Page 11 of Crystal Wrath (Rostov Bratva #1)
He lifts a brow, giving me a look that says he's not buying my ignorance act for even a second. “Elena Martinez. He's heard about her visits to City Hall and the record departments. Says she's been sniffing around his developments too.”
I shut the file with more force than necessary. The sound echoes in my office like a gunshot. “How does he know her name?”
“One of his men spotted her at the records office last week. He recognized her from a protest about a year ago. It was some housing justice rally where she was giving interviews. He took her picture with a telephoto lens. He's got a file on her now.”
Rage unfurls in my gut like smoke from a slow-burning fuse. The thought of Bennato's men watching Elena, photographing her, and building a case against her makes my vision blur around the edges.
Francesco Bennato represents everything I despise about the old ways. He's sloppy, violent for the sake of violence, and stupid enough to think muscle can solve every problem. He's been trying to muscle in on my territory for years, using tactics that draw too much attention from law enforcement.
“Did he say anything about moving on her?”
Sergey shrugs, but there's tension in his shoulders that tells me he's more concerned than he's letting on. “Not yet. But it's Bennato. When has he ever played fair? When has he ever shown restraint?”
I'm already standing and reaching for my keys. My pulse thunders with something dangerously close to panic, and that terrifies me more than any threat Bennato could make.
I don't panic. I haven't panicked since I was a child hiding in closets while my father's enemies came calling. But the thought of Elena in Bennato's crosshairs and the image of her body washing up in the bay makes something primal and protective surge through me.
“Where are you going?” Sergey calls after me.
“To handle this before it becomes a problem.”
Her apartment building is modest but clean, tucked in a quieter corner of downtown with bougainvillea crawling up the weathered brick.
The neighborhood is undergoing a transition as old Florida charm gives way to modern condos and trendy coffee shops.
It's the type of area developers love to target.
Full of potential profit for those willing to displace the existing residents.
I take the stairs two at a time, adrenaline pushing me faster than the ancient elevator could carry me. By the time I reach her door, my heart is pounding against my ribs like a caged animal.
I knock hard. And then I knock harder. Control seems to have abandoned me entirely.
When she opens the door, she's barefoot, dressed in black leggings and a fitted tee that hugs her curves in all the right places.
Her hair is pulled up in a messy bun, and she's not wearing any makeup.
She looks infuriatingly soft and vulnerable in a way that makes me want to wrap her in bulletproof armor and hide her somewhere Bennato will never find her.
Her eyes widen when she sees me. “Renat? What the hell are you doing here?”
I push past her without invitation, scanning her apartment for signs of threats and evidence that someone else has been here.
The space is small but warm, filled with books, plants, and personal touches that make a place feel like home.
Cuban artwork hangs on the walls, and a photo on the mantle shows a woman who must be her mother, as she bears a resemblance to her.
“We need to talk,” I tell her, turning to face her as she closes the door.
“Excuse me? You don't just barge into my home without an invitation. You can't just show up here and?—”
“Francesco Bennato knows who you are.”
The words hit her so hard she takes a step back. I watch the color drain from her face and see her back press against the door as if she needs the support.
“What?”
“He has a file on you. He knows you're investigating real estate developments. He's seen you at the records office, at City Hall. He knows your name, Elena, and that means you're already dead.”
Right now, she looks exactly like what she is. A young woman who has gotten in over her head and pushed too hard, attracting the attention of predators.
“How do you know this?”
“Because I have ears everywhere in this city. Because information is power, and power is survival.”
Her expression hardens, steel replacing vulnerability. “Of course you do. Mafia prince that you are.”
The accusation stings more than it should. “You don't get it. Francesco Bennato doesn’t kill people just for fun. Not for show or even revenge. He kills them as a way of keeping the air clear and maintaining order. If you keep digging into his business?—”
“I'm not stopping.”
“Then you're signing your death warrant.”
“So…what? You're here to save me? Is that your Bratva code now? Rescue the journalist you fucked and threatened in the same breath?”
The rage flares white-hot through my chest. She's pushing me, challenging me, making me feel things I don't want to feel. Making me care about someone who should be nothing more than a problem to be solved.
“You think this is a joke? That I showed up here because of guilt? Because I owe you something?” I step closer, pinning her against the door. “I could walk away right now and let Bennato take you out with one phone call. But I'm here. Because you're too stubborn to see what's coming.”
“I see it. I just don't scare easily.”
“Then you're a damn fool.”
We're chest to chest now, both breathing hard, the tension between us snapping like a live wire. I can feel the heat radiating from her body and smell that intoxicating combination of jasmine and defiance that seems to follow her everywhere.
“Why do you even care, Renat? Why does it matter what happens to me?”
The question cuts to the heart of everything I've been trying not to examine. Why do I care? Why does the thought of her in danger make me want to burn down half of Miami to keep her safe?
“Because I don't want you dead, damn it.”
“And what else?”
Her eyes are locked on mine, searching for truth, honesty, and something real beneath all the games, threats, and careful words.
I grab her by the waist, pulling her against me forcefully. Her breath stutters and her hands land on my chest, but she doesn't push me away. Instead, she fists her fingers in my shirt, holding on like she's drowning, and I'm the only thing keeping her afloat.
“This,” I growl against her ear. “You. The way you get under my skin like a splinter I can't dig out.
The way you challenge me when everyone else just nods and agrees.
I should have walked away after that first night.
I didn't. And now I'm standing in your damn apartment thinking about how fast I can make you moan my name again.”
Her hands fist tighter in my shirt, and I can feel her heartbeat racing against my chest. “Then shut up and do it.”
My mouth crushes hers, desperate and unrelenting. She answers with a kiss that steals the breath from my lungs, furious and wild and completely without reservation. I back her against the wall, one hand threading into her hair, the other gripping her hip like a man starving for sustenance.
She gasps against my lips as I lift her, her legs wrapping instinctively around my waist. The taste of her floods my senses. Coffee and mint and something sweet. It makes me forget about Bennato and the danger. I forget about everything except this fire burning between us.
Her hips grind against me, and I nearly lose what's left of my control. My hand slips beneath her shirt, fingers finding bare skin that's impossibly soft and warm. Her head drops back against the wall, and a sound escapes her throat that has my restraint slipping fast.
But then she freezes.
“Stop.”
I do. Instantly. My hands still, my mouth pulls back, every muscle in my body screaming in protest.
Her chest heaves, her lips swollen from our kiss. Her fingers press against my chest, pushing lightly but firmly.
“Get out.”
“Elena—”
“Get. Out.”
The words are quiet but absolute. I step back, breathing hard, every cell in my body screaming in frustration and need.
She walks to the door on unsteady legs, opens it, and points toward the hallway. Her hands shake slightly, but her eyes are steel. Determined and uncompromising.
I pause in the doorway, looking back at her. “This isn't over.”
“No,” she says softly, her voice hitching slightly. “It isn’t.”
Then she shuts the door between us with a quiet click.
I stand in the hallway for a long moment, staring at the closed door, fighting every instinct that tells me to break it down and finish what we started. But Elena Martinez has made her choice, and I must respect it. Even if it kills us both.