Page 26 of Crystal Veil (Rostov Bratva #2)

ELENA

It starts with an envelope. A cream-colored rectangle so pristine it doesn't belong in this house, where every surface is steeped in security checks and mistrust. It sits on the edge of my writing desk, as if it floated there.

No return address. Sealed in red wax. The edges are smooth, the handwriting slanted and refined. Elegant, almost regal.

The morning light streams through the windows, illuminating dust motes that dance around the foreign object like tiny sentinels.

I've been awake for twenty minutes, padding around the bedroom in one of Renat's oversized shirts, my bare feet silent on the cold marble floor.

The house breathes around me with its usual morning rhythm.

Guards changing shifts, the distant hum of security monitors, and the soft whir of the coffee machine.

But this envelope disrupts everything. It sits there like a crack in reality, too perfect and deliberate. My journalist instincts scream danger, but curiosity pulls me forward like a magnet.

I stare at it for a full minute before I move. It shouldn't be here. No one mentioned mail. No one announced anything. My stomach tightens, a slow, gnawing clench that starts beneath my ribs and spreads outward like spilled ink.

The wax seal bears no recognizable mark, just smooth red resin. The person who left this wanted it to be found. Wanted me to find it. The realization spreads like chilled water trickling down my spine.

Renat is still asleep, sprawled across the bed in the adjoining room, his body tangled in white linen and nightmares.

Even in sleep, tension lines his face. Dark circles shadow his eyes, evidence of too many late nights coordinating with his men, tracking down threats, building walls around us that never seem high enough.

His black hair falls across his forehead, and I can see the slight twitch of his jaw that tells me his dreams are anything but peaceful.

I want to call out for him and wake him, but I don't. Not yet. This moment feels suspended like the seconds before lightning strikes. If I disturb it now, I might shatter something important. My fingers reach out first.

The wax seal breaks with a soft crack. The scent hits me before I even unfold the note.

Roses. Not the kind you buy in a grocery store or clip from a garden.

This scent is layered. Refined, powdery, with the barest touch of vanilla and something darker underneath, like earth after rain. My breath hitches.

I know this perfume. It wraps around my memory like silk, taking me back to that night at the gallery. Celine Boucher had worn something similar, though stronger, and more assertive. This version whispers where hers had shouted.

The ivory paper unfolds like a flower blooming in reverse, revealing words written in careful cursive. Each letter is formed with delicate precision, the ink a deep burgundy that looks almost like dried blood in the morning light.

“The baby won't save you. It only makes you easier to kill.”

My heart stops. The words blur together, then snap back into focus with brutal clarity. I read them again, hoping I had misunderstood or that the morning light had played tricks on my eyes. But they remain unchanged, elegant and venomous.

The paper trembles in my hands. My entire body begins to shake, starting with my fingertips and spreading inward until even my ribs vibrate with terror. The threat isn't just to me. It's to the life growing inside me, the tiny spark of hope I've been protecting.

I push back from the desk, knocking my chair over in the process. It crashes to the floor with a sharp bang that seems to shatter the morning quiet. My vision swims. Colors bleed together at the edges. Cold creeps through my skin, spreading from my core outward until my teeth chatter.

The room tilts. The walls close in. I can hear my heartbeat in my ears, too fast and too loud, drowning out everything else. Panic rises in my throat.

I stagger to the bathroom, one hand pressed against the wall for balance. The marble is cold beneath my palm, grounding me just enough to keep moving. My reflection in the mirror looks pale, ghostly. Dark circles ring my eyes, and my lips have lost their color. I look breakable.

My hands are shaking so violently that I can barely turn on the faucet.

I splash cold water on my face, trying to blink away the dizziness.

The water drips from my chin, each drop a small shock against my overheated skin.

But the cold spreads anyway, seeping deeper.

From the crown of my head to my fingertips.

Nausea follows, sharp and sudden, rising from my stomach like a swell breaking loose.

I drop to my knees, heaving. The marble floor feels like ice against my cheek as I curl into myself, trying to make my body as small as possible. As if I could hide from the terror eating me alive. The letter crinkles in my fist, the paper damp now with sweat and tears I don't remember shedding.

