Page 1 of Crystal Veil (Rostov Bratva #2)

ELENA

The antiseptic bite of hospital air hits my nose before my eyes open.

Fluorescent light pulses beneath my lids, too bright, too harsh.

Everything aches. My ribs, my shoulder, my head like it's been split open and stitched back together with fire.

I shift, but even that small movement sends pain ricocheting through my body like shards of glass digging deeper into my flesh.

My mouth tastes like copper and chemicals, and there's something bitter underneath that makes my stomach churn. The beeping of machines creates a steady rhythm around me, punctuated by distant voices in the hallway. Nurses discuss medication schedules, and doctors review charts. It’s the mundane sounds of a hospital operating in the early morning hours.

“Elena.”

Amelia's voice wavers, thick with emotion. She leans in, her hand wrapping around mine like a lifeline. Her fingers are cold, trembling slightly as they intertwine with mine. “Hey... hey, you're okay. You're safe. I've been sitting here for hours.”

I blink slowly, my vision swimming as shapes gradually come into focus.

Her face appears first. I note her red-rimmed eyes, blonde hair pulled into a messy ponytail that tells me she's been running her hands through it, and worry pressed into every delicate line of her face.

Dark circles shadow her usually bright blue eyes, and her normally perfect makeup is smudged, mascara streaking down her cheeks in dried tracks.

“What... happened?” My voice is nothing more than a breath, dry and hoarse. The words scrape against my throat like sandpaper, and I wince at the effort it takes to speak.

She opens her mouth to respond, but her expression shifts, eyes darting toward the door. There's something she's not telling me that makes her shoulders tense and her grip on my hand tighten protectively. Before she can answer, the door swings open with enough force to rattle the frame.

A man steps inside, his presence filling the entire room with disdain.

He is in his late forties, maybe early fifties, with thinning hair slicked back in a way that doesn’t quite hide the bald spot forming at his crown.

His jaw sits crooked, probably broken at some point, and never set properly from an injury that earns you street cred in another life.

The badge clipped to his belt reads “Detective Mercer,” but nothing about him feels merciful.

His shirt is wrinkled and coffee-stained, and his tie hangs loosely around his neck like he's been working all night.

“Elena Martinez,” he announces, pulling out a worn notebook with pages that curl at the edges. His pen clicks repeatedly as he flips through previous entries, already annoyed with me before I've even spoken. “You want to tell me what the hell happened here?”

Amelia stands instantly, her chair scraping against the floor. Her posture shifts from that of a concerned friend to a protective shield in seconds. “She just woke up. She's in pain. Maybe you can come back when the doctor clears her for visitors.”

“I don't care if she's in a coma,” Mercer snaps, his eyes never leaving mine. “We've got a woman impersonating hospital staff, and now that woman is in the morgue. I need answers, and I need them now.”

My chest tightens, and suddenly breathing becomes difficult. The heart monitor beside my bed picks up pace, beeping faster as panic creeps in. “I... I don't know who she was. I asked her for water, then everything went blurry. Next thing I remember is waking up here.”

The memory comes back in fragments. A woman in navy blue scrubs instead of the pale green worn by most of the other hospital staff. Her brown hair was tucked into a neat bun. Her name tag flipped backward against her chest, and her dark eyes appeared almost black in the lighting.

Mercer narrows his eyes like I've just insulted his intelligence.

He steps closer to the bed, his shoes heavy against the linoleum floor.

“Funny. Because that mystery woman had a syringe in her pocket and a fake ID badge.

Security footage shows her entering the building through a maintenance entrance that should've been locked.

You sure you don't recognize her? Friend? Co-worker? Maybe someone trying to finish what you started?”

“What are you talking about?” I manage the words scraping against my throat like broken glass.

He leans in slightly, not threatening exactly, but close enough that I can smell stale coffee and irritation radiating from his pores.

His breath carries hints of cigarettes poorly masked by mint gum.

