He looks at me with those predator eyes.
"If the Feds board that ship, they won't see tractors. They will see the largest money laundering operation in history. And they won't arrest me; I’m only the investor. They will arrest the Director of Operations who signed the illegal override. You."
I stare at the screen, at my own death warrant.
"Why?" I whisper, tears threatening. "Why did you need me to sign it? You own the company."
He walks back to his chair and retrieves his coffee.
"It was almost too easy," he muses. "Your father's security protocols... the port officials... they all crumbled the moment your name hit the system."
He studies me, calculating.
"You see, Helena, financial regulators are watching me. They watch the Russians. They watch anyone with a name ending in 'ov'. But they aren't watching the 'innocent' Blackwood heiress. The moment you scanned your retina, the system rolled out the red carpet. You are the ultimate skeleton key. You make the Bratva's crimes appear legal."
I’m sickened. He used my reputation, my name, my very identity as a shield for his organization. I’m working for the Russians. I’m one of them now.
"And now," he adds, voice dropping, "the next one won't be so easy."
I freeze.
"The next one?" I ask. "No. There’s no next one. You said?—"
"I said we are partners," he cuts me off. "And now that the Blackwood Star has launched, the Italians will be watching. They will notice the movement. Next time, they will watch the Director much closer."
"I won't do it again," I whisper. "I'll go to the police."
"And tell them what?" he counters. "That you authorized the shipment? That you are the one on the manifest? You go to prison. Not me."
He checks his gold Rolex.
"But we will worry about the Italians later. Right now, get up."
Blinking, I struggle to make sense of what he’s saying. My head is still spinning. "Get up?"
"It’s 7:00 AM. We have to be at the office by 8:30."
"The office?" I stare at him. "Konstantin, I... I can barely see straight. I'm sick. You drugged me."
"You drugged yourself," he corrects coldly. "I ensured you swallowed your own medicine. And yes, the office. You are the Director of Operations. Assets don’t get sick days."
He turns and walks toward the bathroom.
"You have twenty minutes. Shower. Dress. Fix your face. You’re a wreck."
"I'm not going," I hug the duvet, finding a spark of rebellion. "I'm staying right here. I'm not helping you run your criminal empire today."
He stops at the bathroom door but doesn't turn around.
"If you don’t show up to work today... If you look guilty... I might accidentally leak that manifest to the FBI. Your father would die of shame before the trial even started."
How dare he?
I bite my lip, fighting back a rush of tears.
It isn't just the threat of prison that stings; it’s the thought of my father alone in the house. Without me there to answer the phone, who is handling the creditors? Who is making sure he eats? He’s a broken man, fragile as old glass.
I miss him. I worry about him waking in the silence of that big, empty house, wondering where his daughter has gone. He doesn't know how to survive without me.
