The sound of footsteps echoes. Arthur turns, and I watch him crumble. He doesn't just greet the man entering; he bows his head. He shrinks, hands clasping like a beggar.
Don Moretti.
He walks into the light. A silver-haired predator in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit. He ignores me and walks straight to my father.
"Well, Arthur?" Moretti asks. "Does she know the inventory?"
Arthur spins around, looking at me and then back at Moretti.
"It's weapons!" Arthur blurts out. "Military hardware. Missiles. She confirmed it. He's re-arming the Bratva, preparing for a slaughter."
I close my eyes.You pathetic fool.I tried to scare him into redemption, and he used the fear to sell me out even faster.
Moretti turns his gaze to me, assessing me like a shark.
"Is that so?" he murmurs. He walks over, grips my jaw, and forces my face up. "Weapons. That explains why the ship is rigged to burn."
He glances at Arthur. "When we used that Founder's Key to crack your server, we saw the warnings. 'Thermal Purge Active.' I assumed the explosives were there to melt gold bars... but missiles? That makes sense."
His focus cuts to Arthur. "How do we open the boxes?"
"The Director," Arthur says quickly, pointing at me. "The system is built on her. Her biometric print is the master key. That's how the ship was designed."
Moretti nods and pulls a chair over, sitting in front of me.
"Then it's simple," he says. "I don't have time to drag a hostage all the way to the Atlantic. And frankly, a woman is a liability."
He reaches into his waistband and pulls out a small, curved blade. A skinner's knife.
"But a digit in a cooler of ice? That is easy to transport. I can wire your print to a scanner. You stay here. Your thumb goes to the ship."
The room tilts. "What?"
"Secure her arm," Moretti commands.
Guards grab my right arm, wrenching it forward. I scream and kick, but they slam my forearm onto the metal table. A leather strap cinches my wrist, pinning my hand flat.
My thumb is isolated.
"Dad!" I scream. "Dad, stop him! He's going to cut me!"
Arthur looks at the ceiling. The floor. Anywhere but me.
He’s sweating. "It's just a finger, Helena," he mumbles, wiping his hands on his pants. "We'll get you the best surgeons later. Plastics. They can do amazing things now. Let him have it so we can finish this."
Moretti ignores him. He steps up to the table, taking his time. He lifts a black marker and traces the curve of my thumb, humming a tuneless melody.
He draws a circle around the base of my thumb, right where the joint meets the palm. The ink bleeds into the creases of my skin.
"Clean cuts heal faster," he says. "I prefer the joint. The bone is softer there."
He sets the marker down. Then, he raises the knife.
"Wait!" I shriek. "Wait! It won't work!"
The blade stops an inch from my skin. Moretti looks at me, bored. "Don't lie to me, girl."
"I'm not lying!" I sob.
