Page 10 of Crystal Veil (Rostov Bratva #2)

RENAT

The room is cold. It doesn’t just cling to your skin but seeps beneath it, settling into your bones like a disease.

Moisture beads along the stone walls in perfect droplets, gravity pulling them downward in slow, methodical patterns.

The hum of fluorescent lighting above washes everything in a sterile, unforgiving glare, making shadows dance in the corners where darkness refuses to yield completely.

This room has seen blood, screams, begging, and silence.

It sits apart from the main estate, built impossibly low into the ground where Miami’s water table should make such things unlivable.

But it isn’t meant for the living. Around here, we call it the pit.

Tonight, it gets confession.

Sergey sits chained to the lone metal chair, his head slumped forward, his breathing heavy and labored.

Each exhale rasps through his throat like sandpaper.

His shirt is soaked through with sweat despite the chill that penetrates every surface down here.

One eye is swollen shut from the earlier interrogation, the flesh around it purple and tender.

His lip is split in two places, dried blood crusting along the wounds.

But he glares at me with his good eye, projecting the hatred that fuels a man who's already lost everything and knows it.

I step forward. Each footfall is intentional and unhurried.

The heaviness of my footsteps echoes on the concrete floor, bouncing off the walls and amplifying in the enclosed space.

Roman and Artur remain just behind me, silent as stone monuments, weapons holstered but hands never far from them.

Their presence is a promise written in flesh and steel.

They know this isn't a negotiation. This is the reckoning.

The air tastes metallic. Fear has a smell, sharp and acidic, and it mingles with dampness until breathing becomes an exercise in endurance. I've been in the pit dozens of times before. Men have died here. Men have broken here. Some have walked out alive, but none have walked out unchanged.

“Talk,” I command. My voice slices through the tension like a blade fresh from the whetstone. No preamble. No patience. No mercy.

Sergey lifts his head slowly, the chains around his wrists rattling like wind chimes in a storm. Blood glistens along his jaw, snaring the harsh light and reflecting it back in tiny crimson stars. His breathing is ragged, each inhale a struggle, and each exhale a surrender.

“You already know,” he rasps.

“I want to hear it from your mouth. Every last piece. Every detail. Every lie.”

He lets out a bitter chuckle, the sound cracked and hollow like bones breaking underwater.

His shoulders shake with effort, the chains clinking against the metal chair.

“Always needed to control the narrative, didn't you, Renat? The golden boy with the silver spoon, handed the empire while the rest of us bled for scraps.”

My jaw tightens. The muscle beneath my skin jumps, betraying the calm I'm projecting. Emotion is a weakness.

He spits blood onto the floor, the red droplet landing with a soft splat against the gray concrete.

“You want to know why? Because I'm tired of being second.

Always second. Always in your shadow, watching you make decisions I should have been making.

When your father died, I thought... I thought maybe I'd finally get what I earned through blood and sacrifice. But no. He left it all to his bastard son. You.”

The words strike like thrown stones, each one aimed to bruise. Sergey knows exactly where to thrust his verbal daggers. He's studied me for years, learned my weaknesses, and cataloged my fears. Now, he's weaponizing that knowledge.

“You think loyalty is a currency you get to trade when it suits you?” I snap, stepping closer.

The distance between us shrinks to mere inches.

I can smell the fear on him and see the way his pupils dilate despite the harsh lighting.

“You think because my father chose me, you had the right to sell us out? To Bennato?”

He doesn't flinch. There's something almost admirable about his defiance, even chained and broken. “Bennato promised what you never would. Power, recognition, and Bianca.”

Ah. There it is. The rot beneath the surface, the poison that's been eating away at him from the inside. I should have seen it coming. Should have recognized the signs. But I was too focused on external threats to notice the cancer growing within my own ranks.

“She never loved you,” I state flatly, the words dropping like rocks into still water.

His face twists into something ugly and desperate.

