Page 14 of Crystal Veil (Rostov Bratva #2)
RENAT
The moment I see Elena's name in the preliminary headline mockups Nick emailed to her, something inside me snaps. The screen of my laptop burns the words into my retinas like a brand.
Bianca Rossi Named in International Money Laundering Scheme Tied to Italian Crime Lord.
My jaw clenches so hard I hear my teeth grind together. The leather chair beneath me creaks as I surge to my feet, blood roaring in my ears. This cannot happen. Not now. Not when everything hangs in the balance.
I pace the length of my study, yet my mind spins like tires on black ice, desperate for traction and finding none.
The mahogany walls of my study seem to close in around me.
Photos of my father stare down from their gilded frames, his cold eyes judging every choice I've made since inheriting his empire.
Elena is carrying my child. My heir. The thought should fill me with pride and a sense of purpose.
Instead, it fills me with a terror I've never experienced before.
I've faced down rival pakhans , stared into the barrel of loaded guns, and walked through neighborhoods where my name alone could get me killed.
None of that compares to the fear of losing her.
I slam the door behind me before I go looking for her, the sound echoing through the marble corridors. The staff knows better than to approach me when I'm in this mood. They scatter like shadows, disappearing into alcoves and side rooms until the storm passes.
She's in the nursery. Of course she is. The room we've spent weeks preparing, choosing every detail with the meticulous care of two people who never expected to find themselves here.
Amelia must've just left. The faint scent of vanilla lotion still lingers in the air, mingling with the smell of fresh paint and new furniture.
A coffee cup sits abandoned on the dresser, lipstick staining the rim in a shade that's definitely not Elena's.
There's a magazine spread open to a page about babyproofing, Amelia's careful notes scrawled in the margins in her precise handwriting.
Elena stands near the window, one hand resting on the delicate railing of the crib. The other hand is pressed protectively to her belly, a gesture that's become second nature to her over the past few months.
She's wearing one of my shirts over her jeans, the navy cotton hanging loose on her frame.
It should appear casual, even a bit sloppy.
Instead, she looks beautiful in a way that makes my chest ache.
The shirt is rolled up at the sleeves, and I can see the faint tan line on her wrist from her watch.
Her feet are bare, and her toenails are painted a soft pink color.
Her eyes meet mine in the reflection of the glass, dark and knowing. She doesn't turn around immediately, and I can see her shoulders tense. She knows why I'm here.
“I saw the email,” I state, my voice dangerously low, controlled only by a thread that threatens to snap at any moment.
She doesn't flinch. Doesn't look away. That alone raises my fury another notch, because Elena has never been one to back down from a fight. It's one of the things I love most about her, and one of the things that terrifies me.
“And?” The single word carries a challenge, daring me to try to control her.
The casualness of her response sparks something primal within me. How can she be so calm when everything hangs in the balance? When every instinct I have screams at me to lock her away somewhere safe until this war is over?
“You promised me you were done chasing ghosts.” Each word comes out clipped and precise.
Her head turns slowly, and I withstand the full force of her gaze. Those warm brown eyes that drew me in from the moment I first saw her now burn with determination. “This isn't a ghost, Renat. This is Bianca. This is Bennato. This is still very real.”
I step forward, unable to contain the fury clawing its way up my spine. My focus narrows to Elena, to the stubborn set of her jaw, and the way her chin lifts in defiance.
“You're pregnant. With my child. And you still think it's your responsibility to throw yourself into the middle of a fucking war? Blyat! ”
The words tear from my throat. The baby monitor beside the crib picks up the sound, its red light blinking like a warning beacon.
In a few months, that device will carry the sounds of our child sleeping, breathing, living.
The thought of Elena risking all of that for a story makes my vision blur with rage.
Her eyes narrow to slits, and I recognize the expression. It's the same look she wore the night she first confronted me about my business, the night she refused to be intimidated by my reputation or my threats. “Don't you dare use this baby as a shield.”
