Page 39 of Crystal Veil (Rostov Bratva #2)

The press runs wild with theories. Some suggest they fled to avoid prosecution, others whisper about witness protection programs. A few conspiracy theorists propose more sinister explanations, but without evidence, these remain nothing more than idle speculation in online forums and coffee shop conversations.

I watch the coverage with a strange sense of detachment, knowing the truth but unable to share it with anyone.

The truth is a secret I'll carry to my grave.

Some stories are too dangerous to tell, even for someone who built her career on uncovering the truth.

Some secrets serve justice better by remaining hidden.

The paranoia that has been my constant companion for months begins to fade, replaced by calm confidence that comes from knowing justice has been served.

I walk to my car without scanning the parking lot for suspicious vehicles.

I sleep through the night without waking at every sound.

I answer my phone without checking the caller ID three times first.

Because I'm not running anymore.

The days of fake identities and borrowed clothes are behind me.

The safehouses and secret meetings are no longer necessary.

The careful routes through the city, the constant awareness of every exit and every potential threat, all of it becomes memory instead of reality.

I reclaim my life piece by piece, starting with the simple pleasure of walking through the city without fear.

The award ceremony is held at the Biltmore, all gold trim and marble floors.

The hotel rises around us like a cathedral to success, its Spanish Revival architecture lending an air of timeless elegance to the evening.

Chandeliers hang like clusters of stars, their light reflecting off surfaces polished to perfection.

I step into the ballroom in a floor-length red gown that clings to my curves but hides my baby bump.

The gown's silhouette is classic but modern, with a subtle train that whispers against the marble floor as I move.

My mother's locket rests against my collarbone, a reminder of the sacrifices that brought me here.

I've never owned anything so beautiful, so expensive, and perfectly suited to a moment of triumph.

Renat insisted on buying it for me, and for once, I didn't argue.

My mother's locket rests against my collarbone, glowing under the ballroom's golden light. It’s a reminder of the sacrifices that brought me here.

Nick walks beside me in a sharp navy suit Amelia picked out for him, the fabric crisp and perfectly tailored to his stocky frame.

He grumbles about it under his breath, complaining about the price and the fuss, but he looks good.

Gruff and brilliant, with a mind that shaped mine and loyalty I don't deserve.

The suit transforms him from a rumpled newsroom veteran into someone who clearly belongs in this room full of Miami's most influential people.

His silver hair is combed back neatly, and his beard is trimmed to perfection. Even his usually wrinkled shirt is pressed to crisp lines, and his tie is knotted with Amelia's careful attention to detail. He keeps tugging at his collar, uncomfortable with the formality, but his eyes glow with pride.

Amelia floats on my other side in a champagne-colored dress that makes her blonde hair gleam under the chandeliers like spun gold.

The dress is a pure embodiment of elegance, fitted through the bodice and flowing into a graceful skirt.

She looks proud and radiant, her eyes brimming with tears she refuses to shed because her mascara took too long to get right this evening.

Her smile is brilliant and lights up the room, making the photographers scramble for the perfect shot.

She's in her element here, moving through the crowd with confidence.

Her public relations background is evident in every gesture, every perfectly timed laugh, and every graceful introduction she makes on my behalf.

And then there's Renat.

His hand is warm in mine, his grip steady and grounding in a way that makes the rest of the world fade into background noise.

He wears a dark charcoal suit with a black shirt open at the collar, no tie, because he hates them with a passion that makes me laugh.

Somehow, he still manages to outshine every man in the room.

The suit is perfectly tailored, emphasizing his broad shoulders and lean frame, the fabric expensive enough to whisper wealth without shouting it.

His hazel eyes scan the crowd, always watching, always aware, the habits of a lifetime impossible to break even in this civilized setting.

But they're softer tonight, less sharp around the edges, because this isn't a battlefield.

This is a celebration. This is the moment when the woman he loves claims her rightful place in a world that tried to silence her.

The crowd parts as we move through the room, conversations pausing as heads turn to watch us pass.

I can feel the heat of their attention, the admiration and curiosity that follows anyone who has become suddenly famous.

But with Renat's hand in mine and my support system flanking me, the attention feels manageable, even welcome.

“Elena Martinez,” the announcer calls, and the applause rises like thunder, washing over me in waves of sound that seem to come from every direction at once.

It is overwhelming and wonderful, a force that seems to lift me off the ground.

Hundreds of pairs of hands create a rhythm that echoes off the high ceilings and marble floors, a symphony of appreciation.

I can hear individual voices in the crowd, people calling my name, while others whistle and cheer with enthusiasm usually reserved for sports events and rock concerts.

I step forward, clutching Renat's hand for one second longer before I let go, drawing strength from his touch one last time before I face this moment alone.

Then I walk onto the stage, my heels clicking against the polished floor with a rhythm that matches my heartbeat.

The spotlight finds me immediately, warm and bright, designed to make me glow rather than blind me.

The applause continues as I climb the steps, each step bringing me closer to a moment I've dreamed about since I first decided to become a journalist.

The stage is larger than I expected, with a podium that gleams under the lights and a backdrop that bears the logo of the journalism awards organization.

Fresh flowers in elegant arrangements frame the speaking area, their fragrance mixing with the subtle scent of expensive perfume and champagne from the crowd below.

The plaque they hand me is substantial enough to serve as a paperweight for the rest of my career.

The engraving is crisp and clear, my name alongside the award title and the date, creating a permanent record of this moment.

The metal is cool against my palms, grounding me in the reality of what I've accomplished.

I look out at the audience, searching for the faces that matter most to me.

Nick sits at our table near the front, his expression carefully neutral in the way that means he's fighting back tears.

Amelia has given up the fight against her emotions, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue while maintaining her radiant smile.

And Renat, my anchor in every storm, watches me with an intensity that makes my body tingle.

The crowd settles into expectant silence, hundreds of people waiting to hear what I have to say about this moment, the work that brought me here, and the future I'm building with the recognition they've given me. Their attention is thrilling and terrifying, a responsibility I don't take lightly.

I take a breath that fills my lungs completely and release it slowly. My fingers adjust their grip on the plaque, and I feel the familiar rush of adrenaline that accompanies every significant moment.

“I want to thank the people of Little Havana,” I begin, my voice loud and clear through the sound system to every corner of the ballroom.

“Who trusted me with their stories. Who let me into their lives, their fears, their anger, and their hopes.

This award doesn't belong to me. It belongs to every single person who stood up and declared, ‘This is our home, and we will not be erased.’”

The words flow from me like water, each one chosen carefully but delivered with the passion that has driven me since the first day I picked up a pen intending to change the world.

I can see faces in the crowd nodding, some wiping away tears, others smiling with the recognition that comes from witnessing truth spoken with courage.

I feel the tears rise, threatening to overwhelm me with the magnitude of this moment, but I keep speaking because these words need to be said, these people need to be thanked, and this story needs to be told in its entirety.

“I also want to thank Nicholas Anderson. For giving me a desk when no one else would. And for never telling me to play it safe, even when I probably should have.”

Nick gives me a subtle nod, jaw tight with emotion, eyes glassy behind his thick-framed glasses.

The gesture is small, but it speaks volumes about the relationship we've built over the years, the trust and respect that've grown between mentor and student, between two people who understand that journalism is more than a job. It's a calling.

“And to my best friend, Amelia Wilson. You always made me believe I could do this. Even when I wanted to quit. Even when I was scared. Even when the path ahead seemed impossible and the odds were stacked against us.”