“She loved you. Even when you treated her like trash and discarded her like yesterday's newspaper, she still clung to the idea of you. You threw her away, and I was the one left picking up the pieces. She needed someone who would see her, appreciate her, and treat her like the queen she deserved to be. I did.”

There's pain in his voice now, raw and bleeding. This isn't just about power, money, or territory. This is about a woman who never looked at him the way she looked at me. This is about years of unrequited devotion, of watching from the sidelines while someone else lived the life he wanted.

“And what did that get you, Sergey?” I gesture around us, taking in the damp walls, the harsh lighting, and the chains that bind him. “This? Shackled, broken, and forgotten.”

He leans forward as much as the restraints allow, eyes gleaming with fury and madness.

“It got me clarity. I spent years cleaning up your messes, killing for you, bleeding for your Bratva.

I thought if I was loyal enough, brutal enough, efficient enough, you'd see me.

You'd recognize my worth. But you never did. You only see Elena.”

The mention of her name is like acid poured into an open wound. My hands clench involuntarily, fingernails digging into my palms. Elena. My Elena . The one pure thing in my corrupted world.

“She was never yours to envy.”

“And you think she's yours?” he laughs, the sound echoing off the walls and coming back distorted. He coughs, spraying blood across his chest. “You think she'll stay once she realizes who you really are? What you're capable of? When she sees rooms like this and what you do to men who cross you?”

The question strikes deeper than I want to admit. It's the fear that lives in the darkest corner of my mind, the voice that whispers in the early morning hours when sleep eludes me. Elena is light. I am dark. How long before the darkness consumes everything good about her?

I step forward until I'm in his space, invading the small bubble of defiance he's managed to maintain.

I crouch, bringing myself to eye level, voice dropping to a low and lethal tone.

“I know exactly who I am. And I don't hide it from her.

That's the difference between you and me. You spent your life pretending to be something you never were. A brother. A friend. A man worthy of trust.”

His expression morphs into one of bitterness and defeat. The fight drains out of him like water from a punctured balloon. He knows I'm right. He knows that everything he's built and everything he's believed about himself is a lie.

I stand, breathing slowly despite the urge to end this now. One bullet. One twitch of my finger. It would be so easy. The feel of the gun against my ribs is a constant reminder of how simple it would be to silence him forever. But death is mercy, and Sergey doesn't deserve mercy. He'll be useful.

“You're going to help me destroy them,” I declare calmly, my voice carrying the conviction of absolute certainty.

He blinks, confusion clouding his swollen eye. “What?”

“Bennato and Bianca. You're going to lure them to the construction site. The one you were building behind my back with my money and their promises.”

The construction site. Another betrayal and another knife in the back. While I trusted him with legitimate business operations, he was using my resources to build something for my enemies. The irony is perfect. He'll die in the same place he thought he'd build his new empire.

Sergey doesn't respond at first. Then he smiles. It's not triumphant. It's resigned, the expression of a man who's accepted his fate. “And if I refuse?”

“You won't. Because you know what happens if you do. And because a part of you, somewhere deep down beneath all that hatred and jealousy, still wants redemption.”

He shakes his head slowly, the chains rattling with the movement. “No, Renat. I just want the chance to take them with me. If I'm going down and burning in hell, they're burning too.”

“Then we're in agreement.”

I turn away, the conversation concluded. There's nothing more to extract from him, no more information to gather. He's given me everything I need to end this war once and for all. I motion for Roman to unlock the chains. “Clean him up. He needs to look presentable when he makes the call.”

Roman nods, understanding immediately. Sergey will need to appear unharmed and trustworthy when he contacts Bennato and Bianca. Any signs of torture or coercion will raise suspicions. This has to look like a legitimate defection, a genuine opportunity for them to claim victory.

I leave, each step taking me further from the pit’s oppressive atmosphere. I don't feel triumph or satisfaction. I feel cold in a way I haven't experienced in years. A chill that has nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with what I'm about to become.

This isn't strategy. This isn't justice. This is execution.