Page 27 of Crystal Veil (Rostov Bratva #2)
“Find out how this got through,” he tells them, his voice ice lethal. “Every camera. Every hallway. I want answers. I want faces. If any of you were sleeping on your job, you won't wake up tomorrow.”
He doesn't yell. The threat in his tone is absolute. These men have worked for him long enough to know when he means every word.
They scatter like leaves in a hurricane, each one understanding that their lives now depend on finding answers. The room empties except for the doctor, who continues his quiet work, and Renat, who watches me like a hawk.
I'm alone again within an hour, except for the doctor, who keeps scribbling notes and whispering into his phone. My head throbs with a persistent ache that pulses in rhythm with my heartbeat. My stomach rolls with waves of nausea that come and go without warning.
The silence is maddening, filled only by the soft sounds of medical equipment and the distant hum of activity throughout the house. Somewhere in the building, people are being questioned to identify and eliminate the threat. Phone calls are being made. Plans are being formulated.
But I'm removed from all of it, isolated by necessity and circumstance. The quarantine feels like a glass box. I can see out, but I'm unable to participate. I can't fight back. I can only wait and hope that the people I love will survive whatever storm is coming.
Renat eventually returns, his shirt sleeves pushed up. Dark crimson blood stains his bruised knuckles. The scent of blood follows him into the room, mixing with the lingering phantom of roses until I want to gag.
“Don't ask,” he mutters before I can speak, reading the question in my eyes.
But I don't need to ask. The blood tells its own story.
Someone provided answers, whether willingly or not.
Someone paid the price for letting this envelope reach me.
The knowledge should horrify me, but instead I feel only morbid satisfaction.
Whoever threatened my baby deserves whatever they received.
He sits at the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle me.
The mattress dips under his weight, and I roll slightly toward him, seeking the comfort of his presence.
He runs a hand through his hair, leaving faint streaks of blood in the black strands.
For a moment, the rage in his eyes quiets when he looks at me.
Then it burns hotter and darker than before.
“You're being moved to the west wing,” he announces. “Nobody goes in or out without my clearance. Not even Artur.”
The west wing. I know it by reputation. Reinforced walls, bulletproof windows, and a single entrance that can be sealed at a moment's notice. It's where Renat keeps things that matter most to him. Art worth millions. Documents that could topple governments. And now, me.
“I can still smell it,” I whisper, my voice thin and unsteady.
He looks at me sharply, his hazel eyes focusing with laser intensity.
“The paper. The perfume. Roses.”
His entire body goes rigid. “You know the scent?”
I nod slowly, the movement making my head spin. “Celine Boucher. It smells like her. That night at the gallery. She wore it. Stronger than tonight's but similar.”
His eyebrows snap together, and his jaw clenches. The muscle twitches beneath his cheekbone, a tell that means he's processing information, fitting pieces together in his mind.
“You think she did this?”
I consider it carefully, comparing what I know about Celine against the elegant cruelty of the message. “No,” I murmur. “Not like this. Celine's the kind of woman who kills with champagne and a smile. Not toxins in wax seals.”
She's too sophisticated for such direct methods, too careful about maintaining her polished image. Poison is messy and unpredictable. It leaves evidence and raises questions. Celine prefers subtler weapons, such as influence, manipulation, and social pressure.
He studies me with those penetrating eyes that see too much. “You think she's a pawn.”
“I think she likes power. But I don't think she wants blood on her hands.”
It's the truth, as far as I can determine it. Celine is ambitious, calculating, and probably ruthless in her own way. But she's also pragmatic. Getting involved in direct violence against the pakhan's woman would be suicide, and she's too smart not to know that.
Renat doesn't answer immediately. I can see him turning over possibilities in his mind, sorting through suspects and motives with the cold calculation that makes him so dangerous. Finally, he reaches for my hand.
For a man who rules through violence, he is gentle now. His fingers wrap around mine like armor, warm and protective. The blood on his knuckles has dried to a dark crust, but his touch remains soft. He's careful with me in a way that makes my heart ache.
I lean into the warmth of his palm and close my eyes. The fear hasn't passed. It lingers, coiled tight around my ribs. But his presence makes it bearable and transforms terror into something I can survive.
He tucks the blanket around me so tenderly, it seems impossible from hands that have killed. His lips brush my forehead, and for a moment, I pretend the note never came. That we’re an average couple in a normal world. And that this baby will be born into light instead of shadow.
But the reality is always waiting, patient as a predator. Even in silence, I can feel it breathing down my neck, counting heartbeats, and measuring the distance between this moment and the next crisis.