I release her wrist. She stumbles back, rubbing the red marks on her skin.
"Twenty years ago," I say, the words tearing out of me. "Your father was my father's partner. They were supposed to be brothers. But Arthur wasn't satisfied with steady profits. He wanted more. He wanted to expand the fleet, to buy routes he couldn't afford."
She watches me, her eyes wide. "I don't believe you."
"Greed, Helena," I spit the word out. "The Italians offered him a mountain of cash to betray us, enough to secure the Blackwood legacy you are so proud of."
I step toward her. She backs up until her legs hit the leather sofa.
"He sold us," I continue. "He didn't just sell a shipping route. He sold the formation. He gave Don Moretti the exact coordinates of my family's convoy."
"The convoy?" she whispers.
"He told them which car was armored," I say, the memory choking me. "Told them exactly where my father would be sitting. And he knew who was sitting next to him."
She doesn’t answer.
"My mother," I answer anyway. "And my sister. Katya. She was seven."
She covers her mouth with her hand. A small, strangled sound escapes her throat.
"I was in the rear car," I say, forcing her to look at me, to see the boy I was. "I was thirteen. I watched the missile hit them. I watched the car disintegrate. I didn't just see bodies, Helena. I saw ash. I breathed them in."
"No," she whispers, shaking her head. She backs away until she hits the wall. "He wouldn't. He isn’t a killer. He built the company. He worked hard..."
But her voice trails off. Her eyes lose focus, looking inward, searching her own past.
"The expansion," she murmurs, the color draining from her face.
"What?"
"I was five," she says, her voice hollow. "That was the year we bought the new fleet. The year we built the Estate."
She looks up at me, horror dawning in her expression.
"I remember. I walked into his study one night. He was burning papers in the fireplace. He was crying. He told me he had done a 'terrible thing' to secure our future. I thought he meant a bad loan. I didn't know... God, I didn't know it was blood."
Tears spill over her lashes. Genuine tears. She looks at me, and I see the moment her heart breaks, not for herself, but for the weight of what her name has cost me.
"Konstantin..." she breathes, her voice trembling. "I... I’m so sorry."
Her touch burns through my shirt. It snaps the last thread of my control. I don’t want her pity. I don’t want her softness.
I grab her waist and haul her against me.
"Don’t you dare pity me," I growl.
I crash my mouth down on hers and bite her lip, forcing her mouth open.
She gasps, but she doesn’t fight. She melts, like she’s trying to absorb every shard of pain I threw at her. Her hands slide up my chest, pulling me closer.
She wants to console me. She wants to atone for her father’s sins with her body, offering herself not out of desire, but out of the crushing weight of what she learned.
The thought should disgust me. Instead, it ignites something feral.
I lift her, slam her back against the bookshelf. Books tumble, pages fluttering like dying birds. I don’t care.
I press my hips into hers, grinding hard so she feels every inch of me, how much I want to ruin her. My hands roam, rough, tearing at her blouse.
