Page 31 of Crystal Veil (Rostov Bratva #2)

RENAT

The warehouse smells of salt and steel, the scent mingling with the acrid tang of rust and decay that permeates every corner of this forgotten place.

I stand in the shadows of the Port of Miami, the humid air curling around me like the breath of ghosts.

This place used to move weapons, art, and bodies without names, a monument to everything I've built from nothing, and every calculated risk and bloody sacrifice that brought me to this moment. Tonight, it becomes a grave.

The concrete beneath my feet is cold and unforgiving.

Each step I've taken over the past few weeks has been deliberate and methodical, building toward this inevitable conclusion.

Bennato and Celine crossed a line when they targeted Elena, put her in danger, and threatened my child.

Some transgressions cannot be forgiven, cannot be negotiated away with money, territory, or promises of future cooperation.

Nikolai stands to my left, his eyes scanning the monitors wired into the back of the black van.

The screens show multiple angles of the warehouse floor.

Viktor and Roman are in position, their forms silhouetted in the shadows where they wait for my signal.

Artur waits on the roof with his sniper rifle pointed toward the dock where the trap is already baited, his scope trained on the entrance where our guests will soon arrive.

My other men hold their ground along the perimeter, their laser rifles steady.

The plan is simple yet elegant. Bennato believes he's coming to inspect a shipment of high-grade military equipment that he has been promised by one of his contacts.

What he doesn't know is that contact works for me, has been feeding him information for weeks, and building trust and credibility until this moment when that trust becomes the noose around his neck.

“Movement on the perimeter,” Nikolai mutters. “Black limo, two escort vehicles. He brought a full security detail.”

I nod, unsurprised. Bennato knows the dangers of this business and understands that every meeting could be his last. The precautions he takes are admirable, even if they're ultimately futile. I've planned for every contingency, every possible escape route, every security measure he might employ.

The radio crackles to life, and Bennato's voice cuts through the static. His Italian accent is thick with irritation and suspicion, a man who has lived long enough to develop healthy paranoia about every business transaction.

“He better be here,” he sneers, stepping from the limo like he owns the ground he walks on. “I spent millions on this shipment and now I'm told the weapons aren't what I ordered? Someone will die for this.”

He's dressed in his usual tailored suit, charcoal gray with subtle pinstripes, but the cut doesn't disguise the sag in his shoulders, or the way his body has begun to betray the passage of time.

Age is catching up with him, stealing the vitality that once made him such a formidable opponent.

But arrogance never fades. If anything, it grows stronger with age, becoming more dangerous as it becomes divorced from reality.

Celine trails behind him, wrapped in a cream silk dress that shimmers in the dim light from the warehouse floods.

Her heels click softly against the concrete, too delicate for this place.

She clutches a crocodile-skin clutch against her chest, her knuckles white with tension.

Even from here, I can see the tremor in her hands, the way she keeps glancing around as if sensing the trap that awaits.

She's beautiful, I'll give her that. But beauty means nothing when it conceals a heart black with ambition and cruelty.

She made her choice when she decided to help Bennato, when she agreed to poison Elena and put my unborn child at risk.

Now she'll live with the consequences of that choice, however briefly.

“That's our cue,” Nikolai mutters, his hand moving toward his weapon.

“Not yet.”

I watch them cross the threshold into the dead zone I designed with meticulous care.

No comms. No backup. No escape. The warehouse has been modified and turned into a fortress that keeps people in rather than out.

The walls are reinforced with steel plates, the windows have been bricked over, and the doors are equipped with magnetic locks that can be triggered remotely.

Once activated, they require industrial equipment to breach.

A flick of my finger, and the EMP device hidden in the ceiling kills their cell phones and any electronic device that might allow them to call for help.

The pulse is brief but effective, leaving them isolated and vulnerable.

Another signal, and the doors seal behind them with a soft click that echoes through the empty space.

