Chapter 291: Her rage

Helena’s hands closed slowly into fists. "You brought in specialists," she said. "You brought in people with money."

"Yes."

"You let them take her blood."

"I had to." For the first time, his voice sharpened. "Do you think a cure comes from nowhere? It takes men who know. It takes machines, and years, and a great deal of gold. And the men who know are greedy. They wanted a business. They saw an opportunity to save the world and to make money doing it." He waved his good hand weakly. "If that makes me a monster, then fine. I am a monster."

He looked at her. "You hate me. I know you do. But I am all you have, Helena. You need me."

"I do not need you." She said it flatly. She walked to the window and looked down at the garden, where the cleaners were still moving slowly across the lawn in their gray dresses.

"My daughter is far from here," she said. "Far from you. And soon you will be dead."

"I am not the only one you should be afraid of." The Don spoke gently, almost kindly. Helena did not turn.

"At least I love you, my dear. You and Katalia are my family. I may want something for myself, I will not lie to you. But I will never treat her as anything less than a princess."

He took a slow breath. "Those men out there will not." She turned her head.

"Kalisto may be dead. But there are more like him. In the organization. In the other families. Men who know exactly what Katalia’s blood can do." His eyes were very bright.

"They have been waiting twenty years. They will go after her. They will not stop, and they will not be gentle. Only I have the manpower to protect her. Only I can protect you both."

For a long moment, Helena did not answer.

It was a good argument. She knew that. It had been built carefully, with a splinter of truth in the middle, and the truth was what made it dangerous. There were more men like Kalisto. She had seen their faces at the long table.

But she had also seen what she had done. "I can very much protect my daughter," she said.

"Maybe you can." He did not argue. He only lay there with his eyes on the ceiling, and a small frown crept across his forehead.

"I feel a tingling in my arm." Helena’s head came around.

"The bad one. The one that was shot." He moved his fingers slowly on the sheet. "I have been shot many times, you know. I know how it feels. It burns, and then it goes numb, and then it aches." He frowned harder. "This is different. This is like a thousand ants."

She said nothing.

"Helena." His eyes met hers. "In exchange for my life, undo whatever you did to me. And I will give you two things that you want very, very badly."

She stared at him. Then she laughed, short and cold. "I am not buying that."

"I mean it."

"I want nothing from you. And I did not do anything to you." She folded her arms. "As much as I want you dead, Konstantin, I will never do it myself. I would not give you the satisfaction. I would not dirty my hands."

He lifted his good hand and tore at the bandage on his arm. The white cloth ripped away. Under it, the stitches were neat and black, and the skin around them was flushed pink. It did not look infected. It did not look wrong. But he stared at it, and his lips went tight.

"Then something is wrong with the medication," he said. He touched his forehead. His hand came away wet.

"The doctor gave me something. In the drip. It made me sleepy, but not like this." His breath was getting shallow. "Something is wrong. I do not feel well, Helena. I do not feel well at all."

She watched him for a moment. She did not run to him. She did not call for help. She stood very straight beside the window and looked at the man on the bed, and her face was calm.

"Tell me," she said. "Tell me what you mean about the two things. And maybe I will consider calling you a doctor."

"I can call the guards in." He said it slowly, with a faint smile. "They are right outside the door. I only have to shout. They will break it down, and this will be over."

"Really?" Helena tilted her head.

"Try." The Don looked at her. Her eyes were steady, and her hands were still. There was not a flicker of fear in her.

He reached for the bedside table. His phone was not there. The small black one he carried everywhere, the one that was never more than an arm’s length from his hand, had vanished. The table was bare except for a glass of water and a dish with a silver bullet in it.

He picked up the landline beside the bed and put it to his ear.

It was dead. He ran his thumb down the cord and found the end of it hanging loose, cut clean through.

He pressed the button on the intercom set into the wall. Nothing. No hum, no click. Someone had pulled the wires out of the back.

He turned his head slowly.

His eyes went to the little drawer in the headboard, where he kept a gun for emergencies. He yanked it open. Empty. He looked under the pillow. Under the mattress. Behind the lamp. Every hiding place he had ever made in this room was bare.

And on the bedside table, where a pistol had lain a foot from his hand all morning, there was nothing at all.

Helena opened her palm.

The gun rested there, small and black. While he spoke of the garden and the yellow dress, she had lifted it quietly from the table. She turned it in her fingers now, and dropped the bullets out one by one into her other hand. They fell with soft, small clicks. She set the empty gun on the windowsill and let the bullets roll into the pocket of her dress.

"You are weak," she said. Her voice was perfectly quiet.

"You can barely stand. You lost blood all night. You cannot call, you cannot shoot, and you cannot reach the door." She took a step toward the bed. "I believe I can take you down."