Page 22 of Crystal Veil (Rostov Bratva #2)

RENAT

The world has narrowed to darkness, dust, and the unbearable weight of steel pressing into my back.

My ears ring with the echo of gunfire, but the silence that follows is louder.

Oppressive and suffocating. I try to move, but agony spears down my spine like white-hot knives driven deep into bone.

Something warm trickles along my scalp, pooling in the hollow behind my ear. Blood.

Each breath feels like swallowing shards of glass, and the air is thick with concrete dust and the acrid smell of explosives.

My vision blurs at the edges, darkness creeping in like hungry fingers.

I blink hard, forcing myself to focus. The building, or what remains of it, groans above us, twisted beams and shattered concrete creating a tomb of debris.

Beside me, Sergey groans. The sound is wet and ragged.

“Renat,” he wheezes, each word a struggle. “Please... help me. I can't feel my legs.”

I turn my head, ignoring the blinding pain that lances through my skull like lightning. The movement sends fresh waves of agony cascading down my neck, but I need to see him. Need to look into the eyes of the man who betrayed everything we built together.

Sergey lies pinned beneath a massive crossbeam, the steel pressing down across his lower back. His face has turned gray with dust and fear, blood trickling from a gash above his left eyebrow. His hands claw uselessly at the rubble around him, fingers leaving bloody trails in the concrete dust.

His eyes meet mine, wild and desperate, filled with the terror of a man who believes he's dying.

For a moment, all I see is the man who followed me into the fire.

The man who stood beside me when I took over my father's empire.

The soldier who bled for the Rostov name without question or hesitation.

But then my mind replays the final scene before the building crashed down around us.

Bianca's lifeless body cradled in his arms. Her blood on his hands.

The way he looked at me. Not with grief, but with something darker, like satisfaction.

The lies that spilled from his lips like poison.

The cowardice that led him to betray not just me, but everything the Rostov family stands for.

My chest tightens with rage so pure it burns away the pain for a moment. The brotherhood we shared and the trust I placed in him have lost all of their meaning now. It’s nothing. Less than nothing.

I grit my teeth, every muscle screaming as I lean toward him. My ribs protest the movement, probably cracked from the blast, but I don't care. My hand reaches out, fingers wrapping around his throat. His skin is slick with sweat and blood, his pulse fluttering like a trapped bird beneath my palm.

“You should have died with her,” I growl, the words tasting like iron and ash. They scrape against my throat, raw and broken.

His eyes bulge, the whites showing like a frightened horse.

He tries to speak but only manages a strangled cough.

Flecks of blood spray from his lips, dotting my wrist. He doesn't fight back.

Doesn't even try to pull away. Maybe he knows he deserves this.

Maybe he's too weak. Or maybe, somewhere in that twisted mind of his, he wants it to end.

I tighten my grip, feeling his windpipe compress beneath my fingers. His pulse hammers against my thumb, rapid and desperate. For one wild moment, I'm going to do it. Snap his neck like a twig. End the betrayal and the pain and the rage that's eating me alive from the inside.

My father's voice echoes in my memory, stern and unforgiving.

“A true pakhan shows no mercy to traitors. Not even to those he once called brother.” The old man understood the strain of leadership, the burden of absolute authority.

He knew that weakness breeds rebellion, and that mercy can be mistaken for fear.

Sergey's breathing becomes more labored, his face turning purple. His fingers twitch against the concrete, but he makes no move to defend himself. The acceptance in his eyes enrages me further. He should fight. He should beg. He should show some spark of the man I thought I knew.

But then?—

“ Pakhan ! Pakhan , hold on!”

The shouts echo from above, muffled but urgent.

Metal scrapes against concrete with harsh, grinding screams. Rubble shifts and tumbles, smaller pieces raining down on us like hail.

Light cracks through the suffocating darkness as my men dig with frantic urgency, their voices calling my name over and over.

I hear Artur's deep bass, Viktor's higher tenor, and even young Pavel shouting directions. They're tearing through tons of debris with their bare hands, driven by loyalty that runs deeper than blood. These men would die for me without question, and they're proving it now.

The sound of their efforts pulls me back from the edge.

I look down at Sergey, at my hand still wrapped around his throat, and something cold takes hold inside me.

This isn't how it ends. Not like this, in the dark, with no witnesses to see justice done.

When Sergey dies, and he will die, it will be on my terms, in my time.

I don't release him until hands pull me back, rough but careful, hauling me free from the tomb of steel and stone. They shout my name, their voices warped and hazy, like I'm underwater and they're calling from the surface. Strong arms support me as I stumble, my legs unsteady beneath me.