“It's not a shield, it's a reason!” The words explode from me before I can stop them.
She pushes away from the crib, crossing her arms over her chest. The movement pulls my shirt tight across her small baby bump.
For a moment, I'm distracted by the visible proof of what we've created together.
Our child. Our future. Everything I never thought I wanted and now can't imagine living without.
“You think this is just about you and your revenge plan?
Well, I've watched from the sidelines long enough.
I've been the target. I've bled for this.” Her voice rises with each word, passion and fury mixing in equal measure.
“Don't ask me to sit quietly while the people who tried to kill us walk free.”
The memory floods back. The day when Bennato's woman found us, when I thought I'd lost her forever. The way she looked so small and fragile in that hospital bed, machines beeping around her like a mechanical lullaby. I'd made promises to God that night, bargains I'm not sure I can keep.
“You're not a soldier, Elena. You're not a pawn in this game.” My voice cracks on the last word.
She takes a step toward me, her bare feet silent on the marble floor. “Then stop treating me like one.”
The room crackles with tension. “I can't protect you if you keep doing this,” I admit, my voice raw now with everything I've been holding back. “I've buried too many people, Elena. I will not bury you.”
The words leave my lips like a confession.
I think of my father's funeral, the casket on my shoulders as I carried him to his final rest. I think of the men I've lost over the years, soldiers who followed my orders into battles they didn't come home from.
I think of my mother, buried before I was old enough to remember her face.
Her chin trembles, but she holds her ground. The strength in her small frame amazes me. She's barely over five and a half feet tall, but she faces down a man who's built an empire on fear and violence without backing down. “Then tell me why. Why does it matter so much to you?”
The question carves straight through me, cutting past every defense I've built over thirty-five years of survival.
“Why?” she presses, stepping closer. Her scent reaches me now, that mixture of jasmine and sea salt that's become as familiar as my own heartbeat. “Because it's dangerous? Because you want control? Or because you can't stand the idea of someone else finishing what you started?”
Each question lands like a fist to the sternum, stealing more breath than I can spare. She sees through every excuse, every rational argument I could make. She knows me better than anyone ever has, better than I know myself sometimes.
I step toward her, one stride, then another, until there's barely any space between us. Close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes, the same eyes she inherited from her mother. Close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from her skin.
“Because I love you.”
The words rip from my chest before I can stop them, tearing through decades of careful control. In my world, love is a weakness. Love gets you killed. Love makes you vulnerable in ways that bullets and betrayal never can.
She freezes.
The air around us collapses, humming with the truth of what I’ve just admitted.
I see it in her eyes, the shock and uncertainty.
My heart hammers like I've just given away my most dangerous secret.
Maybe I have. In the Bratva, admitting you love someone is painting a target on their back, giving your enemies the perfect weapon to use against you.
“You what?” she whispers.
“I love you, Elena.” My voice is lower now, rougher. A confession, a vow, and a surrender. “I've never said those words to anyone, and I'm not repeating them if you don't want to hear them. But it's the truth. I love you, and I don't know how to stop.”
The admission feels like stepping off a cliff.
For thirty-five years, I've lived by my father's rules: trust no one completely, show no weakness, never give anyone the power to destroy you. But Elena already has that power. She’s had it since the moment she walked into my life with her questions, courage, and complete refusal to be intimidated.
Tears well in her eyes, making them shine like dark mirrors. She bites her bottom lip, hard enough to leave a mark, hard enough that I want to soothe the hurt with my mouth. The gesture is so familiar, so perfectly Elena, that my heart hurts with the force of what I feel for her.
Then she speaks, so softly it nearly breaks me. “I love you, too.”
Whatever restraint I have left shatters like glass against concrete. I reach for her, and she's in my arms before I can think about what comes next. Her mouth finds mine with the hunger of everything we've been denying, everything we've been too afraid to acknowledge.
There's no hesitation. No space for doubt or fear or the rational voice that warns me this is dangerous. Just heat, desperate need, and the taste of her on my lips.