Page 23 of Crystal Veil (Rostov Bratva #2)

ELENA

The walls of the estate are too thick. They trap the silence like a tomb, suffocating me with their heaviness. Every footstep I take echoes through the corridors, bouncing off marble and mahogany until the sound becomes a reckoning in the wake of what almost happened.

Renat moves through these halls like a specter now, his presence both everywhere and nowhere at once.

The man who once filled rooms with his commanding energy has become a shadow of himself.

His hazel eyes, once warm with flecks of gold that caught the Miami sunlight, have turned cold and flat.

The light has been swallowed whole by darkness, consumed by whatever demon feeds on his rage.

He barely speaks anymore. Words come in clipped sentences when they come at all.

Instructions to Artur. Commands to his men.

Nothing soft. Nothing for me. When I try to reach him, when I stretch my hand across the chasm that has opened between us, he's already gone.

Mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. Somewhere, I am unable to follow. Somewhere, I'm not sure I want to go.

The silence in our bedroom is the worst. It presses against my eardrums until I want to scream just to break it.

Instead, I sit on the edge of the massive bed, the silk sheets cool beneath my palms, and place my hand over the swell of my belly.

Our baby. Our child, growing inside me, even as the man I love plots another execution.

Another bloodbath. Another step deeper into the abyss that seems determined to claim him.

The baby kicks a soft flutter. Or maybe it’s just my imagination, my desperate need to feel something pure in this house of shadows.

Either way, the flutter beneath my ribs brings tears to my eyes.

This child will know peace, I promise silently.

This child will know safety. This child will know love without conditions, without blood and vengeance. But first, I have to save myself.

The thought arrives with perfect clarity, cutting through the fog of fear and uncertainty that has clouded my judgment for days. It comes with a sob that lodges in my throat, refusing to surface. I choke it down, swallow it like bitter medicine, necessary and harsh.

Renat saved me from Bennato's men. He protected me when bullets shattered our world.

He has loved me in the only way he knows how, fiercely, possessively, and completely.

But this version of him, this hollow-eyed stranger who speaks only of war and retribution, this isn't love anymore.

This is vengeance wearing love's face. And I cannot let our baby grow up in the blast zone of his war.

The decision settles in my chest like lead, heavy and immovable. I cannot stay. Not like this. Not while he transforms into something I don't recognize.

I find him on the balcony that overlooks the ocean, the place where we once stood together and talked about the future.

Now he stands alone, shirtless, his muscled back rigid with tension.

A glass of amber liquid is clutched in one hand like a lifeline.

The sea breeze tugs at his dark hair, but he doesn't seem to notice.

He doesn't seem to feel anything beyond the fury that consumes him.

My bare feet whisper against the marble as I step outside. The evening air carries the scent of salt from the ocean, mixed with the fragrance of gardenias from the gardens below. Once, this terrace felt like paradise. Now it feels like the edge of the world.

“Renat,” I murmur, keeping my voice soft.

He doesn't turn. He just lifts the glass to his lips with a detached rhythm. The silence stretches between us, filled with everything we're not telling each other.

“I need to leave.”

The words slip out before I can reconsider them. Before I can find a gentler way to deliver the blow. But maybe there is no gentle way to break someone's heart.

Now he turns. His gaze finds mine immediately, sharp and piercing. For a moment, the gold flecks return to his eyes, but it’s not warmth, it’s fire. Dangerous fire.

“What did I say?” His voice is dangerously quiet, the tone he uses before violence erupts.

“I can't stay here. Not like this. I need distance.”

“No.”

The single word carries the power of absolute authority. The voice of a man accustomed to obedience and having his will shape reality. But I'm not one of his soldiers.

“Renat—”

“Absolutely not. You're not safe out there.”

“And I'm not safe in here either. Not emotionally. Not with what you're becoming.”

He sets the glass down carefully, as if the simple action requires enormous concentration. Then he stalks toward me, every line of his body radiating restrained violence. This is the man who built an empire on fear and respect. This is the pakhan, not the lover.

