He closes the door, moves around the hood, and settles into the driver's seat. Then, he starts the engine.
"They have it," I whisper, the guilt still thick in my throat. "Konstantin, they have the tablet. Everything you built... I gave it to them."
He doesn't look at the Foundry as we pull away. He doesn't even look back at the men with the rifles. He stares at the dark road ahead.
"They think they took my kingdom," he says, his voice turning the air to ice. "They don't realize I didn't hand over a device. I handed over a death sentence. I know exactly where they're going. And by the time the sun comes up, there won't be enough left of Moretti or your father to bury."
He guns the engine, and the car screams into the night.
He isn’t a man who lost. He is a man already counting bodies.
21
KONSTANTIN
I leave the Old Foundry in the rearview mirror, but its smell clings to the inside of the Ferrari.
The engine screams as I push the car past a hundred and forty down the empty highway. The streetlights blur into one long yellow streak over the hood. The world outside is flying by, but inside the cabin, the quiet is so heavy it’s hard to breathe.
Beside me, Helena is silent.
She’s curled into the passenger seat, gripping her ruined, blood-stained jacket so tight her hands are shaking. She hasn't spoken a single word since we sped away from the Italian’s guns.
She stares straight ahead at the dashboard, lost in her own thoughts.
I clutch the steering wheel so hard my own hands start to shake. My fingers are already split open and bleeding from where I punched the Sentinel's warped steel frame, and they ache with the pressure.
I welcome the pain.
The sharp sting is a reminder that I’m still awake, that this isn't a nightmare, and that she’s actually sitting beside me, breathing. Safe.
I need a fortress.
The penthouse won’t do. It’s too exposed. It's a place of luxury, and right now, luxury is a trap. I need concrete. I need thick steel doors, underground levels, and an army of men with automatic rifles standing between my wife and the rest of the world.
More importantly, I need the underground clinic.
"We're going to the Meat Grinder.”
My voice sounds alien to my own ears. It comes out as a low, rough gravel that finally breaks the heavy silence in the car.
Helena doesn't look at me. She doesn't turn her head. She gives a tiny, barely noticeable nod. The shock has a tight grip on her, pulling her deep underwater.
I ease off the accelerator as we get closer to the southern edge of the industrial district.
The Meat Grinder is my main processing warehouse and the real beating heart of the Bratva's muscle. It looms ahead like a concrete mountain against the night sky. From the outside, it’s an abandoned shipping facility, but the second my headlights hit the rusted chain-link gates, they slide open.
I pull hard into the lower bay of the warehouse and slam the brakes. The tires screech against the polished concrete, and the smell of burning rubber fills the emptiness.
The place looks like a war camp tonight.
Floodlights cut through the dark, casting sharp shadows across the floor. Dozens of heavily armed soldiers patrol the catwalks and the loading docks with assault rifles slung across their chests. Their faces are grim. They know what happened on the bridge. They know Lev is bleeding out in the basement. They're waiting for the order to burn the city down.
I kill the engine.
I don't wait for my men to open the doors. I'm out of the car in a second, rounding the hood to pull Helena’s door open. I reach in and press the buckle release. It clicks loudly.
She flinches.
