Page 13 of Crystal Veil (Rostov Bratva #2)
By the time I hang up, Amelia is already pulling out her laptop, her fingers moving quickly across the keyboard. She's transformed from a concerned friend to a determined partner, ready to dive into the kind of research that once consumed our college nights. “We need to find her shell companies.”
“On it,” she responds, fingers moving like a concert pianist chasing a crescendo. Her background in public relations has given her skills in research and investigation that complement my own. She knows how to trace connections and follow paper trails that others might miss.
For the next two hours, we dig. We cross-reference remodels in buildings Bennato owns, analyzing timestamps on design contracts that align too perfectly with spikes in his cash flow.
The patterns emerge slowly, like a photograph developing in a darkroom.
Each piece of evidence builds on the last, creating a picture of systematic corruption disguised as legitimate business.
We discover a shipment of imported marble from Italy, priced at five times the market value, and funneled through a warehouse known to the federal authorities.
The invoices are pristine and professionally crafted, but the numbers don't add up.
No marble, no matter how rare, costs that much.
The shipping records show deliveries to properties that were never actually renovated, ghost projects that exist only on paper.
“She's not just laundering,” I murmur, scrolling through bank transfers that paint a clear picture of financial manipulation. “She's actively covering for him. She knows everything.”
Amelia leans back in her chair, pushing her blonde hair away from her face. Her blue eyes are bright with the satisfaction of a puzzle solved. “And she's about to be exposed.”
We write. The words flow like water, each sentence building on the foundation of evidence we've gathered.
We pull quotes from contractors who quietly admit to never receiving payment or being paid in cash for work that was supposed to be legitimate.
Sources whisper about Bianca's sudden wealth and her designer wardrobe that far exceeds what an interior designer should reasonably afford.
A former client confesses she found a listening device behind a faux gold mirror that Bianca insisted on installing in her bedroom.
The woman's voice trembles with violation as she describes the discovery, how it made her question every conversation she'd had in her own home.
The device was professionally installed and invisible to casual inspection.
The work of someone with access to sophisticated surveillance equipment.
Each revelation adds another layer to the story, painting Bianca not as a peripheral figure but as a central player in Bennato's operations.
She's been hiding in plain sight, using her beauty and charm to gain access to the homes and lives of Miami's elite.
Her client list reads like a who's who of the city's power brokers, politicians, and business leaders who trusted her with their most private spaces.
I send it all to Nick, attaching documents and photos that support every claim. The evidence is overwhelming and incontrovertible. This isn't speculation or rumor but hard facts that will stand up to scrutiny.
“It goes to print in three days,” he confirms over the phone, his voice dripping with the satisfaction of a job well done. “Front page. We'll make sure it sticks.”
When I close the laptop, it's late. The stars outside the window mirror the ones above the crib, twinkling in the darkness like distant promises. My muscles ache from the stress I didn't realize I was holding, the physical manifestation of hours spent hunched over research and writing.
Amelia tucks a soft throw blanket around me as I lean back in the rocking chair, the motion soothing after the intensity of our work.
The nursery feels different now, less like a beautiful prison and more like a sanctuary.
The sage walls seem to embrace me, offering the peace they promised when Renat first chose the color.
“Do you think Renat will be angry?” Amelia asks, voicing the worry that’s been nagging me since we started the investigation.
I close my eyes, feeling exhaustion settling over me. “Maybe. But I hope he sees it for what it is. I'm not trying to stop him from doing what he thinks he has to. I just want him to come back to me.”
The admission is raw and honest. I'm not trying to interfere with his plans or undermine his authority.
I'm simply fighting the only way I know how using the skills that define me as much as his violence defines him.
We're different people, shaped by different worlds, but we both understand the importance of protecting what matters most to us.
I open my eyes and whisper to the nursery walls, to the life growing inside me, to the man I love more than I ever thought possible. The words feel like a prayer, a vow, and a battle cry all at once.
“Come back to me, Renat. Come back whole.”
And then I place my hand over my belly, over the tiny heartbeat I carry, and promise that whatever happens next, I will not let fear dictate the end of our story.
This child deserves a father who comes home each night, a mother who isn't afraid to fight for love, and a world where truth matters more than power.
The mobile continues to spin above the crib, its gilded stars reflecting the light from the hallway. But now, their movement seems less chaotic and more purposeful. Like they're dancing to music only they can hear, celebrating the possibility of tomorrow and of a future worth fighting for.