Page 2 of Crystal Veil (Rostov Bratva #2)

RENAT

The sterile bite of hospital air still clings to my clothes when I step into the backseat of the armored SUV.

My knuckles are bloodless from how tightly I've been gripping my fists.

The door to Elena's hospital room closed behind me moments ago, but the fury inside me didn't stay behind.

It coiled tighter, hotter, and more lethal by the second.

She could have died. That thought keeps crashing into my mind like a tide that refuses to recede.

The image of her lying unconscious on that hospital bed, bruised and vulnerable, burns behind my eyelids every time I blink.

A woman in scrubs. A syringe filled with God knows what poison.

A gun pressed in Elena’s back. In my city.

In a hospital that should have been a sanctuary.

In a building equipped with numerous cameras and armed security personnel that I personally vetted.

Bennato didn't just send an assassin into the hospital. He knew exactly where Elena would be, ripped a hole straight through my defenses like they were tissue paper, and spat directly in my face. The message is clear, nowhere is safe. No one under my protection is beyond his reach.

The mole is no longer a ghost. Some theoretical threat I can ignore. He's real, breathing, walking among my men, and far too close to everything I hold sacred.

Artur sits rigid in the front passenger seat, already speaking in rapid Russian to someone at the estate.

His voice carries the edge of controlled panic that comes from serving a pakhan whose world has just been turned upside down.

I catch the tail end of his urgent order.

“No one leaves. No one enters. Lock it down completely.”

Good. I need answers, and I'll burn my entire organization to ashes if that's what it takes to get them.

The SUV's engine purrs beneath us as we navigate Miami's late-night traffic.

Neon signs blur past the bulletproof windows, their colors washing over the leather interior in brief, violent splashes.

The city looks deceptively peaceful from inside this armored cocoon, but I know better.

Every shadow could hide an enemy. Every intersection could be an ambush point.

As we turn onto the main highway that leads to my estate, I pull out my phone and scroll through the encrypted files Viktor transmitted to me earlier tonight.

Access logs timestamp every badge swipe.

Shift reports detail every security rotation.

Employee movements tracked by our facial recognition AI paint a digital map of everyone who entered and exited that hospital in the past forty-eight hours.

The data tells a story I don't want to believe but can't ignore.

The woman who tried to murder Elena entered through a service hallway used primarily by maintenance staff.

She bypassed three security checkpoints using credentials that shouldn't have existed.

She knew Elena would be visiting Nick in room 314.

She knew exactly when the hallway cameras would cycle to their blind spots.

But most damning of all, she knew Elena would be there at all.

Only two people possessed that information. I'm one of them, and I sure as hell didn't leak it to Francesco Bennato. The other person who knew Elena's whereabouts, who helped plan her security detail, who had access to every detail of her movements?

Sergey.

My second-in-command. My shadow for the last decade. The man who stood beside me when my father drew his final breath. Who held guns to my enemies’ heads with the same casual calm he used to pour his morning coffee. Who I trusted with my life, my secrets, and my empire.

And now, all I can think about is the way he hesitated last week when I instructed him to double Elena's security detail.

The flash of something ugly that crossed his features before he schooled his expression back to neutral.

The hint of annoyance he quickly masked behind loyal compliance.

The tension that pulled his jaw tight whenever Elena's name came up in conversation.

I should have seen it sooner. Should have recognized the signs of a man whose loyalty was curdling into resentment.

Bianca's voice haunts me now, dredging up a memory from a week ago that I dismissed too easily. Her eyes shined with the sharp gleam of a woman scorned, her red lips curved in a smile that promised pain. “Believe what you want. But the man standing next to you? He's not loyal. Not the way I was.”

I thought it was another one of her calculated manipulations.

Bianca has always known how to twist words like blades and find the exact pressure point that would make a man doubt everything he thought he knew.

But now I wonder if I should have listened.

If I should have paid attention to the warning wrapped in her jealousy.

