He unlocks his phone and holds it out.
"One call. Speakerphone. If you mention my location, or if you try to speak in code, I end the call. And then I punish you."
I take the phone. My hands are shaking. I dial the number I’ve known my whole life.
It rings. Once. Twice.
"Yes?"
My father’s voice.
"Dad?" I choke out. "It's me."
"Helena?" His tone shifts, but not to relief. It shifts to sharpness. "Where are you? Why are you calling from an unknown number?"
"I'm... I'm safe.”
Konstantin moves behind me. He doesn't step away to give me privacy. He comes closer, brushing his chest against my back. His hand rests on my hip, thumb digging into my blouse. It’s a possessive claim, reminding me that while I speak to my father, my body belongs to him.
"Dad, listen to me," I stammer. "I wasn't just safe... I was in handcuffs. The Feds arrested me."
"Arrested?" My father sounds skeptical. "By who?"
"Homeland Security. They charged me with trafficking, Dad. They said I was going away for twenty years."
I wait. I wait for the gasp. I wait for him to ask if I’m okay, if they hurt me, if I’m scared. I need him to be my father for once.
"Did you speak?" he asks sharply. "Did you sign a statement?"
The question hits my heart like a mallet. He doesn't care about the handcuffs. He cares about the liability.
"No," I whisper, tears stinging my eyes. "Konstantin got me out. He... he fixed it."
"How?"
"It doesn't matter how," I snap, the hurt bleeding into my voice. "I’m telling you I almost went to prison for your company, and you’re asking about statements?"
"I’m glad you’re safe. Of course, I am," he says. "But we have to focus. If Morozov got you out, he still needs you. Does he trust you with the logistics?"
My blood runs cold.
Konstantin’s hand slides to my waist, pulling me tighter against him. He isn’t surprised. He knew this was coming.
"What?" I whisper.
"The Venezuelan Charter," my father says, his voice dropping low. "TheLady Anastasia. Do you still have access to the manifests? The clearance codes?"
I close my eyes. "Dad, why are you asking about the shipment?"
"Because that shipment is our leverage," he hisses. "Listen to me. I’ve been talking to our friends. The ones in Naples."
"The Italians?" I breathe, my stomach churning. "You... you’re working with them? The ones who sent the message?"
"They’re allies," he says. "They’re the ones who got me out. Morozov’s guards at the estate? They didn't let me walk away. My new friends removed them. They rescued me."
"New friends?" I echo, the realization hitting me. "Dad, is it Don Moretti? The head of the Italian family?"
I grip the phone tighter.
