Blinking rapidly, I struggle to clear the black spots dancing in my vision.
This is the Old Foundry.
A graveyard for ships and steel. And now, for me.
Looking up, my vision swims.
"Dad?" The word scrapes my throat in a desperate plea.
Arthur Blackwood is standing ten feet away. He’s out of place in this graveyard. He glimpses at me, then away. He can't hold my gaze.
"Dad, please," I rasp. "My chest... Something is broken. I need a doctor."
I wait for him to rush forward. To demand they untie me.
He takes a half-step toward me, his hand twitching like he wants to reach out, but then he stops. He looks at the armed men surrounding us.
"Hold on," Arthur says, voice shaking. "It will be over soon. Stay quiet."
He doesn't try to help me. To comfort or care. He simply stands there, wringing his hands.
"Ten minutes to midnight," Moretti says.
He steps into the light with the face of a viper and impossibly cold eyes.
"If he’s not here on the dot," Moretti says, checking his watch, "we put a bullet in her head and leave."
Arthur flinches. "No! Wait. He’s coming, Moretti. I know him. He won't leave her. Give him time."
"Time is money," Moretti sneers, circling my chair.
A sound vibrates through the concrete floor, low.It’s the high-pitched scream of a predator. A V12 engine.
Moretti stops mid-step and tilts his head, listening to the roar.
"He’s early," he notes with a gravelled laugh. "Look at that. The Great Konstantin. Rushing like a delivery boy."
"I told you he would come," Arthur breathes, wiping sweat from his brow.
"It’s pathetic," Moretti spits. "Kings don’t run, Arthur. Desperate men run. He’s terrified."
I close my eyes, disgusted with myself. I betrayed him. My husband.
I told them about the tablet. The shipment. I gave them the keys to the kingdom to stop them from spilling my blood.
Konstantin will come, but not to save me. He’ll come to execute me for treason.
The rusted doors groan open. Headlights blind me, twin beams of white fire cutting through the gloom.
The engine cuts.
A dead quiet settles in.
The driver's door opens. Konstantin steps out. Alone.
He’s wearing a black suit, buttoned to the throat. He’s immaculate, not at all like a man who lost a battle, but like a man who dressed for a funeral, undecided on whose body will be in the casket.
He doesn't look at the men surrounding the perimeter. He doesn't look at the snipers on the catwalks.
