Page 10 of Crystal Wrath (Rostov Bratva #1)

RENAT

The ocean glimmers like liquid sapphire beyond the patio at Azul, and the candlelight on our table flickers gently against the soft breeze.

It should feel like a romantic evening. Elegant.

Safe. But there's nothing safe about what I'm doing right now, and I'm aware of it. More importantly, she knows it too.

Elena Martinez sits across from me in understated elegance, wearing a silky blue dress that clings to her curves.

The fabric catches the flickering candlelight with each subtle movement, creating shadows that dance across her collarbone.

She pretends not to notice the heads turning in our direction, the quiet curiosity that always follows when I walk into a room with a woman who doesn't belong in this world.

She's good at pretending, but I notice it all.

The way the ma?tre d's eyes linger when he seats us.

The subtle double-takes from other diners.

The server who stumbles slightly over his words when Elena smiles at him.

I notice everything because survival in my world depends on seeing what others miss.

Elena meets my gaze with that same maddening calm she wore the first night we met.

Unflinching and guarded. Tempting as sin and twice as dangerous.

Her fingers curl around the stem of her wine glass like she's bracing for impact, knuckles just barely white with tension.

The small gesture betrays her despite her composed exterior.

She should be bracing herself. What she doesn't understand yet is that this dinner isn't just about satisfying mutual curiosity. It's about determining whether she lives or dies.

“You know,” I begin, letting each word settle like stones dropped into still water, “people have been murdered for asking fewer questions than you.”

She doesn't flinch. The wine glass doesn't tremble in her grip.

Her breathing doesn't change. I respect that kind of control, even as it frustrates me.

Most people would be sweating by now, looking for exits, making excuses to leave.

Elena Martinez takes a measured sip of her Pinot Grigio and considers my words as if we're discussing the weather.

“Maybe they asked the wrong people,” she notes.

My lips tilt upward despite myself. There's something deliciously reckless about her composure. “Or maybe they asked the right ones, and that was the problem.”

She leans forward slightly, and her scent drifts across the table. Jasmine mixed with sea salt from the ocean breeze and something softer beneath it all. The unmistakable essence of her.

“Are you warning me? Or threatening me?”

I let the question hang in the air as I swirl the vodka in my glass, watching the clear liquid catch the light. The irony isn't lost on me that I'm drinking Russian spirits while trying to decide the fate of a Cuban American journalist who's gotten too close to secrets that could topple empires.

“That depends,” I state, setting the glass down with deliberate precision. “Would you listen to a warning?”

Her eyes narrow with challenge and recklessness. In the candlelight, they're the color of dark chocolate, warm and inviting and completely at odds with the steel in her spine. “Maybe. If I believed it was sincere.”

I lean back in my chair, studying her face for tells. The slight tightening around her eyes. The way her pulse beats just a fraction faster at the base of her throat. The careful way she's holding herself, like a coiled spring ready to launch.

“It is sincere,” I assure her, injecting enough conviction into my voice that even she can't miss it.

“Elena, you are dancing in a minefield. You think you're digging up a story about real estate and corruption, about greedy developers pushing out families. What you're actually doing is dragging your heels through the blood-soaked roots of men who don’t hesitate to eliminate threats.”

She doesn't break eye contact. Doesn't look away. Doesn't give me the satisfaction of seeing fear flicker across her features. Instead, she tilts her head slightly, like she's processing the information and filing it away for later use.

“And which one are you, Renat? The man who warns or the man who eliminates?”

The question cuts deeper than it should.

I've eliminated plenty of threats over the years.

Men who crossed my family, who tried to muscle in on our territory, who thought they could take what we'd built.

I've done it with my own hands, and I've ordered others to do it for me.

The blood on my ledger could fill Biscayne Bay.

But sitting here, looking at Elena in her blue dress with her defiant eyes and her dangerous questions, I feel something I haven't experienced in years. Uncertainty. About what she represents and what I want to do with her.

I don't answer immediately. I let her sit in silence, feeling the force of what she's pushing against. The magnitude of the world she's trying to expose.

