Page 28 of Crystal Veil (Rostov Bratva #2)

RENAT

The walls of my estate are thick, but not dense enough to muffle the thunder gathering behind my ribs. I start with the mailroom.

Two men, both former Spetsnaz, both personally vetted by Artur, stand frozen under my glare. They stammer the same lines about protocols followed, packages inspected, and no anomalies detected. One of them begins to sweat. The other can't meet my eyes.

The mailroom is a fortress within a fortress.

Steel-reinforced walls, triple-locked doors, and scanning equipment with a price tag higher than a suburban mortgage.

Every piece of correspondence that enters this estate passes through here first. Every envelope, every package, every goddamn birthday card goes through the same rigorous process.

Yet somehow, a poisoned letter slipped through their fingers like water.

I circle them slowly, my footsteps echoing in the sterile space.

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, creating harsh shadows that make their faces look gaunt.

These men have survived wars, interrogations, and situations that would break lesser soldiers.

But right now, they look like schoolboys caught cheating on an exam.

“You handle every envelope?” I ask, my voice low, but seething.

“Yes, pakhan .”

“Gloved?”

“Always.”

The first man's voice cracks slightly. Sweat beads on his forehead despite the cool temperature in the room. His partner shifts his weight from one foot to the other, a nervous habit that betrays his military training. Good soldiers don't fidget. Terrified soldiers do.

“And this one?” I hold up the sealed plastic bag containing the cream-colored envelope Elena received. Its red wax seal gleams under the overhead light. The floral scent still clings to the air around it. Subtle. Delicate. And now unmistakably threatening.

The envelope looks innocent enough. Expensive paper, elegant script, the kind of correspondence that might arrive from a luxury boutique or an exclusive gallery. But innocence is often the most dangerous disguise. I've learned that lesson more times than I care to count.

The man swallows hard. “It came from the outer courier drop. No return address. Passed initial scans.”

“And you didn't think to question a letter sealed in red wax and scented like a Parisian brothel?”

He stiffens. “There was no indication of biological agents. We cleared it. Swear on my life.”

“You already have.”

They both pale.

I watch their faces transform from apprehension to genuine fear. These men have killed for me. They've bled for me. They've followed orders without question for years. But they've never witnessed the brand of fury that comes when someone threatens what belongs to me.

Elena belongs to me. The child she carries belongs to me. And anyone who dares to touch them will learn exactly what that means.

I leave the mailroom with the envelope in hand and fire burning through my veins.

The doctor confirmed that it was a micro-dose of a botanical toxin, laced along the paper, which was absorbed through the skin.

Fast acting, short half-life, metabolized before it could kill her.

Which means it wasn't meant to kill. It was meant to warn. Or provoke.

The hallway outside the mailroom stretches before me, lined with portraits of men who built this empire with blood and bullets.

My father's face stares down from the largest frame, his eyes as cold and calculating as they were in life.

He would have handled this differently. More directly.

More violently. But then again, he never had to protect a pregnant woman who meant more to him than his own life.

I pass the library, the formal dining room, the sitting rooms where Elena and I have shared quiet moments that feel like stolen time.

Each space holds memories now, fragments of a life I never thought I'd want to have.

The estate isn't just a fortress anymore.

It's a home. And someone has violated it.

My phone vibrates against my chest. A text from Dr. Petrov confirms Elena's vital signs remain stable. Her fever has broken completely. The baby's heartbeat is strong and steady. But I know the numbers don't tell the whole story. Trauma lives in places that medical equipment can't reach.

I send the envelope to Moscow via encrypted courier. I don't trust any of the labs here. Too many ties to agencies. Too many mouths that can be bribed. My contact in Moscow's chemical black market owes me a favor. A large one.

The courier is a ghost. No name, no face, no records. Just a shadow who moves between worlds without leaving traces. He'll deliver the envelope to the right hands, collect the analysis, and disappear again. Some favors are worth more than money, and some debts run deeper than gold.