“This isn't about who I'm becoming,” he growls, stopping close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his skin. “This is about survival. Bennato tried to kill us. He won't stop until one of us is in the ground.”

“I know,” I whisper, forcing myself not to step back or show the fear that flutters in my chest. “And I'm not asking you to stop fighting. I'm just telling you I can't be here to watch you drown in it. Not with a child growing inside me who's going to feel every vibration of your rage.”

I watch his face change. Something cracks in his carefully constructed mask. The ruthless pakhan falters, revealing glimpses of the man beneath, who is desperate and terrified. He goes completely still.

For a heartbeat, neither of us breathes.

The ocean crashes against the rocks below, but the sound feels distant, muffled by the intensity of this moment.

Then he moves past me, brushing my shoulder as he enters the bedroom.

The contact burns through the thin fabric of my dress.

I follow him on instinct, my heart hammering against my ribs.

He stops at the antique dresser. The drawer slides open with a whisper of wood against wood.

He reaches inside, his large hands sure and steady despite the tremor I can see in his shoulders.

When he turns back to me, I see everything in his eyes.

The vulnerability he hides from everyone else, the desperation that drives his every decision, the love that both saves and destroys him.

But I also see the man who will sacrifice anything and anyone to protect what he considers his.

He walks toward me with purposeful steps, holding a small black velvet box. A silent jolt tears through me. Not from surprise but from dread. The box looks ancient and precious. The type of thing passed down through generations of Rostov men.

He stops directly in front of me and opens the box with careful reverence.

Inside, nestled in cream silk, sits a ring that takes my breath away.

Platinum, elegant but not ostentatious. The diamond isn't massive, but it doesn't need to be.

This is a ring that whispers rather than shouts, and holds promises rather than flaunts wealth.

“Marry me.”

The words are simple, direct, and delivered without flourish or romance. But the way he speaks them, the raw honesty in his voice, makes them more beautiful than any elaborate proposal.

I suck in a stuttering breath. “Renat...”

“I'm not asking because I'm scared you'll leave,” he continues, his accent thickening with emotion.

“I'm asking because I want to give you everything. Because you and the baby are the only things in this world that matter. I want to build something different with you. Something better. I want a family. Our family.”

The sincerity in his voice almost breaks my resolve. I can see our future laid out before me, beautiful, passionate, yet dangerous. A life of luxury and fear, of love and violence, of moments like this interrupted by phone calls about bodies and blood.

I take a step back. The movement is small and instinctive, but it might as well be a chasm opening between us. I watch confusion flicker through his expression, followed quickly by panic.

I shake my head slowly, not because I don't love him. God knows I do. I love him so completely that it terrifies me. It's because I love him that I have to do this.

“I can't.”

“What do you mean you can't?”

The question comes out harsh and demanding. His fingers tighten around the ring box.

“I mean I don't trust forever.”

The words emerge flat and hollowed out, like something I've carried for too long and finally dared to voice. They taste like truth and betrayal all at once.

He stares at me as if I've physically struck him. The color drains from his face, leaving him pale and suddenly fragile looking despite his imposing size.

“It's not about you,” I rush to explain, desperate to soften the blow. “It's about me. About the way I grew up watching men hurt the people they claimed to love. About how even love turns into chains if you let it. I need to know who I am outside of you before I can promise forever.”

He closes the box as if sealing something inside himself. The soft click of the velvet lid might as well be a gunshot for the way it reverberates through the room.

“So that's it,” he murmurs, his voice like a shadow slipping through the dark.

“No. It's not it. But it has to be a pause. I need space. I need to be somewhere that doesn't smell like gunpowder and grief.”

His jaw clenches, the muscle ticking beneath his skin. His eyes burn with an intensity that makes my knees weak. “You think I'll let you walk out of here unguarded? You think Bennato won't try again?”

“I'll take precautions. I'll lay low. I'll tell no one. Not even Amelia. But I can't stay here. Not while you plan another kill. Not while I watch you disappear piece by piece into that darkness.”

