Page 29 of Crystal Veil (Rostov Bratva #2)

I study her face in the photographs. Classical features, intelligent eyes, and beauty that improves with age rather than fading. But there's something else there. A hardness around the edges and calculation in her smile. It’s the look of someone who's learned to survive by being indispensable.

She's not just Bennato's lover. She's his advisor, his cultural translator, and his bridge to a world of sophistication he craves but can't quite reach.

She makes him feel refined, educated, and worthy of the power he's accumulated.

And in return, he protects her business interests and keeps her supplied with clients who pay in unmarked bills.

It's a symbiotic relationship. Mutually beneficial but not necessarily loyal.

Night falls, and the estate feels colder now.

I check on Elena. She's sleeping in the west wing under guard.

The fever has passed, but the unease hasn't.

Her skin looked too pale earlier. Her breath was too shallow.

The doctor insists she's fine, but I know better.

Poison lingers in more than just blood. It lives in the mind, and the fear stays even after the body recovers.

I've seen it. Lived it. When I was twelve, someone tried to poison my father at a family gathering.

The attempt failed, but the paranoia that followed nearly destroyed him.

He spent months testing every meal, every drink, and every surface he came into contact with.

He trusted no one completely, questioned everyone's motives, and turned our home into a sterile fortress where love couldn't survive alongside suspicion.

I won't let that happen to Elena. I won't let fear poison what we're building together. But I also won't let anyone threaten her again.

When I return to my office, something's waiting on my desk. A crimson envelope with no return address or markings. Just Elena's name written in cursive.

Panic slashes through me before logic takes hold. The envelope sits there like a loaded gun, innocent and deadly at the same time. The red paper is elegant and expensive, used for formal invitations or love letters. But I know better than to trust appearances.

I don't touch it. I signal Viktor, who's standing outside the door. He calls one of our men. They scan the envelope, then carefully remove the contents.

The scanner shows no chemical residue, no biological agents, or explosive materials. Just paper and ink. But that doesn't mean it's safe. Sometimes the most dangerous weapons are the ones that don't show up on instruments.

No letter. Just a single pressed white lily and a photograph.

Elena, standing in the Rothchild Gallery the night of Bennato's art heist, where she gained access for me and my men under the guise of a press preview with the gallery's assistant curator.

She's alone in the photo. Unaware she's being watched.

The photograph is of professional quality.

High resolution, perfect lighting, taken from a concealed position.

Elena looks beautiful in it, her dark hair catching the gallery's carefully positioned spotlights, her expression focused and determined.

She's wearing the black dress I bought her for the event, the one that made her look like she belonged in that world of wealth and culture.

But seeing her there, frozen in that moment of vulnerability, chills me to the bone. Someone was watching her. Someone was close enough to capture that level of detail. Someone had been planning this for longer than I realized.

My fingers clench. I feel the edge of restraint slip.

The lily is perfectly preserved, its white petals still pristine despite being pressed and dried.

Ghost lily. The same species used to create the poison that nearly killed her.

The message is clear. We can reach her anywhere.

We can touch her anytime. We know where she's been, where she's going, and exactly how to hurt her.

I stare at the photo. She looks different there. Softer. Before my world became hers. Before she knew what loving me would cost. Before she understood that being with me meant living with constant danger. Before she learned that carrying my child made her a target for every enemy I've ever made.

The woman in the photograph is Elena Martinez, an investigative journalist. Brave, independent, naive enough to believe that truth and justice matter more than power and survival.

The woman sleeping in my guest wing is Elena Rostov in all but name.

Mine. Protected. Transformed by love and terror into someone who checks locks twice and jumps at unexpected sounds.

I fold the photograph carefully and slide it into a locked drawer.

Then I burn the lily. The flames consume the delicate petals quickly, leaving nothing but ash and the lingering scent of smoke.

I watch it burn and think about all the ways I'm going to make Celine Boucher pay for this.

All the ways I'm going to destroy everyone who thought they could use Elena to get to me.

I don't tell Elena. She's been through enough. Her body may be healing, but her mind is still trapped in the echo of what almost happened. If she sees this, I don't know what it will do to her or the baby. She needs peace, and I will give it to her.

I lock the drawer and walk to the window overlooking the grounds.

Security lights illuminate the perimeter, creating a barrier between my world and everyone else's.

But barriers can be crossed. Walls can be breached.

And sometimes the most dangerous enemies are the ones who smile while they sharpen their knives.