She gasps and arches her back. Her nails dig into my shoulders.
I fuck her hard, the bed shaking under us. Her legs lock around my waist, pulling me deeper each time.
I press my mouth to her ear, breath hot.
She moans my name. I kiss her again, swallowing the sound, and keep going, claiming every part of her.
Later, when the room is dark and quiet, I lie awake.
Helena is asleep beside me, her head resting on my chest. Her hand is splayed over my heart, the sapphire ring catching a sliver of moonlight.
I reach out, hand hovering over her shoulder, feeling the warmth of her skin.
Twelve days. That is all I need.
Let them watch the Depot. Let them waste their time staring at the walls. By the time they realize they've been tricked, theAnastasiawill be unloaded.
Arthur gave them the coordinates twenty years ago, but it was the Italians who lit the match. It was Moretti who burned my mother and sister alive in that convoy.
I’m not just bringing these weapons home to defend my territory. I’m bringing them home to slaughter the men who took my family.
I close my eyes, and I sleep like a King.
18
HELENA
The inside of the Sentinel smells of sterile air and expensive leather. It's a scent designed to convince you the world outside can't touch you. It's the kind of safety only affluence can afford.
I sit in the back right seat, spine pressed against the stiff upholstery. The windows are so darkly tinted that the city skyline is reduced to a murky, grayscale blur. I can see the world, but the world can't see me.
Lev is behind the wheel. His posture is relaxed, but his eyes are constantly moving.
Beside him sits a guard I've only seen once—a colossal man with a shaved head and a neck as thick as a tree trunk.
His name is Andrei. He has a compact submachine gun resting across his lap, his finger tapping a silent rhythm on the trigger guard.
Beside me in the back is another guard. He's younger, maybe twenty-five, with a scar running through his eyebrow. He doesn't look at me. His eyes dart between the side mirrors and the rear window, scanning for threats.
Silence hangs in the cabin, thick enough to choke on. The only sound is the low hum of the engine and the tires on the asphalt.
"You are quiet, Ms. Director," Lev says, eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror.
I look up. "It's early, Lev."
"You're worried about him," he says. His tone is calm, but there’s a tightness in his expression I haven’t seen before.
I stiffen. "I'm worried about the shipment."
He turns the wheel, navigating the heavy chassis around a pothole. "He didn't sleep, you know. Before the dinner. He spent three nights mapping the cartels in Venezuela."
I look at his reflection. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because in ten years, I’ve never seen him afraid," he says quietly. "Until he put that ring on your finger. He isn’t sending you to the Depot to inspect a warehouse. He's sending you there because it has three-foot concrete walls and a bunker."
I stare at the back of his head. "He thinks I'm weak."
"No," Lev corrects. "He thinks you’re the only thing he has left to lose."
