Page 6 of Crystal Veil (Rostov Bratva #2)

RENAT

I don't blink as I stare at the screen. My jaw locks. My pulse stutters, then vanishes into a dead silence.

Francesco Bennato's men showed up right on time, armed to the teeth and crawling over the shipping yard like rats in the dark.

They were looking for something that didn't exist, chasing intel that should never have left my lips.

And now I know the leak. The knowledge sits in my stomach like a stone.

Only two people had the full details. Me and Sergey.

I lean back in the leather chair, the high-tech security suite glowing around me, washing the polished wood of the desk in cold blue light.

The monitors display multiple angles of the dock, each one showing Bennato's men moving with military precision through what should have been an impenetrable location.

My location. My territory. My secrets laid bare by someone I trusted with my life.

Artur stands just inside the doorway, silent and waiting like a sentinel.

His shoulders are rigid with tension that permeates the room.

He's already seen the surveillance feed and knows what I'm thinking.

The man has been with me long enough to read the subtle shifts in my expression, the way my fingers drum against the armrest when violence is brewing.

“What time did they arrive?” I ask without looking at him.

“11:25PM. Three SUVs, and two sedans. Five minutes ahead of schedule.”

The precision of their timing confirms what I already suspected. This wasn't a lucky guess or intercepted communication. This was inside information delivered with accuracy. Someone gave them not just the location, not just the time, but the exact window of opportunity.

“Survivors?”

He hesitates for just a moment, and in that pause, the consequence of what transpired at the dock. “One. Bleeding out when we got there. We took him.”

“Good.” I finally swivel toward him, my voice low and deliberate. “I want his tongue before morning. But I want him alive long enough to talk. Keep the doctor close.”

Artur nods once, understanding the delicate balance required.

Information first, then retribution. The man will tell us everything he knows about Bennato's operation, including who else might be involved and how deep this betrayal runs.

Only then will he pay the ultimate price for trespassing on my territory.

He disappears like smoke, leaving me alone with the damning evidence flickering across multiple screens.

I press my fingers together and exhale slowly through my nose, trying to contain the rage that threatens to consume rational thought.

The fury burns in my chest like acid, eating away at the careful control I've maintained for years.

This is personal. This goes beyond business, beyond territory disputes, beyond the usual dance of power that defines our world.

Sergey.

His name echoes in my mind like a knife.

I trusted him with everything. Protected him when others questioned his loyalty.

Elevated him to a position where he had access to my most sensitive operations.

He's been my second-in-command for years, the man who stood beside me when my father drew his last breath, who helped me consolidate power and build this empire into something that even the old country respects.

And he's been feeding my enemy. My rival. The same man who tried to murder Elena and put her in a hospital bed.

The thought of Elena being harmed because of Sergey's betrayal makes my hands curl into fists.

My knuckles crack audibly in the silence of the room.

She doesn't know yet about the tip I planted or what I suspected.

She thinks I've grown colder because of the stress, the pressure of leadership, and the chaos Bennato's created in our lives.

But she doesn't know that betrayal lives under my own roof.

That the man who stood beside me for years now wants my empire. My throne. My life.

The irony tastes bitter on my tongue. I've been hunting external threats, while the real danger has been sharing meals at my table.

I open the folder Viktor delivered this morning, the manila envelope thick with evidence that will reshape everything I thought I knew about my organization.

Encrypted interceptions fill the pages, three weeks of tracked burner phone numbers, location data, and financial transfers that paint a picture of deception so deep it's almost artistic in its scope.

One of the tracked numbers pinged repeatedly near the construction site where Sergey has been running a development project behind my back. But the timing of those pings, the frequency, and the correlation with other suspicious activities tell a different story entirely.

The phone doesn't belong to Bennato. It doesn't even belong to Sergey directly.

It belongs to Bianca. The message history is brief and coded in an amateurish manner, typical of people who think they're being clever.

But not enough to hide intent from someone who's been reading between the lines since childhood.

I read the exchange again, just to be certain, each word burning itself deeper into my memory.

Bianca: He took the bait. Dock 14. 11:30PM. We'll be watching.

Sergey: No mistakes this time. I want him to bleed.

Bianca: He will. And when he does, we rise.

Every word sears across my vision like a brand. The casual confidence, the assumption that I'm nothing more than an obstacle to be removed, and the complete lack of respect for what I've built or who I am. They discuss my destruction like they're planning a dinner party.

“Bianca,” I hiss through gritted teeth.

I should've destroyed her when I had the chance.

I should have never let her walk out of my penthouse alive after I confronted her about her ties to Bennato.

But some part of me, stupid, sentimental, and blind to her true nature, thought she was harmless.

That her obsession with me and Elena was petty and emotional, the wounded pride of a woman scorned.

That she'd settle into a life designing Italian villas and sipping vintage wine in some European café.

Instead, she's become Bennato's poisoned knife, sliding between my ribs with surgical precision.

The memory of our last encounter floods back unbidden.

She stood in my living room wearing that blood-red silk dress that had once driven me wild, her hair perfect, her makeup flawless, defiant even in the face of her treachery.

I remember the way her voice broke when she accused me of replacing her with Elena.

The hurt in her eyes when I told her I was cutting all ties with her.

Had it all been an act? Had she already been planning this betrayal even then?

And Sergey? He's the hand guiding that knife straight into my back.

I push away from the desk and walk toward the bar, my footsteps muffled by the thick Persian rug that covers the marble floor.

The crystal decanters gleam under the soft lighting, filled with liquors from around the world, each one representing a different victory, a different conquered territory.

I pour vodka into the nearest glass, not even bothering to chill it or add the usual accompaniments.

Tonight calls for something harsh, something that burns.

The liquid fire grounds me, reminding me that I'm still in control despite the chaos swirling around me.

That I am not the man who lets betrayal go unpunished.

I am not my father, who sometimes showed mercy when ruthlessness was required.

I am the man who buries threats so deep they become fertilizer for future growth.

The door creaks on its hinges, a sound that would normally be inaudible but stands out like a gunshot in the oppressive silence.

Viktor enters, his face grave, holding a folder even thicker than the last. His usually immaculate appearance shows signs of strain, his hair mussed, and his shirt wrinkled from hours of intensive investigation.

“You're going to want to see this,” he announces, his voice carrying the bite of bad news.

I take the folder and flip it open, immediately recognizing Viktor's meticulous handwriting and organizational system.

His notes are clean, tight, and organized in a way only Viktor's analytical mind can manage.

Every detail was cross-referenced, every connection mapped out with the precision of a master strategist. The contents pull the warmth right out of my skin.

Transfer records show Bianca's personal accounts linked to a web of shell companies, each one designed to obscure the paper trail but not sophisticated enough to fool someone with Viktor's resources.

Sergey's fingerprints are on more than one of them, both literally and figuratively.

Bank statements show regular deposits that coincide with information leaks.

Meeting schedules that align with Bennato's movements.

They've been building something behind my back for months, maybe longer. Funding it with my money, my resources, money that should have been strengthening our organization instead of undermining it. Lining Bennato's pockets while pretending to serve mine.

But the most damning evidence comes at the bottom of the pile.

The woman who tried to kill Elena, the assassin who left her concussed and nearly ended her life, was on one of Bianca's payrolls.

A private firm out of Switzerland, officially listed as providing high-end security services but actually specializing in much sinister work.

Only a few of those girls moonlight in the kind of work that puts bodies in graves.