Page 21 of Crystal Veil (Rostov Bratva #2)

I sob into Amelia's shoulder, my body shaking with emotions too big to contain.

She holds me tighter, whispering meaningless words of comfort that can't possibly make this better.

Nothing can make this better. Nothing can bring him back.

But then, through the haze of grief and shock, I hear it. The sharp trill of a phone ringing.

Roman fumbles for his cell phone with hands that shake so badly he nearly drops it. He glances at the screen, and something in his expression shifts. Hope flickers in his eyes, fragile and tentative but real.

“It's Viktor,” he breathes.

I can't speak, can't move, can't do anything but watch as Roman answers the call. The conversation is brief, conducted in rapid Russian that I don’t understand. But I hear enough inflection to know that something has changed.

Roman ends the call and looks directly at me, his face transformed. “He's alive. Trapped, but alive.”

The words don't make sense at first. I stare at him blankly, certain I've misheard or that grief has finally broken my mind completely. But then understanding crashes over me, and I cry out again. This time, not in anguish, but in relief so sharp and overwhelming that it steals my breath.

“He's alive,” I repeat, testing the words on my tongue. They taste like salvation, like answered prayers, and the first breath after nearly drowning.

I don't wait for more details or ask about his condition or the rescue efforts. I just grab my purse from the hall table, my hands moving on autopilot. At the same time, my mind reels with the impossibility of hope being restored.

“We're going to him,” I declare, my voice shaking but determined.

Roman starts to protest, but Amelia cuts him off with a sharp gesture.

“Try to stop her,” she challenges, already moving toward her car keys. “I dare you.”

The drive across Miami is a blur of red lights that mean nothing and traffic laws that don't apply to desperate women racing toward the men they love.

Amelia drives like the city is on fire, weaving between slower cars and taking corners at speeds that would normally terrify me.

Tonight, I barely notice. My entire focus is on the destination, on getting to Renat as quickly as humanly possible.

My hands grip the edge of the passenger seat, knuckles white with tension.

We pull up to the construction site where the trap was set, and the scene that greets us is controlled chaos. The half-built building where Renat is trapped is barely recognizable, reduced to a mountain of rubble and twisted steel beams that jut out at impossible angles.

The scale of the destruction is terrifying.

How could anyone survive something like this?

How could human flesh and bone withstand the crushing weight of an entire building?

But I don't let doubt creep in. I can't. Roman confirmed that Renat is alive, and I choose to believe that with every fiber of my being.

Hope is all I have right now, and I cling to it like a lifeline.

I run toward Renat's men. Their faces are grave but focused. This is what they do: solve problems, overcome obstacles, bring their people home.

“Where is he?” I demand, my voice cracking with emotion as I reach the group.

One of the men turns to me, and I recognize him as Artur. His face is streaked with dust and sweat, his usually immaculate appearance disheveled from the rescue work.

“Elena,” he acknowledges with a nod. “You shouldn't be here. It's not safe.”

“I don't care about safe. Where is Renat?”

“They're both trapped in the lower levels,” Artur explains, his voice carefully controlled. “Renat and Sergey. We can hear them calling out, so we know they're conscious. We’re working to clear a path, but it's delicate work. One wrong move could bring down more debris.”

Relief and terror war in my chest, leaving me breathless and shaking. He's alive, but he's still in danger. Still trapped under concrete and steel that could shift at any moment.

Amelia wraps her arms around me as we both stare at the massive pile of rubble that holds my entire world. “He's going to be okay,” she whispers, as much to convince herself as me. “He's Renat Rostov. He's survived worse than this.”

I nod, not trusting my voice to remain steady. Around us, the rescue operation continues with seamless coordination. Renat’s men carefully move pieces of debris. Everyone is focused on the task at hand.

But for me, time moves like honey, each minute stretching into an eternity of uncertainty. I watch and try to read their expressions for signs of hope or despair. I listen to their Russian chatter and try to decipher anything that might indicate how close they are to reaching Renat.

The night air is cool against my skin, but I barely feel it. All my attention is focused on that pile of concrete and steel, on the knowledge that somewhere beneath it, the most important person in my life, is fighting to get back to me.

I press my hand to my belly again, feeling the swell where our child grows. This baby will know their father. Will be held in his arms and taught his strength, stubbornness, and fierce capacity for love. I refuse to accept any other outcome.

“He's alive,” I whisper, the words becoming a mantra. “He's alive.”

And I won't leave this spot until he's in my arms again.