Page 16 of Crystal Veil (Rostov Bratva #2)

ELENA

I stare at the glowing screen, fingers hovering over the keys as my heart pounds a slow, steady beat that echoes in my ears.

The cursor blinks at me like a warning, demanding I make a choice that will change everything.

The draft is raw and unfinished, but it has enough teeth to bite. Enough truth to bleed.

Bianca's name is front and center, tangled in a web of shell companies, fake invoices, and wire transfers that trace back to Bennato's operations. The words and numbers dance across the screen, each one a thread in the tapestry of corruption I've been weaving together.

I don't have everything yet. The final pieces of evidence still elude me, locked away in Bennato's private files or buried in offshore accounts I can't access.

But what I have is enough to start the avalanche.

Enough to expose the connection between Miami's most respected interior designer and its most dangerous crime lord.

The room suddenly feels smaller. My laptop screen bathes my face in an eerie blue glow, illuminating the tension etched in every line.

The baby moves inside me, a gentle flutter that makes me think of all the reasons I should be cautious.

All the reasons I should delete this file and pretend I never uncovered the truth.

But I can't. The journalist in me won't let me turn away from a story this important. Too many people have died for Bennato's secrets. Too many families have been destroyed by his greed and violence. If I don't expose him, who will?

I swallow the lump rising in my throat and type the subject line with trembling fingers: Contingency. If found, publish.

Each letter feels like a small act of rebellion, a tiny declaration of war against the forces trying to silence me.

I attach the file, my hands shaking as I navigate through the encryption software Amelia helped me install.

The progress bar crawls across the screen with agonizing slowness, each percentage point a step closer to the point of no return.

The email whooshes away into the digital void, carrying with it enough explosive information to topple an empire.

I send it to a contact I've trusted since my earliest days in investigative reporting.

Marcus Whitmore, a journalist based in London who owes me a favor big enough to carry this story across oceans if need be.

We collaborated on a human trafficking exposé three years ago, and he's never forgotten how I shared a source that significantly advanced his career.

He'll publish this story without question if something happens to me.

The thought sends a shiver down my spine. If something happens to me. The words echo in my mind like a death knell, but I push the fear aside. This is bigger than my safety now. This is about justice.

Then I message Nick, my fingers moving with more confidence now that the die is cast. Just three lines, loaded with everything I can't explain over an encrypted chat.

Delay Miami piece. Will explain later. Trust me.

Nick will be furious. He'll probably call me seventeen times and leave increasingly angry voicemails about deadlines and responsibilities. But he'll also understand…eventually.

I close the laptop with a soft click and the implications of what I've just done sink into the air around me.

I've taken my fate, Renat's fate, and all the power they've tried to strip from me and laid it at the feet of truth.

Not just in Miami but everywhere. If anything happens to me or him, this story will break wide open like a dam bursting, flooding the world with secrets that were never meant to see daylight.

It's not defiance. It's insurance. A line I've drawn in the sand with invisible ink that will only become visible if the worst happens.

I lean back in the chair and press my palms against my belly, feeling the slight swell where our child grows. I whisper soft reassurances, more to myself than to the life inside me.

“We're going to be okay,” I murmur. “Your father is going to come home to us. He has to.”

But even as I voice the words, doubt gnaws at the edges of my confidence like acid eating through metal.

Renat's plan is dangerous. It's more than dangerous.

It's the desperate gambit of a man who feels he has run out of options and time.

The idea of him luring Bennato into this trap, even with backup and every advantage he can muster, terrifies me in ways I can't articulate.

I rise from the desk and move to the window, pulling back the heavy curtains to stare out at the dark expanse of the Atlantic. The sun hangs low over the water, its golden light creating a path across the waves that seems to lead nowhere. Or maybe everywhere.

The sound of the ocean outside the estate doesn't soothe me.

It never really has, if I'm being honest. The endless rhythm of waves against the sand should be peaceful and meditative.

Instead, it only reminds me how far I am from everything that once felt familiar.

The gulls cry like warnings on the wind, their harsh voices cutting through the late afternoon air.

I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warm evening. The linen dress Renat bought me does little to ward off the chill that has nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with the fear lodged like ice in my chest.

Somewhere in this sprawling estate, the man I love is planning what might be the last battle he ever fights.

The thought makes my knees weak, and I grip the windowsill for support.

I've covered wars, investigated murders, and interviewed grieving families and corrupt politicians.

I've seen death up close and personal more times than I care to count.

But the possibility of losing Renat feels different.

It feels like losing a piece of my soul.

I force myself to move away from the window, to stop staring at the water like it holds the answers I need.

Instead, I pad barefoot through the hallways of the estate, finding Renat exactly where I expected to find him, in the east wing study.

He stands with his back to me, broad shoulders tense beneath his white dress shirt.

His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing the corded muscles of his forearms as he braces himself against the edge of his desk.

His head is bowed, dark hair falling across his forehead in a way that makes him look younger and more vulnerable than the feared pakhan he truly is.

There's a map unrolled beneath his hands.

The paper is weighed down at the corners with paperweights that gleamed like jewels in the lamplight.

I can make out topography lines, building specifications, and red markings where exits and ambush points are scrawled in his handwriting.

Numbers and arrows cover the margins, calculations, and contingencies mapped out with the methodical thoroughness of a general planning a siege.

The sight of it makes my stomach flip. This isn't just strategy. It's a prophecy written in red ink and desperate hope.

I cross the room slowly, my bare feet silent on the marble floor. Each step feels monumental, like I'm walking toward a precipice I can't see but know is there. The air between us crackles with unspoken fears and desperate hopes.

When I’m close enough to see the details of his planning and smell his cologne, the words I can’t say swell in my chest like floodwaters behind a crumbling dam, pressing harder with every breath I take.

But I have to say something. Because this silence between us isn't made of peace or contentment, it's made of fear.

Raw, primal fear that if we voice our terror, we'll somehow make it real.

“This trap you're setting...” I hesitate, watching the way his jaw tightens. His eyes lift to mine, and in their depths, I see the same fear that's eating me alive, carefully controlled but undeniably present. “Are you sure it's going to work?”

He studies me for a long moment, and I feel like he's memorizing every detail of my face.

The way my hair falls over one shoulder, the curve of my lips, and the worry lines that have appeared between my eyebrows over the past few weeks.

Then he straightens slowly, rolling his shoulders back in a gesture I recognize as his way of preparing for battle.

The tension in his frame could break bones and shatter steel.

“It has to,” he replies with absolute conviction. Or maybe absolute desperation. With Renat, it's sometimes impossible to tell the difference.

I walk closer until there's barely a foot between us, and I can feel the heat radiating from his body. Until I see the faint lines of exhaustion around his eyes.

“But what if it doesn't?” The question tumbles out before I can stop it, raw and desperate.

“What if something goes wrong? What if backup doesn't arrive in time, or Sergey double-crosses you again, or Bennato has a surprise you haven't planned for? What if...” My voice cracks, and I have to swallow hard before I can finish. “What if I lose you?”

His jaw tightens until I think it might crack. “You won't.”

The certainty in his voice should comfort me, but it doesn't. It terrifies me because I hear the undertone beneath it. The acknowledgment that he's not nearly as confident as he wants me to believe.

“You don't know that,” I press, stepping even closer until I can see the gold flecks in his hazel eyes and can count each eyelash.

“You're planning to walk into a gunfight with a man who's tried to kill us both more than once.

And you're using Sergey as bait. The man who already betrayed you once and would happily do it again if the price is right.

This isn't a plan, Renat. It's a suicide mission dressed in a tailored suit and expensive cologne.”