Chapter 17
KONSTANTIN
Helena is pressed tight against me. Her legs are wrapped around my waist, nails digging into my shoulders like she’s trying to anchor herself in a storm.
But I’m the storm.
For a moment, I forget the digital map burning in my mind. The shipment cutting through black waters toward the open sea disappears.
I forget the Bratva Elders who just vanished into the elevator.
All that exists is the heat of her skin and the frantic rhythm of her mouth on mine. The woman in my arms isn't the trembling hostage I brought here weeks ago.
She’s the only person in this city who stood in front of the Council and didn't flinch. In a world of cowards and sycophants, she’s the only thing that feels real.
She’s a weapon. And God help me, I’ve never wanted anything more.
"You didn't just win," I growl against her lips, the vibration humming between our chests. "You reigned."
She smiles against my mouth, grinding down on me. The friction sends a shockwave of need straight to my groin.
My grip on her thighs tightens, hard enough to bruise. I want to take her right here. I want to press her against the glass, high above the city that tried to break her, and show her exactly who she belongs to.
But the predator in me, the cold part that's kept me alive for years, snaps its jaws shut.
Not yet.
Sokolov is waiting. The old man might have left the room, but he hasn't left the building. I know how the Council works. They're downstairs right now, picking apart every word spoken at dinner, waiting to see if I'm distracted by the pretty little bird I married.
If I don't solidify this victory now, the dinner meant nothing.
I tear my mouth from hers.
Helena lets out a small, frustrated sound as her eyes flutter open. They're wide, dark with arousal. She’s beautiful.
"Konstantin?" she whispers.
I set her down. It takes every ounce of discipline I have to unclasp her legs from my waist and place her feet back on the floor. She sways slightly, hands still clutching my jacket.
"Go to the room," I say, voice rougher than I intend.
She blinks, confusion cutting through the lust. "What?"
"The night isn't over," I say, stepping back. I put distance between us. If I stay close, I won't leave. "I have to finish with the Council. They need to know that the new Mrs. Morozov isn't just a trophy."
She straightens. The confusion vanishes, replaced by that mask of cool composure she wore at dinner. It's terrifying how quickly she learns.
"I thought they left," she says, smoothing the front of her dress, though her chest is still heaving.
"They left the table," I correct her. "They didn't leave the war. Go to the master suite,. Wait for me."
I pause, letting my eyes rake over her one last time. "Do not lock that door."
A flush rises on her neck, but she doesn't look away. "Don't make me wait too long," she murmurs.
Then she turns and walks toward the hallway. Her stride is steady, her hips swaying with a new arrogance. She walks like she owns the penthouse.
I watch her until she’s gone. Only then do I let out the breath I've been holding. My hands are shaking from the sheer effort of holding back.
I turn and head for the elevator.
I need to think like a King. But right now, I feel like a man starving at a banquet.
The conference room downstairs is cold. It's soundproofed and reeks of cigar smoke.
Sokolov sits at the head of the glass table like a granite statue. The three other Elders are behind him, still in their jackets, dead silent.
The mood has shifted. Upstairs, it was a dinner party. Down here, it’s a trial.
"I expected you to be occupied," Sokolov says.
"Pleasure waits," I say, buttoning my jacket and sitting opposite him. "Business does not."
Sokolov studies me for a moment, then nods. A flicker of approval.
"She has teeth," he admits finally. "I’ll give you that, Konstantin. When she pulled up those schematics, she didn't flinch. Not once."
"She’s a Blackwood," one of the other Elders adds, shifting in his seat. "But she hates her father more than we do. I saw it in her eyes when she talked about the betrayal. That is not something you can fake."
"She isn’t a Blackwood anymore," I correct. "She’s a Morozov."
"Is she?" Sokolov leans forward, resting his hands on his cane. "She did well tonight. We accept the marriage, but don't mistake a parlor trick for loyalty, Konstantin. A wife can fake a smile. She can fake a signature."
He taps his cane on the floor.
"The Lady Anastasia has left the harbor. That's good. But the Italians are watching. Arthur Blackwood is still breathing, and he's with them. You think Moretti kept him alive for his conversation?"
My jaw tightens. "The Founder Key."
"Yes," Sokolov spits. "We know the Italians breached the system. They didn't take money. They took intel. They saw the schedule. They saw the route to Venezuela."
"Moretti knows the ship launched," the Elder by the window adds. "And he knows it's coming back."
"He knows a ship is coming," I correct them. "He doesn't know what's inside. The manifest is encrypted."
