Page 12 of Crystal Veil (Rostov Bratva #2)
ELENA
The nursery is painted with the softest shade of sage, the color of calm and new beginnings.
But as I stand in the doorway with a folded blanket in my hands, dread curls low in my belly.
The walls seem to mock me with their serenity and their promise of peace in a world where violence lurks around every corner.
I trace the wooden doorframe with my fingertips, remembering how Renat insisted on hand-selecting every piece of furniture himself.
He'd spent hours poring over catalogs, his usually decisive nature wavering when it came to choosing between cream and ivory for the changing table.
Amelia moves beside me, humming under her breath as she assembles the mobile Renat ordered from some boutique in Paris.
Her fingers work with flawless rhythm, connecting delicate pieces with the same care she brings to everything in her life.
Gilded stars and porcelain moons twirl in lazy circles, their movement unhurried and unbothered, unlike me.
The sight of them spinning endlessly makes my stomach turn.
It mirrors how everything in my world feels caught in perpetual motion, never settling or finding a sense of stillness.
I smooth the edge of the crib sheets with shaking fingers and try to focus on the mundane.
The soft cotton, wooden rails, and the sweet scent of lavender from the laundry detergent I insisted on using, the same one my mother used when I was small.
Everything is in place, almost perfect. The receiving blankets are folded in neat stacks, and the tiny clothes are arranged by size in the dresser drawers.
Even the rocking chair sits positioned at the perfect angle to bask in the morning light.
Except none of it feels right. Because Renat is preparing for war.
I've seen how his shoulders tense when he thinks I'm not looking and how his phone buzzes with messages that make his teeth clench.
He tries to shield me from the worst of it, but I can read the signs in the way he kisses my forehead before leaving each morning like he's memorizing the feeling.
In how he holds me too tight at night, his body rigid with tension even in sleep.
“You okay?” Amelia asks, glancing over her shoulder. Her voice carries that gentle concern that's been my anchor since childhood. She knows me too well to be fooled by my silence. She can probably read the worry written across my face like headlines in a newspaper.
I press my hand to my belly, feeling the slight swell just beginning to show beneath my cotton shirt.
The baby moves sometimes now, barely perceptible flutters that remind me of butterfly wings.
Renat's child. Our child. The thought should fill me with joy, but instead, it amplifies every fear I have. “I'm trying to be.”
She walks over and leans against the antique dresser, arms crossed, her blue eyes warm but sharp. “Trying doesn't sound very convincing.”
I lower myself into the rocking chair, the one Renat surprised me with last week.
He'd had it custom-made. The wood is stained to match the crib, and the cushions are covered in fabric that complements the sage walls.
Every detail is chosen with care, love, and hope for a future that feels increasingly uncertain.
I exhale slowly, trying to release some of the tension knotted in my shoulders.
“He tells me it's just a trap. Just a clean way to finish things.
But there's no such thing as clean in this world. Not when bullets and lies are involved.”
The words settle on my tongue like poison.
I've spent months learning the language of his world, understanding the codes and unspoken rules that govern every interaction.
But understanding doesn't make it easier to accept.
Every morning, I wake up wondering if this will be the day he doesn't come home.
Every phone call could be the one that changes everything.
She comes to kneel in front of me, her hands warm and steady on my knees. Physical contact has always been Amelia's way of offering comfort and grounding me when my thoughts threaten to spiral out of control. “You love him.”
I nod, unable to trust my voice. Love feels like such an inadequate word for what I feel for Renat.
It's deeper than affection, more consuming than attraction.
It's the way my heart recognizes his footsteps in the hallway, how my body relaxes when he walks into a room.
It's the fierce protectiveness that rises in me when I see the shadows under his eyes and see the way he carries the crushing load of his empire on his shoulders.
“That's why I'm terrified,” I whisper, the admission barely making it past the lump in my throat.
She doesn't answer right away. Her thumb rubs small circles on my leg.