I retreat to my office and try to focus on other business.

Supply chain reports from the docks. Revenue projections from the legitimate holdings.

Investment opportunities that will clean more money and expand our influence.

But every number on every page blurs together. Every document feels meaningless.

My mind keeps returning to Elena. I've seen death before. I've caused it. But watching Elena struggle to breathe, watching her skin turn pale and clammy, watching her eyes lose focus... That was different. That was my own mortality staring back at me through her suffering.

Twenty-four hours later, the results come back.

Belladone blanche. A rare botanical neurotoxin historically used in Northern France. Derived from a ghost lily variant that blooms once every seven years. Its use is archaic. Obscure. Almost ritualistic. Only a handful of families are even aware of the process to extract it.

French families.

My pulse spikes.

I read the report three times, committing every detail to memory.

The compound's molecular structure. Its historical applications.

The specific regions where the ghost lily grows.

The traditional methods of extraction were passed down through generations of French nobility who used them to eliminate rivals without detection.

This isn't something you learn from a textbook. It isn't knowledge you acquire through casual research. This is heritage and legacy. The kind of deadly education that flows through bloodlines like an inherited disease.

The doctor's supplementary notes confirm my suspicions. The toxin's purity suggests that it was produced by someone with extensive experience. French-made, expensive, the kind used for correspondence between old-money families who still observe customs from another century.

I sit back in my chair, my jaw tightening as the image forms in my mind.

Celine Boucher.

French, sophisticated, and always composed. A woman who speaks in silk and walks like she's balancing secrets in her heels. The scent clinging to the envelope matches her perfume almost perfectly. Elena noticed it immediately, her journalist's instincts picking up details that others might miss.

I've watched Celine at Bennato's events.

She moves through crowds like water, graceful and fluid, never seeming to touch anything but somehow leaving her mark everywhere.

She speaks three languages fluently, appreciates art that most people couldn't begin to understand, and wears her intelligence like expensive jewelry.

She's exactly the kind of woman who would know about ghost lilies and ancient poisons. Who would have access to family recipes for dealing with inconvenient problems and consider poisoning an elegant solution rather than a crude crime.

And Elena's right about one thing. Celine doesn't strike as the type to get her hands dirty. But she is close to Bennato. His current obsession, his trophy. A woman who understands art, poisons, and how to whisper in the dark.

I've seen them together. The way Bennato looks at her like she's a masterpiece he's planning to steal.

The way she tolerates his attention with the polished ease of someone who's learned to survive by being useful to dangerous men.

She's not in love with him. But she's smart enough to let him think she might be. And smart enough to be dangerous.

I hit the intercom. “Artur. My office. Now.”

Seconds later, the door opens. Artur steps inside, his posture rigid and eyes sharp.

“I want everything we have on Celine Boucher. Every file, every photo, every time she so much as breathed near a known associate. I want to know who she speaks to, who she sleeps with, and who she buys her perfume from.”

He doesn't ask why. He just nods and vanishes.

Within an hour, he returns with a thick folder and a tablet loaded with surveillance footage.

Celine's life unfolds before me in meticulous detail.

Financial records, travel history, social connections, and professional associations.

Everything documented with the thoroughness of a federal investigation.

Born in Lyon to a family with old money.

Educated at the Sorbonne, specialized in Renaissance art with a particular focus on religious symbolism.

Moved to Miami three years ago to establish a high-end gallery catering to collectors who prefer their acquisitions to come without excessive documentation.

The gallery is a front, obviously. Money laundering through art sales is a time-honored tradition among criminals with good taste.

But Celine's operation is more sophisticated than most. She deals in genuine pieces, stolen masterworks, and convincing forgeries with equal skill.

Her client list reads like a who's who of international criminals and corrupt politicians.

The surveillance footage shows her daily routines. Morning coffee at a café in South Beach. Lunch meetings with potential clients. Evening gallery events, where she plays the perfect hostess. And late-night visits to Bennato's compound, where she stays until dawn.