"Don’t take Moretti for a fool, Konstantin!" Sokolov slams his hand on the table. It sounds like a gunshot in the quiet room. "He sees a Bratva ship cutting a line straight for Venezuela. That’s not a vacation cruise, Konstantin. That’s Cartel territory."
Sokolov leans in, his eyes hard.
"You don’t send a freighter that size to Venezuela to collect fruit. It's the supermarket of war. It’s where the Cartels sell their surplus. Moretti knows this. He sees the destination, and he smells blood."
"He suspects," I say calmly. "He doesn't know."
"He knows enough!" Sokolov snaps. "He knows the Anastasia is empty on the way down and heavy on the way back. If he sees a ship heading south, he knows it isn't coming back empty. He doesn't need a piece of paper to tell him that the ship is the only thing keeping us alive."
The room is silent. Sokolov is right.
Don Moretti is a strategist. He doesn't need proof; he needs a target.
"The Venezuelan shipment is the deciding test," Sokolov says. "Bring the cargo home, secure the contract, and the Throne is yours. The Council will back you. But if that ship is seized... if we lose the weapons because the Italians were waiting for it..."
Sokolov leans forward, his eyes cold.
"Fail this shipment, and we don't just cut you down. We cut the loose end too. Your wife dies with your ambition of being Pakhan."
"The ship will return," I promise. "And the Italians won't touch the cargo."
"How can you be sure?" the second Elder asks. "Moretti knows a ship is coming. He knows it’s critical."
"He knows it’s critical," I agree. "But as I said, he doesn't know what is inside."
I lean forward, lowering my voice. "Moretti thinks we’re moving drugs? Gold? Cash? He’s guessing. He knows the ship is the lifeline, but he’s blind to the nature of the asset."
I reach into my inner jacket pocket and pull out the black industrial tablet Ivan prepared. I set it on the table, keeping my hand flat over it. I don’t slide it across or let them touch it.
"The Lady Anastasia is the delivery truck," I say calmly. "This tablet is the shipment."
Sokolov stares at the device under my hand.
"The containers we're picking up in Venezuela use military-grade encryption," I explain. "They self-destruct if you try to force them. This tablet holds the decryption keys, the return coordinates, and the bypass codes."
I tap the screen once.
"Without this tablet, those containers are just heavy steel boxes. Even if the Italians hijack the ship, kill the crew, and tow it to their own harbor, they can't access a single crate without these codes. As long as I hold this, we control the outcome."
"It’s a master key," Sokolov murmurs, eyeing the tablet.
"It’s the only key," I correct him. "Moretti can stare at the shipping routes all he wants. He can guess what we're hiding. But he can't open the box."
I slide the tablet back into my pocket immediately. It rests against my ribs like a second heart. I won’t let let it out of my sight.
Sokolov signals to his men. He stands, wincing as he puts weight on his cane.
"Goodnight, Konstantin. The Council will wait for the ship to dock. Don’t make us regret backing you."
As they move toward the doors, Sokolov pauses.
"And Konstantin?"
I look up.
"Your wife," he says softly. "She’s an asset now. But remember, if the Italians cannot get the ship, they will look for the Key. Keep her close."
I sit alone in silence for a moment, staring at the empty chair. The threat hangs in the air like smoke.
"Lev," I say, not looking around. I know he’s there in the shadows.
"Boss." Lev steps into the light. He looks tired, hand resting casually near his holster.
"We move to phase two," I say. "Sokolov is right. The Italians have the schedule. The Founder Key breach confirms it."
I walk to the digital wall map and tap the console. A blue line representing the Lady Anastasia appears, pulsing in the middle of the Atlantic.
"How long?" I ask.
"Based on currents?" Lev checks the data. "Five days to reach Venezuela. Two days to load. Five days to return. Twelve days total."
"Twelve days," I repeat. It feels like a death sentence. "We have to hold the line for twelve days, Lev. That is a lifetime in a war."
"It's too long," Lev says, shaking his head. "If Moretti knows the ship launched tonight, he's already calculating the return. The Italians will be watching the harbor by the weekend. They'll have snipers on the cranes. They'll have boats in the water."
"I know," I say. "We can't bring a shipment this size into a hot zone. If they're looking at the water when she docks, we lose."
I stare at the map, mind racing. I need to blind them. I need to make them look away.
"We need a diversion," I say.
I tap the screen, zooming in on the city. I highlight the North Depot—a massive, secure storage facility on land, miles away from the water.