Page 33 of Crystal Veil (Rostov Bratva #2)

RENAT

The pit stinks of sweat and stale blood.

It seeps from the walls, a living, breathing reminder of every secret that's ever died down here.

The scent clings to everything, soaking into the mortar between the bricks, embedding itself in the very foundation of this place.

With each breath I take, my lungs fill with the sour smell of fear and desperation.

This room has witnessed countless confessions, final moments, and betrayals laid bare under the harsh light of judgment.

A single bulb flickers overhead. In the center of the room, Sergey kneels with his wrists bound behind him, his shirt hanging off his shoulders like a funeral cloth. It's wrinkled and torn, stained with his blood and the evidence of his struggle.

I watch him from the doorway, taking in every detail of his degradation.

He looks smaller now, diminished in ways that go beyond the physical.

His broad shoulders, once the pride of a man who commanded respect, now slump forward in defeat.

The hands that executed my orders without question now tremble behind his back.

He looks less like the man I called brother and more like a ghost who hasn't yet realized he's already dead.

The Sergey I knew, the one who stood beside me through countless battles, shared my vodka and victories, and whom I trusted with my life and my secrets, is gone.

What remains is a hollow shell, a shadow of loyalty corrupted by greed and jealousy and the poisonous whispers of a woman who never deserved either of our attention.

His eyes find mine across the room, and I see the exact moment when whatever hope he'd been clinging to dies.

The green eyes that once held steady confidence now dart around the room like a panicked fugitive desperate to flee.

But there is no escape from this place, no mercy to be found in these walls that have heard every excuse and desperate bargain a man can make when death comes calling.

“Renat,” he whispers.

Hearing him speak my name feels like a violation.

Not pakhan, but my given name, spoken with the familiarity of someone who shared my table and trust. The intimacy of it makes his betrayal cut deeper, and the wound in my chest throbs with fresh pain.

He has no right to speak my name, not anymore, not after what he's done.

I step forward, my footsteps loud in the confined space.

I stop inches from him, close enough to see the tremble in his jaw, and the sheen of sweat collecting at his temples.

The smell of his fear is stronger now, sharp and acrid.

His breathing is shallow and rapid, like a rabbit caught in a trap.

I can see the pulse jumping in his throat and hear the wet sound of his mouth as he tries to swallow past the terror that's lodged in his windpipe.

“I should kill you,” I state. “You plotted with my enemies. You handed them our secrets, our movements, our lives. You gave Bennato the blueprints to bury me.”

Each accusation cracks through the pit. I watch his face crumple a little more with every word, see the burden of his crimes settle over him like a rising tide, pulling him under with every breath he takes.

His mouth opens, but I raise my hand before he can speak. I'm not finished. He doesn't get to interrupt his judgment with excuses or explanations. Not yet.

“You smiled in my face while plotting my murder,” I continue, my voice gaining strength with each word. “While Elena lay in a hospital bed because of what you set in motion. You called me brother.”

The last word comes out like a curse, bitter and harsh. Brother. The sacred bond that means everything in our world, the tie that should be stronger than blood, desire, or petty jealousies that eat away at lesser men. He took that word, that trust, and used it as a weapon against me.

Sergey's head drops, and when he finally lifts it again, tears shine in his eyes.

Not the defiant tears of a man caught in righteous conviction, or the angry tears of someone who believes he's been wronged.

These are the pathetic, shame-stained tears of someone who lost everything.

They track down his cheeks, leaving clean lines through the dirt and blood that mark his face.

“I was wrong,” he admits. “Bianca... she twisted everything. I thought I could prove something to her. That I could build something of my own. I didn't see where it was all leading until it was too late.”

Bianca. Even now, even facing death, he can't take full responsibility for his choices.

He has to blame her and make her the villain in his story of betrayal.

As if her beauty, manipulation, and promises were stronger than the oath he swore to me, to the organization, and the memory of my father, who raised him from nothing.