“You've been nosing around where you don't belong.

Real estate corruption, offshore accounts, the names that get people disappeared.

Now you've got a body on your hands and zero answers.

Doesn't exactly scream ‘innocent journalist.’”

The accusation hits me like a punch to the gut.

I’ve spent months chasing the waterfront development story, tracing money trails and connection webs that point to dangerous men.

But I never thought it would follow me here, to Jackson Memorial, where I came to check on Nick after he was shot by Bennato’s people.

Amelia bristles beside me, her protective instincts flaring. “Hey! Back off. She's the victim here, not the suspect.”

“I've got a dead woman and a mess of questions,” Mercer continues, ignoring her completely.

His pen taps against his notebook in an irritating rhythm.

“You're at the center of it. So, unless you want to go from victim to suspect real quick, I suggest you start remembering details you conveniently forgot.”

“I didn't do anything,” I whisper, but it feels feeble in the face of his obvious disbelief. The words drift in the space between us, inadequate against the intensity of his suspicion.

He smirks like he's heard a thousand versions of the same excuse from criminals far more creative than me. “Sure. You just happened to be the target of a fake nurse with a gun in a city hospital crawling with security cameras and armed guards. Pure coincidence, right?”

The sarcasm drips from his voice like acid. He flips through his notebook again, making notes I can't see from this angle. Whatever he's writing, it doesn't seem to be in my favor.

“The woman who tried to kill you,” he continues, “bypassed three security checkpoints and disabled two cameras on her way to you. This wasn't some random psycho with a grudge. This was planned, funded, and executed by people with resources.”

The memories come rushing back now. The nurse guided me down a quiet hallway. The cold press of a gun. The struggle. My head hit the floor. The deafening crack of a gunshot.

Mercer finally straightens, flipping his notebook closed like he's done pretending to care about my well-being. “I'd start figuring out why someone would want you dead, Martinez. And fast. Because whoever sent that woman isn't going to stop at one failed attempt.”

He pauses at the door, turning back with one final observation. “Oh, and Martinez? Next time you decide to investigate stories that get people killed, maybe warn the hospital staff first. They don't like cleaning up journalist blood from their floors.”

He leaves without another word, the door slamming behind him, rattling the small window set into the frame.

Amelia exhales sharply, rubbing her temple with both hands. “Asshole.”

I don't respond immediately. My heart's still pounding against my ribs like a caged bird trying to escape, and my hand instinctively moves to my lower abdomen.

I press down gently as if reassurance could come from touch alone.

The secret I'm carrying feels heavier now, more fragile in the face of everything that's happened.

Amelia leans closer, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “Elena, you have a concussion, but...” She glances toward the door, then back to me, her eyes soft with relief. “The baby is okay.”

My breath hitches, and I feel tears prick at the corners of my eyes. Relief floods through me so completely that it's almost overwhelming. I'd been terrified to ask, terrified to even think about what the attack might have done to the tiny life growing inside me.

“Thank God,” I whisper back.

Amelia squeezes my hand gently, understanding passing between us without words.

She knows how much this means to me and knows how scared I've been since discovering the pregnancy just a week ago.

We've been through everything together since childhood, and she's the only person who knows about the baby.

Before I can respond, footsteps echo in the hallway outside. Different from Mercer's heavy shoes. These are deliberate, measured by the sound of expensive leather against polished floors.

“Elena.”

A jolt runs through me at the sound of the voice, and Amelia stiffens beside me.

Renat.

He steps into the room like a force of nature, every inch tailored in a charcoal suit that screams money and power.

His hazel eyes scan me with restrained panic and rage barely held in check.

His jaw is locked, his movements tight and controlled, but I can see the tension radiating from every line of his body.

I shoot a quick, nervous glance at Amelia, hoping she understands the silent plea in my eyes. She gives me an almost imperceptible nod, understanding that this conversation about the baby needs to wait until we're alone.

