The words hang heavy in the air, suffocating me. I turn away, pressing my forehead against the glass.
"I’m thinking about the work," I say, forcing my mind to focus on the logistics to drown out Lev's truth.
"If we're retrofitting the North Depot for the Venezuelan cargo, the subterranean levels need more than a new gate. They need climate control. Independent power generators." I look up, keeping my voice steady. "If the grid goes down, the security systems for the shipment can't fail."
Lev nods, turning the fortress on wheels onto the on-ramp for the Industrial Bridge. The engine purrs—a low rumble that vibrates through the floor.
"The Boss has handled the specs," Lev says. "He needs the signature. The authority."
"The authority," I repeat, testing the word.
Konstantin is trusting me to secure the vault while he brings the ship home. The responsibility settles in my chest, heavy and sharp. He trusts me.
"You’re the Director," Lev says, eyes shifting to the side mirror. "It's not just a title, Helena. When you walk into that Depot, you represent the will of the Morozov Bratva. Even the Italians respect the hierarchy. They know not to touch the Crown."
"They might respect the Crown," I say, leaning forward, "but they want the Kingdom, Lev. If they suspect the Venezuelan shipment is coming to us, do you really think a few walls will stop them?"
Lev meets my gaze in the mirror.
He hesitates. "They won't strike the Depot, Mrs. Morozov. They don't even know it's being reactivated. By the time they hear the rumors, the cargo will be inside, and the gates will be shut."
"I hope so," I whisper, looking out at the skyline. "Konstantin is counting on this."
We hit the crest of the on-ramp and merge onto the Narrows—the long, rusted suspension bridge that connects the island to the mainland.
We had to take this route—the main highway was gridlocked by a construction crew blocking two lanes.
Usually, even this detour is a nightmare.
It's the main artery of the city. It should be choked with fuel tankers, eighteen-wheelers, and bumper-to-bumper gridlock. It should be a mess of horns and exhaust fumes.
But today, as the Sentinel levels out onto the bridge, the road is empty.
I frown, leaning closer to the glass. The asphalt stretches out ahead of us for a mile, completely barren. No tankers. No sedans. Just empty gray space framed by the rusted iron girders.
"Lev?" I ask, a knot forming in my stomach. "Where is the traffic? It's rush hour. This bridge should be a parking lot."
Lev glances at the side mirror, then the windshield. His posture shifts instantly. The relaxed driver vanishes, replaced by the soldier.
"It shouldn't be empty," he whispers.
He looks at the GPS. It shows green traffic.
He looks at the road. It’s dead.
"This bridge moves ten thousand containers a day," he says, voice low. "Traffic doesn’t disappear. Someone stopped it. They cleared the board."
I stare at the empty road, a lump lodging in my throat. "Cleared it for what?"
Lev slams the gear shift, downshifting. His eyes lock on the mirror. "For a kill box," he says before screaming, "Brace!"
"Rear sector!" the young guard shouts, voice cracking. "Vehicle approaching! Fast! It came from the maintenance tunnel!"
I turn, pressing my face against the rear glass to see what’s going on.
Behind us, a garbage truck has swung out from a side tunnel. It’s accelerating with black smoke pouring from the stacks. Its front grille looks like rusted iron teeth.
It takes up both lanes, blocking the escape path completely.
