Page 38 of Crystal Veil (Rostov Bratva #2)
ELENA
The newsroom feels different now. Not quieter, exactly, but calmer like the eye of a storm after the wind has torn through and left only resilience in its wake.
Screens still flicker with headlines and deadlines.
Phones still ring with the urgency that never stops in this business.
Journalists still chase stories across Miami like bloodhounds with ink-stained hands, their voices rising and falling in the familiar rhythm of orchestrated frenzy.
But there's a hum of pride beneath it all, low and warm, threading through every conversation and every glance exchanged between colleagues who know they've witnessed something extraordinary. My story changed something.
I'm only here to write this final piece, to put the finishing touches on months of investigation before I step away from the field for a while.
My hand rests protectively over my baby bump, where our baby grows safely inside me, away from the dangers that have defined my life for so long.
This baby has changed everything. No more chasing leads through dangerous neighborhoods.
No more late-night stakeouts or risky meetings with sources.
This story, this moment, marks the end of one chapter and the beginning of another.
I sit at my desk with my fingers hovering over the keyboard, reading the final line of the article for what feels like the hundredth time.
Each word has been scrutinized, polished, and infused with the power of what it represents.
This isn't just journalism anymore. This is justice served with every fact checked twice and every source protected like state secrets.
The cursor blinks steadily at the end of the last paragraph, waiting for me to take the leap that will change everything.
After this, I'll be stepping back from fieldwork, trading dangerous investigations for the safety my growing family needs.
Nick stands beside me, arms crossed over his chest, his expression one of fatherly worry and professional awe.
He understands why this will be my last big story for a while.
The lines around his eyes seem deeper today, carved by years of watching his reporters walk dangerous paths in pursuit of truth, and now he's watching me choose a different path.
His thick-framed glasses reflect the glow of my computer screen, and I can see the internal battle he's fighting between his protective instincts and his respect for the story we've crafted together.
The last paragraph rests on the screen like a gavel waiting to fall, demanding justice for every person who trusted me with their pain.
In the ashes of silence, the truth rises. And this time, it carries the voices of Little Havana.
My hand tightens around the edge of the desk.
The smooth surface of the wood grounds me, reminding me that I'm real, that this moment is real, and the power to change lives rests at my fingertips.
My heart drums behind my ribs, steady and fierce and absolutely certain.
This is what I was born to do. This is why I survived everything that happened.
And now, with new life growing inside me, I understand that some battles are worth fighting not just for yourself, but for the future you're creating.
The office buzzes around us with the usual afternoon energy, but it feels muted and distant, as if the entire world has narrowed to this single moment.
A phone rings somewhere across the room.
Someone laughs at a joke I don't hear. The copy machine whirs to life, printing someone else's story, but all that noise fades. This moment is everything.
“You ready?” Nick asks, voice low and gravelly with too much coffee and not enough rest. His tone carries decades of experience, the wisdom of a man who's seen careers made and destroyed by single decisions. He knows what I'm about to unleash on the world.
I take a breath that fills my lungs completely. My fingers flex over the keyboard, and I feel the familiar rush of adrenaline that comes with every big story, every moment when truth meets power and refuses to blink first.
“Let’s make history,” I say, then press the button.
The story goes live.
The impact is immediate. By the time the digital ink dries, it spreads like a brushfire across social media platforms, racing from screen to screen faster than wildfire through dry grass.
My phone buzzes incessantly with notifications, each one marking another share, another repost, another person who's read the words I bled onto the page.
The story jumps from Twitter to Facebook to Instagram, multiplying and evolving as readers add their own commentary, outrage, and calls for justice.
Within hours, my name becomes a rallying cry across Florida.
The hashtag #LittleHavanaVoices appears beneath photos of families displaced by Bennato's schemes, elderly residents sharing their stories of intimidation and fear, and young activists organizing protests with a speed that would make seasoned politicians envious.
Local news stations scramble to catch up, their anchors stumbling over pronunciations of names I've carried in my heart for months.
Reporters quote it with the breathless excitement of journalists who recognize a game-changer when they see one. The quotes spread across news websites, each one charged with the emotion of months of investigation and the voices of people who thought they'd never be heard.
Residents of Little Havana repost it with comments that make my chest tight with a quiet ache. Finally, someone listened.
This is our truth.
Thank you for seeing us.
The messages pour in faster than I can read them, each one a small victory, a validation of every risky choice I made along the way and every danger I endured.
Photos accompany the shares of families in their living rooms, elderly couples holding hands on park benches, and children playing in neighborhoods that Bennato tried to steal.
Their faces glow with something I haven't seen in years: hope.
The mayor's office issues a vague statement about “looking into past development contracts,” the political equivalent of admitting guilt while maintaining dignity.
City council members who've been silent for months suddenly discover their voices, calling for investigations and oversight committees.
The police department announces a renewed focus on corruption within their ranks.
However, their statement carefully avoids mentioning specific names or cases.
Protesters gather at City Hall with signs that read Havana is not for sale and Elena Martinez: Voice of the Voiceless.
The crowd grows throughout the week, starting with a handful of activists and expanding to include families, students, business owners, and even some city employees who take their lunch breaks to join the demonstrations.
Their chants echo through downtown Miami, a sound that carries across the water to every corner of the city.
The phones in our newsroom ring constantly.
Other publications want to follow up on the story, to find new angles and deeper connections.
Law enforcement agencies that have been mysteriously silent for months suddenly express interest in reopening cases that were hastily closed.
Real estate lawyers emerge from their offices with briefcases full of documents that were previously deemed “irrelevant.”
For the first time in months, I feel like I can breathe freely again.
Not the shallow, careful breaths of someone constantly looking over their shoulder, but deep, cleansing inhalations that remind me what it feels like to live without fear.
The tension I've carried in my shoulders since the first threatening phone call begins to dissolve, replaced by the satisfaction of a job well done.
The exposé doesn't just take down Bennato's real estate empire.
It buries it beneath an avalanche of evidence and public outrage.
Property deals that seemed legitimate suddenly reveal themselves as elaborate schemes designed to displace longtime residents.
Financial records that were previously sealed became public knowledge, showing the trail of money that flowed from legitimate investors to criminal enterprises.
Building permits that were fast-tracked through city offices are revealed to be the result of bribery and intimidation.
And with him already dead, there's no one left to deflect the blame or spin the narrative.
Bennato's death, which initially seemed like it might bring the story to a close, instead becomes the final chapter in a tale of corruption that reaches into every corner of Miami's power structure.
Without their leader coordinating damage control, his organization crumbles like a house of cards in a hurricane.
The aftermath brings more questions than answers about some of the key players.
Celine and Bianca have simply vanished, as if they never existed at all.
The art gallery sits empty, its lease mysteriously terminated overnight.
Bianca's interior design firm shows no forwarding address, leaving clients hanging mid-project with no explanation.
Their social media accounts went dark simultaneously.
Their elegant homes stood vacant, with no signs of a hurried departure or planned relocation.
The police investigate their disappearances with the kind of thoroughness usually reserved for high-profile cases, but they find nothing.
No credit card activity, no passport records, no witnesses to their departure.
It's as if two prominent members of Miami's social elite simply evaporated into the humid air, leaving behind only questions and speculation.