" Sokolov asks. "Or did you run out of options?"
"She’s a Blackwood," one of the other men mutters. "Blackwoods run when the heat gets high. Her father ran to Moretti. How long before she runs too?"
"I’m sitting right here," I declare. "I haven’t run anywhere."
"Because he has you on a leash," Sokolov snaps. "Don’t pretend you are one of us, girl. You’re a civilian. A liability."
He looks at Konstantin, his face twisting.
"This is a mistake, Konstantin. You let your lust blind you. A traitor's blood is always tainted."
Konstantin’s hand tightens on his glass, but he doesn't speak. He waits, letting me fight this battle.
I realize then what this is. Sokolov isn't insulting me. He’s baiting Konstantin. He wants the Enforcer to lose his temper, to act rashly, to prove he’s too unstable to be Pakhan.
This isn't a dinner. It's a succession war.
"We’re on the brink of war," Sokolov continues. "We barely survived the Atlantic Loop. Millions had to be moved, and we got lucky. But this? This is different."
He points a thick finger down the table at me.
"The Lady Anastasia is the most critical extraction of the decade. The return vessel from Venezuela is carrying the weapons that will secure our borders. If anything goes wrong, if the Feds intercept it, or the Italians hit it before it docks, we’re finished.”
He leans forward.
"And you put the logistics of this mission in the hands of a girl whose father is currently drinking wine with our enemy?"
"She’s my wife," Konstantin warns.
"She’s a security risk," Sokolov shouts, slamming his hand on the table. "Arthur Blackwood knows our routes! If she talks to him, if she whispers one coordinate, the Anastasia gets seized. We lose the drills. We lose the deal with the Cartel. We lose the war."
He leans back, crossing his arms.
"I say we remove her. Tonight. Strip her authority. We force her to hand over the gate access, put her in a cell where she can't talk to anyone, and run the logistics ourselves."
My heart hammers. They want to cage me again. They want to turn me back into a prisoner, stripped of the only leverage I have left.
I look at Konstantin. He’s watching me. He isn’t going to save me. He’s waiting to see if his Queen can bite back.
I slowly place my fork down.
I check the Rolex on my wrist. It’s 8:57 PM.
"Ivan," I say clearly.
From the shadows, Ivan steps forward, holding the large Operations Console, a rugged screen linked directly to the port mainframe.
"Director," Ivan says, ignoring the Council.
The Elders turn, confused.
"Bring me the console," I command.