He turns away from me, his shoulders curling inward as if he's fighting to hold himself together. The strong line of his back, usually so confident and commanding, now looks burdened beyond bearing.

“You're leaving me,” he states quietly.

“No,” I reply, stepping closer but not daring to touch him. “I'm saving myself. And I'm hoping you'll do the same.”

The silence that follows feels infinite. I wait for him to turn around, to fight for us, to promise to change. Instead, he remains frozen, staring out at the ocean as if it holds answers I cannot provide.

I pack that night while he prowls the estate like a beast pacing the edges of its leash. It doesn't take long. I never truly unpacked after moving in. The estate was never home. It was a beautiful holding place, a gilded prison where I tried to love a man who doesn't know how to stop bleeding.

My belongings fit into two suitcases and a carry-on bag. A journalist's life portable and temporary. As I fold my clothes, I catch the scent of Renat's cologne clinging to the fabric. It makes my heart ache.

I pause at the dresser, looking at the few photographs I'd placed there.

One of my mother, young and smiling in Havana before the world broke her heart.

One of Amelia and me at graduation, arms around each other, believing we could conquer the world.

And one of Renat and me from the first night I met him at the Marcelli estate, before the violence escalated and fear became our constant companion.

In the photo, his eyes still hold their golden warmth. I trace his face with one finger before slipping the picture into my purse. Whatever happens, I want to remember him like this.

He doesn't come to say goodbye. I wait, hoping to see him one last time. Hoping for words that might change everything or nothing. But as Artur appears in the doorway to collect my bags, I realize Renat won't risk it. He won't risk having his resolve crumble. He won't risk begging me to stay.

Artur carries my luggage without comment, his face carefully neutral. He's been with the Rostov family for years, has seen everything, and survived everything. If anyone understands the cost of love in this world, it's him.

The drive to my apartment passes in silence.

Artur watches me through the rearview mirror, his dark eyes memorizing my face as if he's already planning to find me again when Renat inevitably demands it.

The city lights rush past the windows. Miami at night is beautiful and dangerous, just like the man I'm leaving behind.

My apartment building looks smaller than I remembered, shabbier after months in Renat's marble palace. But as the elevator carries me to the third floor, and I slide my key into the familiar lock, something loosens in my chest.

The apartment smells like dust and stale air.

The plants Amelia watered for me have grown wild in my absence, reaching toward windows that need cleaning.

Everything is exactly as I left it. My desk is covered with research notes, coffee-stained and marked with urgent scribbles.

My books are stacked in precarious towers. My life, interrupted but not erased.

I drop my bags by the door and walk to the couch, the secondhand one with the coffee stain and the frayed armrest that Renat wrinkled his nose at. Now it feels like the most comfortable place in the world.

I curl up in the corner where I used to write articles and dream of uncovering the truth about powerful men and their secrets. Before I became the secret in the story I couldn’t tell.

The tears come then, hot and fast and unstoppable. I cry for the man I love who's lost himself to vengeance. I cry for the future we might have had if the world were different, if love were simpler, if happily ever after didn't require so much blood.

But mostly, I cry because I turned down his proposal. Because I looked at the ring that represented everything he could give me and chose myself instead. Because for the first time in my life, I loved myself more than I loved someone else. And it was the hardest thing I've ever done.

The baby flutters again, or maybe that's just my imagination. Either way, I place my hand over my belly and whisper promises into the darkness. Promises about strength and choices and never settling for less than I deserve.

Outside, Miami pulses with life and danger. Somewhere in his marble tower, Renat is probably planning his next move against Bennato, sinking deeper into the darkness that threatens to consume him.

But here, in my small apartment with its coffee-stained couch and wild plants, I finally remember how to breathe.

I close my eyes and let the silence wash over me.

Not the suffocating silence of the estate, but the peaceful quiet of a woman who has chosen herself.

For the first time in months, it's enough.