“Easy, pakhan ,” Viktor murmurs, his weathered face creased with worry. “We've got you.”

Blood drips from my temple, each drop hitting the ground with tiny splashes. Dust cakes my skin, fills my lungs, and coats my tongue with the taste of destruction.

I'm breathing, but it feels like someone else is inside my chest, cracking open the ribs just to feel the pain.

Each inhalation is a conscious effort, each exhalation a small victory.

The world tilts and sways around me, but I force myself to stand straight.

My men are watching. They need to see strength, not weakness.

“Sergey,” I rasp, my voice barely recognizable.

“We'll get him out, pakhan ,” Viktor assures me.

And then I hear her.

“Renat!”

Elena's voice slices through the chaos like ice cracking over fire. I look up, and there she is, running toward us through the wreckage. Her dark hair is wild, escaping from whatever style she'd worn earlier. Her cheeks are streaked with tears and soot, creating pale tracks through the dust.

Her hands tremble as they touch every part of me, as if making sure I'm real. Her fingers map the geography of my injuries, cataloguing each cut and bruise with desperate precision.

“You're alive,” she whispers, pressing her forehead to mine.

Her breath is warm against my skin, sweet and clean, standing apart from the destruction around us. Her touch is gentle but urgent. I want to comfort her, to promise that everything will be fine, but the words stick in my throat.

I wrap my arms around her, holding her tighter than the pain should allow.

My ribs protest, my spine screams, but none of that matters.

Her heartbeat thunders against my chest, rapid and strong, grounding me in the present moment.

The scent of her skin, a blend of jasmine and vanilla, fills my nostrils, washing away the stench of explosives and death.

For a moment, I don't care about Bennato. Or Sergey. Or the blood crusted to my skin. I care only about her, the life growing inside her, and the fragile happiness I'd allowed myself to imagine.

But then reality shatters the moment like glass breaking in silence. I pull back, just enough to look into her brown eyes. They're wide with relief and lingering terror, her pupils dilated with shock.

“This isn't over,” I rasp, my voice rough with dust and emotion.

She stiffens in my arms, and I see understanding dawn in her expression as the relief begins to fade. I know the fear she's trying to hide.

“He got away,” I continue, my jaw tightening until the muscles ache. “Bennato slipped through the cracks while we bled. Bianca's dead. Sergey lives. And that bastard still walks free.”

The words taste bitter, like failure and unfinished business. Somewhere in this city, Francesco Bennato is probably celebrating his partial victory. He hurt me, but he failed to finish the job, and that failure will cost him everything.

Her fingers curl into my shirt, gripping the torn fabric like an anchor. “Renat...” Her voice breaks on my name. “You almost died. What if next time?—”

“Then next time I take him with me.”

The words leave no room for debate. I don't raise my voice. I don't need to. My resolve is carved into stone, as immutable as granite. This is now bigger than personal preference. It's about survival, about the future of everything I've built.

Her gaze drops to my chest, where she rests her hand over my heart. Her palm is warm through the ruined shirt, and I can feel my pulse hammering against her touch.

“I can feel it,” she whispers. “It's still beating. But it feels... different.”

She's not wrong. There's something darker in me now.

Colder. The light I allowed myself when she came into my life has been dimmed by blood and betrayal.

The gentle man who made love to her in the darkness of my bedroom, who whispered promises against her skin, is still here.

But he's been tempered by fire and hardened by necessity.

I'm not sure that light will ever burn as brightly again.

“He made this personal,” I say, my voice dropping to a whisper. But she hears every word. “He tried to kill you. Our child. And me. He played with fire, and now I'm going to burn down his entire fucking world.”

Around us, the cleanup crew works quickly, clearing bodies and spent shells, leaving behind nothing but rubble. The site may be remote, but it won’t be much longer before the authorities arrive.

At last, she gives a slow nod, her voice barely more than a breath. “Then finish it. Send him to hell where he belongs and come back to me. To us.”

Her hand moves to her stomach, to the small baby bump carrying the promise of our future.

The gesture is protective and maternal, and it hits me harder than the explosion did.

She's not just asking me to survive. She's asking me to be the man our child will need.

The father who protects them at all costs and then comes home.

The husband who chooses love over vengeance.

I lean in and kiss her, fierce and broken. The taste of her tears is salt and steel, familiar and strange all at once. Her lips are soft beneath mine, warm and alive and everything worth fighting for. When we break apart, her breath mingles with mine in the narrow space between us.

The city stretches out before us, full of shadows and secrets. Somewhere in those shadows, Francesco Bennato thinks he's won. He's about to learn how wrong he is.