I squat down, bringing myself to his level. This close, I can see the broken blood vessels in his eyes and the way his pupils dilate with fear. I can smell the rank sourness of his breath and see the way his lips tremble as he waits for my response.

“You didn’t see?” My voice is calm, but the fury underneath it simmers like a fault line ready to break. “You watched her try to kill the woman I love. You set me up to die. And now you want forgiveness?”

Each question strips away another layer of his dignity, another piece of the man he used to be. I want him to understand the full scope of what he has done and the consequences his actions have unleashed.

“I don't expect forgiveness,” he responds quickly, the words tumbling out in a rush. “Just mercy.”

“Mercy?” The word feels like ash on my tongue. Mercy is for those who deserve it, who've made mistakes without malice, or stumbled rather than deliberately chosen betrayal.

I rise to my feet and signal to Viktor, who's standing silently in the shadows.

He steps forward without hesitation, placing a leather-wrapped bundle on the nearby table.

The leather is worn smooth from use, darkened with age and purpose.

Inside are the instruments of justice that have been used for generations to maintain order in our world.

Reminders of what happens to those who betray the Bratva. Fire, steel, and salt.

Each tool has its purpose, its meaning in the ritual of judgment.

The fire is to burn away the marks of brotherhood and erase the symbols that once marked him as one of us.

The steel is to ensure the pain is remembered, to leave scars that will never let him forget his choices.

The salt is to preserve the lesson, to make sure the wound never fully heals.

I look down at Sergey again, searching his face for some trace of the man I used to know. But he's gone.

Just as I reach for the torch, the door creaks open behind me. The sound is sharp and unexpected. I don't need to turn to know who it is. Her presence fills the room before she even speaks, changes the very air around us.

“Elena,” I acknowledge without turning, recognizing her presence before she speaks. “You shouldn’t be here.”

She walks past Viktor without wavering, her steps sure and purposeful.

Most people would falter in the presence of my lieutenant from his reputation and the danger that radiates from him like heat from a fire.

But Elena moves past him as if he's nothing more than furniture, her focus entirely on me, on the scene unfolding before her.

She comes to stand beside me, her warmth cutting through the chill of the pit.

Her gaze drops to Sergey, taking in his condition with the analytical eye of someone who's seen her share of human suffering.

Then her eyes lift to mine, and I see understanding there, recognition of what's about to happen and what it will cost.

Her hand finds my arm, warm and grounding.

The simple touch sends electricity through my core, reminding me of everything I've to lose and everything I've gained since she came into my life.

Her fingers are steady, anchoring me to something better than the darkness that wants to consume this moment.

“Don't do this,” she says softly. “Not like this.”

I stare at her, this woman who has transformed everything I thought I knew about myself, about power, and what it means to be strong.

She's the only person who could speak those words and live.

Anyone else would already be bleeding on the floor beside Sergey, earning their place in this chamber of judgment through their audacity alone.

“He deserves it,” I answer, my voice rough with the effort of holding back the rage that wants to spill out like blood from a severed artery.

“Maybe he does,” she agrees, her honesty cutting through the moment like a scalpel.

She's not naive about the realities of my world and doesn't pretend that mercy is always the right choice or that forgiveness is always deserved.

“But our child deserves a father who can walk away from blood. Who chooses strength, not revenge.”

Her words hit a raw nerve that I've been trying to ignore.

Our child. The life growing inside her, the future we're building together, the legacy that will outlast all this violence and betrayal.

She's carrying more than just a baby. She's carrying hope and the possibility of something better than the endless cycle of violence that has defined my life.

I glance at Sergey, still trembling on his knees, and then back at her. Her eyes hold mine, unwavering, fearless in the face of everything I am and everything I've done. She sees the monster and the man, the killer and the protector, and somehow, she loves all of it while still demanding better.

“You don't need to kill him to win,” she adds, her voice gentle but firm. “You already have.”