His dark hair is slightly mussed, like he’s been running his hands through it, and there's a shadow of stubble along his angular jaw that suggests he hasn't slept.

“You're okay,” he murmurs, more to himself than to me. His eyes flick to the door where Mercer left, and his expression darkens further. “What did he tell you?”

I shake my head, suddenly hyperaware of how I must look. Pale, bruised, vulnerable in this hospital gown. “He thinks I'm hiding something.”

“I'll make sure he never bothers you again,” Renat growls, his accent thick with anger. “He gets one warning. Just one.”

There's something in his tone that makes me believe he can make Detective Mercer disappear entirely if he chooses to. The thought should terrify me, but instead, it brings an unexpected sense of security.

He moves to my side, his presence filling the space between my bed and the wall. His fingers graze the edge of my blanket, careful not to touch me directly but close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his skin. “This shouldn't have happened. Not here.”

“Someone got through security pretending to be hospital staff,” I tell him, my voice growing stronger now that he's here. “She mentioned Bennato's name before everything went dark.”

The change in his expression is immediate and terrifying. His eyes turn cold and calculating, and I glimpse the man beneath the polished exterior. The one who built an empire through violence and fear.

“I knew it was Bennato,” he hisses through clenched teeth. “But that wasn’t just a warning. That was precision. He had inside help for a professional execution.”

His gaze sharpens, distant and calculating as he processes this information.

I can almost see the wheels turning in his mind, connections being made, and plans forming.

“Bennato thinks he can send one of his attack dogs into a hospital, slip past witnesses and cameras, and come for you?” His voice drops, rough with restrained violence.

“I’ll show him just how fatal that mistake was. ”

“I've already doubled security,” he continues, his voice dropping to a tone that brooks no argument. “No one steps into this room unless I personally clear them. Every nurse, every doctor, every person who even thinks about walking past your door gets vetted by my people first.”

Amelia shifts uncomfortably in her chair, and I realize she's been watching this exchange with growing alarm. Her eyes dart between Renat and me, clearly aware of the dangerous undercurrents in the room but also protective of the secret we share.

I nod faintly, but my thoughts are already spiraling down dark pathways.

I'm not just fighting for my life anymore.

I'm fighting for another one as well. The secret burns in my chest, demanding to be shared with the man standing beside my bed, but I can't find the words.

Not yet. Not when everything is so uncertain and dangerous.

My hand moves to my abdomen again, a protective gesture I can't seem to stop making.

I catch Amelia watching me, and there's understanding in her eyes.

She knows how hard this is for me, keeping something so monumental from Renat when every instinct tells me he deserves to know.

But timing matters, and right now, with assassins hunting me and the war with Bennato escalating, the truth feels like another weapon that could be used against us.

I just don't know how long I can keep that part a secret, especially from him.

The irony isn't lost on me. I'm an investigative journalist whose entire career is built on uncovering the truth.

Yet, here I am, harboring the biggest secret of my life.

But this isn't just about me anymore. This tiny life growing inside me changes everything, makes every risk feel magnified, every decision tangled in consequences I never had to consider before.

“Elena?” Renat's voice brings me back to the present. He's studying my face with those intense hazel eyes, and I wonder how much he can read in my expression. “What aren't you telling me?”

The question pulses between us, loaded with implications I'm not ready to face.

Outside the window, Miami continues its relentless pace.

Traffic hums along distant highways, helicopters slice through the morning air, and the city awakens to another day of business, corruption, and violence hidden beneath a veneer of tropical paradise.

But in this sterile hospital room, with machines beeping steadily around me and the man who can either save me or destroy me standing at my bedside, the world feels suspended. Waiting.

I meet his gaze, seeing my own reflection in those golden-flecked depths, and realize that whatever happens next, there's no going back to the woman I was before.

The journalist who thought she could expose the truth without becoming part of the story.

That woman is gone, replaced by someone who understands that some truths come with a price too high to calculate.