The gesture is so familiar that it takes me back to all the times she's comforted me over the years, through my mother's long work hours and my fears about fitting in.
Through the rejection letters from newspapers and the nights I doubted my own abilities.
She's been my constant, my safe harbor in every storm.
“Then maybe it's time you fight for him too. In your way. Not with guns or traps, but with the truth.”
I blink, confusion clouding my thoughts. “What do you mean?”
Amelia rises, smoothing her pencil skirt.
Even in crisis, she maintains that polished exterior, the professional composure that serves her so well in her PR work.
“Bianca. You mentioned it yourself a few days ago.
She's involved with Sergey and helping Bennato.
You're a journalist, Elena. Maybe it's time you bring her down the way you know how.”
The idea takes root so quickly it almost hurts, like a flame in a dry brush, spreading and consuming everything in its path.
I can feel my pulse quicken as possibilities unfold in my mind.
Bianca Rossi, with her perfectly styled hair, designer clothes, and air of untouchable elegance.
She has been operating in plain sight, using her legitimate business as a cover for something far more sinister.
I reach for my phone before I can talk myself out of it, my fingers trembling slightly as I scroll through my contacts.
Nick's number is near the top, marked with the newspaper icon I assigned to all my work contacts.
The familiar ritual of calling him centers me, reminding me who I am beneath all the fear and uncertainty.
Nick answers on the third ring, his voice gravelly with exhaustion. “Martinez. Shouldn't you be on maternity leave or something?”
His tone is gruff and familiar, and for the first time in days, I smile. The sound of his voice transports me back to the newsroom, to the rhythmic hustle of deadlines and breaking stories. To a world where I know exactly who I am and what I'm capable of. “You're back at the office?”
“You think a little hospital visit can keep me down?” He coughs, and I can picture him at his desk, probably surrounded by coffee cups and crumpled paper. “Doctor cleared me yesterday. Against his better judgment, according to my nurse.”
“Good. Because I need you.”
He falls silent, which means he's listening with the same focused attention he brings to every story that matters. I can almost see him leaning forward, pen poised over his notepad, ready to capture every detail. “I'm here. What's going on?”
“I need to dig into Bianca Rossi's design business. She's laundering money for Bennato through her clients.” The words come out steady and professional. This is familiar territory, the kind of investigation that once would have excited me beyond measure.
“That would explain the ridiculous markups on all those luxury penthouse makeovers,” he mutters, and I can hear papers rustling in the background. “I've been wondering how someone charges fifty thousand for a coffee table.”
“Exactly. I need financials, client lists, shipping invoices, anything that demonstrates dirty money passing through her hands.” My journalist instincts are firing on all cylinders now, the thrill of pursuit temporarily drowning out my fear.
“You sure about this? You already have a target on your back.” His concern is evident. The protective instinct of a mentor who has watched me grow from an eager intern to a seasoned reporter.
I glance at the crib and the tiny socks folded neatly on the changing table. Each pair is so small they hardly seem real, reminders of the precious life I'm carrying. “I have more to protect now more than ever.”
That truth settles over me like armor. I'm not just fighting for Renat anymore, or even for myself.
I'm fighting for our child and the future we're trying to build together.
For the right to raise our baby in a world where love matters more than power and family means something beyond bloodlines and loyalty oaths.
He exhales sharply, and I can picture him running his hand through his graying hair. “Alright. Let's do it. But this time we do it smart. No anonymous sources that can't be verified. No vague claims that won't hold up in court. We build this airtight. We run it clean.”
“We run it like it's the last thing I’ll ever write.” The words sting, but they're true. This story feels like everything I've worked toward. The culmination of every skill I've developed and every instinct I've honed.
Nick doesn't argue. He knows me and knows when I've already made up my mind. The determination in my voice probably reminds him of his younger self, when he was willing to risk everything for the truth. “Give me an hour. I'll send everything we have so far.”