Page 18 of Crystal Veil (Rostov Bratva #2)
RENAT
The wind cuts through the skeletal beams of the unfinished tower, howling like a warning that seeps into my bones. I stand at the edge of the construction site, my hands gripping the cold metal railing as I stare at the place that will become the grave of my enemies.
Sergey paces behind me, his movements restless and erratic. The sound of his expensive Italian leather shoes against the rough concrete echoes through the empty space. I don't turn around when he speaks.
“They agreed,” he states, his voice trembling slightly with nerves he's trying desperately to hide. “Bianca wants the ledger in the trailer. She thinks there's real money to be made blackmailing Miami’s elite. Bennato is cautious, but he's coming. He'll be here within the hour.”
Of course, he is. Men like Francesco Bennato always come when power is dangled in front of them like bait on a hook. Especially when it's dressed up in real estate deals and the illusion of my surrender. Sergey's betrayal gave me the last piece I needed to draw them into my trap.
I finally turn to face him, studying the man who once stood at my side through every battle.
His face is pale in the moonlight, shadows carving deep lines around his eyes.
There's something desperate in his expression, a hunger that goes beyond simple greed.
This isn't just about money or power. This is personal for him, and that makes him dangerous in ways I'm still trying to calculate.
“And you believe they'll come alone?” I ask, though I already know the answer. Bennato never travels without his army of soldiers. Neither would I, in his position.
Sergey shakes his head. “He'll bring his best men. Maybe twenty, maybe more. But they won't expect what we have planned. They think this is a negotiation.”
A smile curves my lips, cold and sharp as a blade. “Good. Let them come with their guns and their arrogance. Let them think they're walking into a business meeting.”
I nod to Artur, who stands with a group of my best men near the service elevator.
Each of them is armed to the teeth, suited in black tactical gear that makes them nearly invisible in the shadows.
Their faces are deadly calm, eyes steeled by purpose and years of violence.
They know this isn't just business. This is personal.
Artur spots my signal and straightens. He's built like a mountain, six and a half feet of pure muscle and scarred flesh.
His hands could snap a man's neck without effort, and his aim with a rifle is legendary among the Bratva.
When he was sixteen, he killed five men with a hunting knife to protect his sister.
At twenty, he joined my father's organization and never looked back.
“Positions,” I order, my voice carrying across the empty space. “No mercy. No hesitation. When the bullets fly, I want them to know they've walked into hell.”
Artur grins, but it doesn't reach his eyes. The expression is all teeth and predatory satisfaction. “Understood, pakhan . They won't leave here breathing.”
My men scatter like shadows across the skeletal floors, their movements fluid and practiced.
They know this building better than Bennato's architects do.
We've studied every angle, every piece of cover, every escape route.
They duck behind cement walls and steel pillars, positioning themselves for maximum damage and minimum exposure.
Roman takes the high ground on the third floor with his sniper rifle.
Viktor and Pavel cover the stairwells. Alexei rigs the exits with enough explosives to turn concrete into shrapnel.
We stripped the first two floors bare, clearing them of equipment and debris for maximum visibility.
These will be our kill zones, open spaces where Bennato's men will have nowhere to hide when the gunfire erupts.
Everything is wired with charges that I can detonate from my position.
The foundation is rigged to collapse if necessary.
If I can't win this war tonight, I'll make sure none of us walk away to fight another day.
I take one last look at the skyline before ducking into my own position behind a reinforced concrete pillar.
The city stretches out before us, a skyline of endless lights that never sleep.
Miami has been good to me. It's been profitable and full of opportunities, but it has also taken from me and tested me in ways Russia never did.
Tonight, it will either crown me king or bury me in rubble.
Elena's face flashes in my mind without warning. Her dark eyes blazing with defiance. Her voice when she challenges me, unafraid of the monster everyone else fears. The way she looks at me like I am more than just the sum of my sins.
I love her. I've never allowed myself to think those words, even in the privacy of my own mind.
Love is a weakness. Love gets you killed.
But as I prepare for what might be my final battle, I can't deny the truth.
Which is why this must end tonight. I won't let my enemies use her against me.
I won't let them turn my feelings into a weapon that destroys everything I've built.
The first car appears just before midnight, its headlights slicing through the fog and rolling in from the bay like twin searchlights.
The beams sweep across the construction site, illuminating piles of steel and concrete that could hide an army.
Then, a second vehicle follows. Then, a third.
Bennato doesn't travel light, never has.
He brings his wolves, armored and eager for blood.
From my vantage point on the second floor, I watch them pour out of their vehicles like oil slicking across the concrete.
Twenty men, at least. They move like professional killers, weapons already drawn, eyes scanning for threats.
These aren't street thugs or desperate criminals.
These are soldiers who've survived gang wars and federal investigations. They know their business.
Bennato walks at the center of the formation, his suit tailored to precision, his face a mask in the shifting shadows.
Even from this distance, I can see the arrogance in his posture and the way he carries himself like he owns everything he surveys.
He thinks he's walking into a negotiation where he holds all the cards.
He has no idea he's about to step into a slaughterhouse.
Bianca's sleek black coupe pulls up beside his armored SUV, always separate and above the common soldiers.
The woman has a flair for drama that would be admirable if it weren't so dangerous.
She steps out of the car like she's walking on a red carpet.
Even here, in this place of shadows and violence, she demands to be the center of attention.
She's dressed like it's a gala instead of a war council.
A red silk dress that hugs every curve, a thigh-high slit that shows off legs that could make a saint sin and a gold chain belt that shines in the moonlight.
Her hair is curled in perfect waves that frame her face like a Renaissance painting.
The woman never knew how to blend into shadows and never learned the value of invisibility.
She always had to be the flame that drew every moth to its destruction.
Sergey strides out to greet them, every move a carefully rehearsed charade wrapped in false confidence. His suit is immaculate, his hair perfectly styled, his smile practiced and empty. For a moment, I almost admire his acting ability. Almost.
It takes every ounce of control not to put a bullet between his shoulder blades right now.
My finger tightens on the trigger of my rifle, and I have to force myself to breathe slowly, to wait for the perfect moment.
Patience has always been my greatest weapon, the ability to endure and plan while my enemies make mistakes.
“Francesco,” Sergey calls out, his voice casual and confident as if they're meeting for drinks instead of planning my assassination.
Bennato's eyes sweep the half-built structure with obvious suspicion. He's survived this long by never trusting anyone completely and always expecting betrayal around every corner. The construction site probably reminds him of a dozen places where his enemies have tried to kill him over the years.
“What is this?” he demands, his voice echoing off the concrete walls. “A goddamn war zone? Why are we meeting here and not somewhere civilized?”
“It's progress,” Sergey replies without missing a beat. “And opportunity. This building represents the future of Miami. When it's finished, it'll be worth more than everything we've fought over combined.”
Bianca steps forward, her heels clicking against the rough concrete like a countdown timer. Her smile is predatory, all sharp edges and hidden teeth. “You always did like dramatic settings, Sergey.”
“I learned from the best,” he answers, and there’s something in his tone that prickles across my skin like static before a lightning strike. A familiarity that speaks of a shared history I was unaware of.
Fury ignites in my chest and threatens to overwhelm my tactical thinking. I force it down and channel it into the cold calculation that has kept me alive through a dozen wars. Anger is fuel, but control is the engine that turns it into power.
Sergey raises his hand in what looks like a casual gesture, but I recognize it as a signal. Not one of ours. Something he's arranged with Bianca and Bennato. My men shift into position, fingers moving to triggers, bodies coiling like springs, ready to explode into action.
I raise my own hand, the command my soldiers have been waiting for.