My mind races through possibilities. Francesco Bennato. It has to be him. The roses, the elegant cruelty of the message, the way it found its way past all of Renat's security measures. But how? How did he get close enough to leave this for me to find?

The questions multiply, each one spawning three more until my thoughts become a tangled mess of fear and speculation. I press my forehead against the cool marble and try to breathe, try to think clearly, but panic has its claws in me now and won't let go.

Voices blur in the distance. Footsteps thunder through the house, rapid and urgent. Someone shouts orders. Doors slam.

Then Renat's voice, harsh and furious, cuts through it all. “Elena!”

He finds me on the bathroom floor, curled up like a child.

The letter is still clutched in my hand.

His feet appear first in my peripheral vision, bare and moving fast across the marble.

Then he's kneeling beside me, his hands gentle despite the violence I can feel radiating from him like heat from a fire.

“What happened?” His voice is deadly quiet now in the way that means someone is about to die. “What is this?”

I can't speak. I can barely breathe. So, I press the crumpled letter into his palm and watch his face change as he reads. The transformation is terrifying and beautiful. Fury and protection battle across his features.

He crushes the paper in his fist, then smooths it out again, reading the words twice more before his jaw locks tight enough to crack bone.

“Roman!” he roars, and within seconds Roman appears in the doorway, eyes wide with alarm.

“ Pakhan ?” he questions hesitantly.

“Get Dr. Pavlenko here now! And I want every inch of this house searched. Every camera reviewed. Every guard questioned. Someone is going to explain to me how this got past our security, or they're going to die trying.”

The Bratva doctor, Dr. Pavlenko, arrives within minutes. His demeanor is composed, but I see a hint of worry in his eyes.

I'm on the bed now, the sheets rumpled from the night before, the mattress dipped from the restless sleep of two bodies. The morning light has shifted now, creating longer shadows across the room. What started as a peaceful dawn has transformed into something sinister.

Dr. Pavlenko opens his medical bag with steady fingers. The tools inside gleam silver in the light. He works in silence while Renat paces behind, tugging on the ends of his hair.

“Describe what you felt,” the doctor instructs, his voice calm and professional. “Start from when you opened the envelope.”

My words come out stuttered, as I mumble about the scent, the immediate dizziness, and the way cold has spread through my body like poison.

He nods, making notes on a small pad, asking follow-up questions about timing and severity.

His examination is thorough, checking my pupils, listening to my heart, and testing my reflexes.

“She's exhibiting early symptoms of neurotoxin exposure,” he announces quietly after fifteen minutes of tests. “A low dose. Rare compound. Possibly botanical in origin.”

Renat swears loudly and viciously in Russian. The sound echoes off the high ceilings, bouncing back at us multiplied and distorted. I've heard him angry before, but this is different. This is the sound of a man who has reached the absolute limit of his control.

I keep my eyes shut, partly from exhaustion and partly because I can't bear to see the expression on his face. The guilt is already eating at me. This happened because of me, because I'm here and I've brought danger into his world just by existing in it.

“It's not lethal?” he demands, his voice sharp enough to cut glass.

“Not at that dose. She'll need monitoring for seventy-two hours. Quarantine, to be safe. The compound could have delayed effects, and in her condition...” The doctor's voice trails off meaningfully.

Quarantine. The word sticks in my head like a thorn, sharp and persistent.

Three days locked away while Renat handles the fallout from this attack.

Three days of not knowing what's happening, who's being questioned, who's being eliminated.

Three days of helplessness while others fight battles in my name.

Renat paces while the doctor draws blood and presses monitors to my chest. The cream envelope is now sealed inside a clear plastic bag, along with the note.

But I can still smell the roses. The scent clings to my memory like smoke, refusing to fade.

I'm not sure if it's real or if it's burned into my mind permanently.

The doctor's equipment beeps softly, monitoring vital signs that feel disconnected from my body. My heart rate is still elevated, and my blood pressure is higher than normal. The toxin, whatever it is, is working its way through my system like a slow-acting poison.

I catch the look Renat gives his men when they crowd the doorway. His eyes have a murderous glint. But underneath it all is fear, not for himself, but for me.