Bennato steps into the center of the empty room, his expensive leather shoes tapping against the concrete as he scans the shadows. His smugness falters as he takes in the emptiness and the absence of the weapons shipment he expected to find. His voice echoes bouncing off the walls.

“What the hell is this?”

My boots strike the ground like a war drum as I step from the shadows.

The overhead fluorescents hum to life in a sequence, one row at a time, pale light spilling down from fixtures that have been carefully positioned to eliminate any hiding places.

The illumination reveals the altar of vengeance I've built.

Reinforced walls. Steel hooks. Chains hanging from the ceiling like the rigging of some ancient ship of the damned.

The floor has been covered with plastic sheeting, industrial-grade material that will hold whatever mess needs to be contained.

A steel table sits in the center of the space, its surface gleaming under the harsh lights, various tools arranged with surgical precision.

Everything has been planned, prepared, and arranged to ensure maximum efficiency and minimal cleanup.

Celine gasps, the sound sharp and startled in the silence.

Her clutch slips from her fingers, landing at her feet with a soft thud.

Bennato turns sharply, his movements quick despite his age, his hand reaching instinctively for his weapon.

His men are frozen still, laser dots dancing across their foreheads like deadly red stars.

“Rostov,” he breathes, my name laced with contempt and the understanding that this is not a business meeting or a negotiation, but something far more final. “I should have known,” he sneers, but there's a tremor in his voice that wasn't there before. “Cockroaches don't die easily.”

I walk forward until there's only space and silence between us, my steps unhurried. There's no need to rush now. The trap is sprung, the prey is caught, and all that remains is the execution of justice. My men file in behind me, forming a half-circle at my back.

“You tried to take what is mine,” I grumble, my voice thick with accumulated grievances. “You used the woman beside you to get to me. You threatened the mother of my child. You put her in the hospital. You wanted a war.”

The words are like an indictment, each accusation a nail in his coffin. He grew tired of sharing Miami, tired of acknowledging my authority over the territories I'd claimed through blood and cunning. He began to push boundaries, test my resolve, and probe for weaknesses he could exploit.

“I wanted power,” he replies, his voice steady despite the circumstances. “You got soft, Rostov. Falling for a journalist? Knocking her up?”

The words are intended to wound and provoke a reaction that might give him some advantage in this hopeless situation.

He knows how Elena and the child she carries have changed me in ways I'm still struggling to understand.

Love is a weakness in our world, a vulnerability that enemies can exploit, and Bennato has always been quick to identify and target such vulnerabilities.

My fist connects with his jaw before the last word finishes leaving his mouth.

The impact crunches through the silence, bone meeting bone with a sound like breaking timber.

He stumbles, spitting blood onto the floor, the crimson drops vivid against the white plastic sheeting.

Celine shrieks and backs away, her heels skittering over the concrete as she seeks distance from the violence.

The satisfaction of the blow is immediate but brief. Physical pain is temporary, easily healed, and quickly forgotten. What Bennato has done to Elena requires a more lasting response. Death would be too quick, too merciful for someone who has caused so much suffering.

I turn to Celine, this woman who played the role of innocent bystander while orchestrating chaos from the shadows. Her beauty is undeniable, but it's the kind that has lured six men to their graves and conceals a predator behind her perfect features and practiced vulnerability.

“You were the one that orchestrated the art heist at the gallery,” I declare. “You sent Elena the poisoned letter. And now, you'll die.”

The accusation is like a sword waiting to fall. She used her position in the art world to gain access to wealthy, powerful men, each one falling victim to her brand of poison. Six that we know of.

“It was just a warning,” she breathes, but there's calculation behind the tremor in her voice, a predator testing which mask might save her now. “To get her to back off and stop digging.”

Her voice drips with the rehearsed helplessness of someone who has used vulnerability as a weapon for years.

She's trying to minimize her actions, to frame attempted murder as a mere warning, as if the distinction matters now.

But I know what she is. Elena survived only because of quick medical intervention and sheer luck.