The SUV's tires hum against the asphalt as we leave the city lights behind and enter the exclusive neighborhood where my estate sits like a fortress among the palm trees.

Spanish moss drapes from ancient oaks, creating shadows that shift and dance in our headlights.

The houses here are set back from the road behind gates and walls, each one a monument to wealth and the desire for privacy.

When we reach my estate, the massive iron gates part for us like obedient dogs responding to their master's whistle.

The guards stationed outside snap to attention, offering crisp nods that I barely register.

My mind operates like a machine now, gears grinding through possibilities, strategies forming and reforming as new variables present themselves.

I walk straight through the marble foyer without acknowledging the staff, who hover nervously at the edges of my vision.

Past the security desk where monitors display feeds from dozens of cameras positioned throughout the property.

Past the grand staircase that sweeps up to the second floor, where my private quarters wait in darkness.

Instead, I head directly to the library.

This room has always been my sanctuary, the one place in this sprawling estate where I can think without interruption.

Mahogany shelves rise from floor to ceiling, filled with rare books and first editions that most people would never dream of owning.

Leather-bound volumes of Russian literature sit beside military histories and philosophy texts.

An antique Russian samovar glints from its place on the bar cart, polished to mirror brightness by staff who understand the value of perfection.

A fireplace dominates one wall, cold now but ready to spring to life at the touch of a switch.

Persian rugs cover the hardwood floors, their intricate patterns telling stories of empires that rose and fell long before I was born.

Oil paintings of Russian landscapes hang in gilded frames, reminders of the homeland I left behind but never truly escaped.

I used to come here to read. To plan. To find peace in the silence between these walls. Now, I come to hunt.

“Get Viktor and Roman. Immediately,” I bark at Artur, who hovers in the doorway like a well-trained attack dog awaiting orders. “Five minutes. No excuses. I don't care if you have to drag them out of their beds.”

Artur nods and disappears, his footsteps echoing down the hallway as he moves to comply.

I pour myself three fingers of vodka from the crystal decanter on the bar cart, the liquid clear as winter ice and twice as brutal.

The alcohol burns down my throat, but it doesn't touch the cold fury that has taken up residence in my chest.

By the time the antique clock on the mantle ticks past twenty minutes, both men materialize in the doorway.

Roman lowers his considerable bulk into the leather armchair that creaks under his weight, always the image of controlled restraint even when summoned in the middle of the night.

His eyes are alert despite the late hour, the mark of a man who has survived in this business by staying ready for anything.

Viktor leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, silent and waiting. His face reveals nothing, but I can read the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers drum against his bicep in a nervous rhythm he probably doesn't realize he's making.

I don't pace. Pacing is for men who have the luxury of time and who can afford to waste energy on useless movement. I sit perfectly still behind my desk, fingers steepled in front of me, spine straight as a blade.

“There was an attempt on Elena's life today at Jackson Memorial Hospital,” I announce, my voice cutting through the silence like a knife through silk.

Viktor straightens as if someone just put voltage through his spine. Roman's eyes narrow to slits, his massive hands curling into fists that could crush a man's skull without effort.

“She's alive,” I add before either can voice the question I see forming on their lips. “Bruised. Concussed. But breathing. The doctors expect a full recovery.”

“How?” Roman finally speaks, his voice a low rumble that seems to come from somewhere deep in his chest. “Who got that close to her? We had security on every approach.”

“A woman posing as a nurse. Armed with both poison and a pistol. Professional grade equipment, professional execution. She knew exactly where to go, which routes to take, and who to avoid. She knew precisely which camera angles would give her the cleanest approach and what time the security rotations would create the biggest gap in coverage.”

I let that information settle like dust on glass, watching their faces as the implications sink in. These are not stupid men. They understand what those details mean.

“She had help,” Viktor states flatly, his accent thickening the way it always does when he's angry. “From the inside. Someone gave her a roadmap.”

“Exactly,” I hiss.