I watch her until she’s gone. Only then do I let out the breath I've been holding. My hands are shaking from the sheer effort of holding back.
I turn and head for the elevator.
I need to think like a King. But right now, I feel like a man starving at a banquet.
The conference room downstairs is cold. It's soundproofed and reeks of cigar smoke.
Sokolov sits at the head of the glass table like a granite statue. The three other Elders are behind him, still in their jackets, dead silent.
The mood has shifted. Upstairs, it was a dinner party. Down here, it’s a trial.
"I expected you to be occupied," Sokolov says.
"Pleasure waits," I say, buttoning my jacket and sitting opposite him. "Business does not."
Sokolov studies me for a moment, then nods. A flicker of approval.
"She has teeth," he admits finally. "I’ll give you that, Konstantin. When she pulled up those schematics, she didn't flinch. Not once."
"She’s a Blackwood," one of the other Elders adds, shifting in his seat. "But she hates her father more than we do. I saw it in her eyes when she talked about the betrayal. That is not something you can fake."
"She isn’t a Blackwood anymore," I correct. "She’s a Morozov."
"Is she?" Sokolov leans forward, resting his hands on his cane. "She did well tonight. We accept the marriage, but don't mistake a parlor trick for loyalty, Konstantin. A wife can fake a smile. She can fake a signature."
He taps his cane on the floor.
"TheLady Anastasiahas left the harbor. That's good. But the Italians are watching. Arthur Blackwood is still breathing, and he's with them. You think Moretti kept him alive for his conversation?"
My jaw tightens. "The Founder Key."
"Yes," Sokolov spits. "We know the Italians breached the system. They didn't take money. They took intel. They saw the schedule. They saw the route to Venezuela."
"Moretti knows the ship launched," the Elder by the window adds. "And he knows it's coming back."
"He knows a ship is coming," I correct them. "He doesn't know what's inside. The manifest is encrypted."
"Don’t take Moretti for a fool, Konstantin!" Sokolov slams his hand on the table. It sounds like a gunshot in the quiet room. "He sees a Bratva ship cutting a line straight for Venezuela. That’s not a vacation cruise, Konstantin. That’s Cartel territory."
Sokolov leans in, his eyes hard.
"You don’t send a freighter that size to Venezuela to collect fruit. It's the supermarket of war. It’s where the Cartels sell their surplus. Moretti knows this. He sees the destination, and he smells blood."
"He suspects," I say calmly. "He doesn't know."
"He knows enough!" Sokolov snaps. "He knows theAnastasiais empty on the way down and heavy on the way back. If he sees a ship heading south, he knows it isn't coming back empty. He doesn't need a piece of paper to tell him that the ship is the only thing keeping us alive."
The room is silent. Sokolov is right.
Don Moretti is a strategist. He doesn't need proof; he needs a target.
"The Venezuelan shipment is the deciding test," Sokolov says. "Bring the cargo home, secure the contract, and the Throne is yours. The Council will back you. But if that ship is seized... if we lose the weapons because the Italians were waiting for it..."
Sokolov leans forward, his eyes cold.
"Fail this shipment, and we don't just cut you down. We cut the loose end too. Your wife dies with your ambition of being Pakhan."
"The ship will return," I promise. "And the Italians won't touch the cargo."
