"Let them sniff," Konstantin says. "If they cross the perimeter, put them in the ground."
He slides the phone into his pocket and turns to face me.
"You’re shaking," he observes.
I clench my hands into fists to stop the tremors in my lap. "I'm angry."
"Good. Anger is useful. Use the anger, Helena. You’ll need it."
"I don't need your advice," I spit. "I need you to get out of my building."
"Mybuilding," he corrects softly.
The car slows.
We’re turning off the highway onto the Harbor Road. The air outside changes, even through the filtration system of the car, the smell of salt and diesel swirl. The scent of the Atlantic.
Rising above the industrial sprawl of the docks, gleaming against the overcast sky, is the glass tower.
BLACKWOOD SHIPPING & LOGISTICS.
The letters are massive, chrome-plated steel mounted on the top floor, reflecting the gray clouds.
My heart gives a painful, jagged thump.
This isn't a building. It’s my blood. My mother sketched the design for that tower on a napkin when I was six years old. She picked the location specifically so she could oversee the action from her desk. The cranes. The containers. The constant stream of activity forming our family’s lifeblood.
I’ve walked into that building every day for five years. I know every crack in the sidewalk, every security guard's name, every squeaky floorboard in the mailroom.
But today, as the convoy of black SUVs sweeps through the security gates, it doesn't feel like a homecoming. It feels like an invasion.
The car comes to a halt at the curb in front of the main entrance. Usually, the sidewalk is bustling with couriers or staff, and I'd be walking in with my coffee, waving to Frank at the front desk.
Today, the sidewalk is empty.
One of Konstantin's men opens my door, letting the cold harbor wind rush in to whip my hair across my face.
"Out," Konstantin commands.
I step onto the pavement. My legs wobble in the unfamiliar heels, but I force them to lock. I straighten my spine and smooth the front of the blazer. If I'm walking to my execution, I’ll do it with my head held high, damn them.
Unflinching, I walk toward the doors with Konstantin a looming presence at my back. I can feel his heat, his gravity pulling at me.
I step into the lobby.
It’s a grand space of high ceilings and white marble floors, dominated by the massive digital map tracking our fleet.
I stop dead.
The reception desk is there, the polished granite slab where Frank has sat for fifteen years. Frank, with coffee stains on hisuniform and his grandkids’ pictures taped to the monitor. But Frank is gone.
In his place sits a man I’ve never seen before. He’s young, with a shaved head and a neck as thick as a tree trunk. He wears a black suit that strains at the seams, and he isn’t watching the monitors. He’s staring at the door. At me.
He doesn't smile. He gives a sharp nod to Konstantin.
I scan the lobby. Two other men in dark suits stand by the elevators in that rigid parade-rest pose. They look like mercenaries.
My stomach churns.
