I take a final drag of my cigar, watching the smoke rise to the ceiling.
"I own her past. I own her future. And when I’m finished breaking her, I’ll own her name."
6
HELENA
The harbor sky looks like a fresh bruise, ugly purple bleeding into the gray.
I watch it slide through the tinted window of the SUV, my forehead resting against the cold glass. The engine's vibration hums against my skull, a constant reminder that I’m moving, even though I have nowhere left to go.
We cross the bridge into the industrial district, tires humming on the asphalt. Usually, this drive wakes me up. Seeing the cranes rising against the skyline usually reminds me who I am and fills me with pride. This is my city. My port. My blood is mixed into the concrete of those docks. But today, the skyline is a cage.
My hands are folded in my lap, resting on the fabric of a skirt I didn’t choose.
Earlier, a strange woman entered the suite where I’m being held. A middle-aged maid with quick, cold hands, she didn't speak to me. She simply laid the clothes out on the end of the bed: a charcoal pencil skirt, a white silk blouse, and a black structured blazer. Less like business wear and more like armor.
She took the heavy boots and thick sweater I'd packed in my desperate rush and replaced them with black heels.
"You have a meeting," was all she said.
So, I dressed. It’s all I could do.
I put on the stranger's clothes and painted my face with the makeup provided, carefully layering concealer over the dark circles under my eyes. An extra layer coated the faint bruise blooming on my neck where the monster’s fingers had pressed the night before.
In the mirror, I looked like Helena Blackwood, the resilient heiress to a shipping empire, but sitting here, locked inside this heavy car next to the man who stole my life, I’m a prop. A doll in a glass box, waiting to be played with.
Konstantin Morozov sits beside me, typing on his phone. The rhythm of it is starting to grate on my nerves. He’s wearing a dark slate suit today, cut to fit the width of his shoulders perfectly. To the outside world, he could pass for a legitimate businessman. An investor. To me, he’s dangerous.
"Slow down," the driver says.
It's not Lev up front. It's another one of Konstantin's shadows—a bull-necked man whose eyes flick to the rearview every four seconds.
The driver mutters something in Russian. I don't speak the language, but I've learned enough in the past hours to recognize the tone.
He isn’t annoyed. He's on guard.
Konstantin hasn't looked at me since we left the penthouse. He stares at his phone, scrolling through a file with a focus that's almost insulting.
"Why are we stopping?" I ask, my voice sounding rusty.
Konstantin doesn't look up. "Standard protocol."
"There’s no protocol for a traffic jam at eight in the morning," I say, glancing out the window. "Unless there's an accident."
"There’s no accident," he says flatly. "We are checking the perimeter."
"Checking for what?"
He finally turns his head. His eyes are cold, clear, and devoid of sleep. "For anyone who isn't us."
He taps the driver's shoulder. "Status?"
"Traffic is backing up at the bridge," the driver replies, his accent thick. "The chatter is up. The Italians are sniffing around the south docks."
My stomach gives a painful twist.The Italians.
The debt note in my father's desk, and the men I thought were coming for us, flash through my mind. If the Moretti family knows the Blackwood empire is vulnerable, they won't stop at money. They will come for blood.