“Both,” I affirm.

Her breath hitches. Barely perceptible, but I see it. I see everything when it comes to her.

“Then why am I still sitting here?”

“Because I haven't decided what you are yet. A threat that needs to be eliminated, or something else entirely.”

She exhales slowly, and for a moment, I think she might back down. Might finally grasp the enormity of the danger she's courting and choose self-preservation over journalistic integrity. But Elena Martinez doesn't know how to do that. It's part of what makes her so fascinating and so infuriating.

“Tell me about the properties in Little Havana,” she says, her voice steady as granite. “Who really owns them? Who's behind the shell companies?”

I arch a brow, genuinely impressed by her audacity. “Bold of you to think I'd answer that.”

“You invited me here. I assumed that you wanted to talk.”

“I did want to talk. But not to confess my sins to a journalist.” I lift the corner of my napkin and wipe my mouth, buying time to consider how much truth I'm willing to share. “Do you know what Little Havana used to be, Elena?”

Her jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. I realize this is personal for her. Not just professional curiosity but something deeper. Something that connects to who she is and where she comes from.

“A Cuban neighborhood. A home to people displaced once, now being displaced again.” She grinds her back teeth together.

I nod slowly. “And it's a battlefield. Not just for developers looking to make a profit. The territory that once meant culture and community now means leverage in a much larger game.”

She studies me, her dark eyes calculating. I can practically see the wheels turning in her mind, connecting dots and forming theories. “So, you admit you're fighting for that slice of territory?”

“I admit nothing. But I will say this,” I lean forward, ensuring she hears every word, “there are forces in this city much darker than zoning boards and property deeds. Much more dangerous than corrupt politicians taking bribes. You poke at one piece of it, and you shake the whole table. Eventually, something falls off the edge.”

“You mean someone.”

“I do.”

We eat in silence for several minutes. The grouper is perfectly prepared, flaky, and seasoned with just the right amount of spice to complement the ocean view. But I'm not really tasting it. My attention is focused entirely on the woman across from me, watching as she processes what I've told her.

She's going to keep digging. I can see it in the set of her shoulders and the determined way she cuts her fish. Elena Martinez doesn't back down from anything. Consequences be damned.

“You're Bratva,” she says suddenly, quietly, but with absolute conviction.

I don't blink. Don't deny it. The lie would be too thin between us, and she's already proven she can see through my deceptions.

She swallows hard, and for the first time tonight, I see genuine fear flicker across her face. Good. Fear will keep her alive longer than bravery will.

“Then why not kill me? If I'm a threat. If I know too much.”

I should kill her. Any other journalist who'd gotten this close to the truth would already be at the bottom of the bay. But here she sits, challenging me, daring me to admit why she's still breathing.

“Because I'm not sure which side of the line you fall on yet. And because...”

I stop, not wanting to say the words that are flashing in my mind.

Because I want to protect you. Because watching you walk into danger makes my chest ache in a way I haven't felt since learning my real mother died when I was an infant.

Because something about you cuts through the numbness I thought was permanent and makes me feel things I swore I'd never feel again.

I shake the thoughts off and rise from my chair, the legs scraping against the stone patio. “Dinner's over. I'll have your car brought around.”

She stands, too, her chin tilted in that familiar gesture of defiance. “You think you can warn me away, and I'll just vanish? Disappear into the night and forget everything I've learned?”

“I think you'll consider what your life is worth.”

“I already have.”

The simple statement has the force of a gunshot. She's made her choice. She's going to keep pushing, digging, and putting herself in danger for a story that could get her killed.

God help me, I believe her. And God help us both because I know what comes next.

The next morning is gray and humid, typical Miami weather that matches my mood perfectly.

I'm in my office on the twenty-second floor, reviewing shipping manifests and trying to focus on legitimate business when Sergey walks in.

His face is tight, and he's carrying bad news like it's another drink to be consumed.

“Francesco Bennato asked about the girl,” he says without preamble.

I look up from the file I'm reviewing, already knowing this conversation is going to ruin my day. “What girl.”