Page 13 of Crystal Wrath (Rostov Bratva #1)

Coincidence. It’s just a coincidence. We're both leaving at the same time, heading in the same direction because there are only so many ways to get from downtown to anywhere else in Miami. The city's geography funnels traffic into predictable patterns.

I take a left instead of heading straight to the expressway, choosing a residential route that will add ten minutes to my drive home. The SUV turns left, too, maintaining the same distance, neither closing the gap nor falling behind.

My heart thuds against my ribs.

I drive three more blocks and take a sudden right, narrowly missing a cyclist who shouts something in Spanish that my mother would have washed my mouth out for repeating.

The SUV follows, making the same abrupt turn without the hesitation you'd expect from someone who wasn't specifically following my route.

Panic blooms in my chest, cold and sharp like broken glass. This isn't paranoia. This isn't a coincidence. Someone is following me, and they're not trying very hard to hide it. Which either means they're amateurs or they want me to know I'm being watched.

Neither option is particularly comforting.

I force myself to breathe, to think strategically instead of reactively. Panic is the enemy of clear thinking, and clear thinking is what will get me out of this situation alive. I've taken self-defense classes, and I've dealt with hostile sources before, but this feels different. More organized.

I drive like I know where I'm going, taking turns with confidence I don't feel.

I loop through residential streets lined with modest homes and overgrown yards and take another right past a playground where children are swinging in the fading light.

At the same time, their parents chat on nearby benches.

Normal life continues while I'm being hunted through suburban Miami.

A sharp left takes me past a strip mall, a dry cleaner, and a nail salon with hot pink lettering that promises “Beautiful Nails, Beautiful You.” The SUV stays close, never overtaking, never falling behind. A shadow with tinted windows and unknown intentions.

My mind races through possibilities. Are they Renat's men?

Is this his way of protecting me, keeping tabs on my movements?

Or are they Francesco Bennato's people, the ones Renat warned me about?

The thought sends a shiver down my spine.

Renat said Bennato kills people to keep the air clear, maintaining order through violence.

Maybe they're just going to watch me. Maybe this is intimidation, a warning to back off before things escalate. Or maybe they're waiting for the right moment and the right location where a young journalist can disappear without too many questions asked.

I make a split-second decision, cutting down a narrow alley lined with dumpsters and graffiti tags in vibrant blues and reds.

The alley is barely wide enough for one car, with high brick walls on both sides that block the view from the street.

If they follow me in here, I'll know for certain that I'm being hunted.

The SUV doesn't follow.

I park beside a stack of cardboard boxes and kill the engine, my heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat. Grabbing my bag, I bolt out of the car and rush around the corner, trying to look casual despite the adrenaline flooding my system.

The coffee shop is two doors down, a small independent place called Concourse Coffee that I've driven past dozens of times but never visited.

Right now, it looks like salvation. Its windows are fogged with steam, and the smell of roasted beans hits me like a balm, warm and familiar and normal in a way that makes me want to cry with relief.

I push inside, the little bell above the door announcing my arrival with a cheerful chime that seems absurdly optimistic given the circumstances.

The interior is cramped but cozy, with mismatched furniture and local artwork covering the walls.

A chalkboard menu lists drinks with names like “The Hemingway” and “Biscayne Buzz.”

The line is long, which is exactly what I want.

After purchasing a cup of coffee, I weave through tables occupied by students with laptops, businesspeople on late afternoon coffee breaks, and couples sharing pastries.

Normal people living normal lives, blissfully unaware that someone is being hunted just outside their comfortable bubble.

I slide into a corner seat near the window, positioning myself so I have a clear view of the street while remaining partially hidden behind a potted plant that's seen better days. From here, I can watch for the SUV while blending into the coffee shop's afternoon crowd.

My phone buzzes with a text from Amelia asking about dinner plans. I stare at the message, trying to figure out how to explain that I'm hiding in a coffee shop because I'm being followed by men who might want to kill me. The words seem too dramatic. Too much like a bad movie plot to be real.

But they are real. This is my life now.

Two minutes later, the SUV rolls by slowly, like a shark cruising through calm waters.

It stops directly in front of the coffee shop.

My breath catches in my throat as the doors open.

Two men step out. Tall. Broad. Dressed in sleek black suits that probably cost more than I make in a month.

The type of understated elegance that screams “expensive tailor” and “dangerous employer.” One has dark hair slicked back with product, and the other is blonde with a tan that comes from spending time on boats rather than beaches.

The dark-haired one scans the sidewalk, his gaze lingering on doorways and parked cars. Professional assessment of potential threats and escape routes. The blonde checks his phone, typing something quickly with thick fingers that seem too large for the delicate screen.

I grab my phone and type frantically. Trouble. Two men following me. Black SUV. Not sure who they are. I'm at Concourse Coffee on 9th. Please don't call. Just in case.

I hit send, praying that Amelia checks her messages quickly. The response comes immediately, thank God. OMG. Stay put. I'm on my way. Ten minutes.

The men are conferring now, pointing in different directions like they're coordinating a search pattern.

The blonde gestures toward the alley where I left my car, while the dark-haired one indicates the coffee shop.

They're systematic and thorough. Not amateurs who lose their target because she ducked into a Starbucks.

I hunch lower in my seat, pretending to stir cream into the coffee I haven't touched, my hands trembling so badly that I almost drop the spoon. The metal clinks against the mug with tiny sounds that seem impossibly loud in my heightened state of awareness.

My mind flashes back to Renat and his warnings, which I dismissed as intimidation tactics. People have been murdered for asking fewer questions than you. The words hit differently now, loaded with the possibility that he was trying to save my life rather than scare me into submission.

The two men linger outside, their presence changing the atmosphere on the street like storm clouds gathering before a hurricane. Other pedestrians give them a wide berth, some unconscious instinct warning them away from predators in expensive suits.

One of them cups his hand to the glass window of the coffee shop, peering inside with cold eyes that seem to catalog every face, every exit, every potential hiding place. I sink lower in my chair, using the potted plant as cover while my heart tries to beat its way out of my chest.

Please don't see me. Please don't see me. Please don't see me.

The mantra runs through my head like a prayer to whatever gods protect foolish journalists who've gotten in too deep.

My phone buzzes again with a message from Amelia. Get out the back. I'll pick you up around the block. Corner of Jasper and 10th.

I wait, counting seconds that feel like hours.

The men continue their surveillance of the street, patient and professional in a way that tells me this isn't their first time hunting someone through Miami's urban maze.

Ten minutes crawl by like a slow bleed, each moment stretching thin with tension and the possibility of discovery.

Finally, the men cross the street and disappear into a cell phone shop, probably checking to see if I've taken refuge there.

I take my chance rushing out the back door, moving as quickly as I can without running.

Down a trash-lined alley that smells of rotting fruit and industrial cleaning supplies.

Around the corner, my bag bouncing against my hip with each hurried step.

Amelia's white Lexus screeches to a halt at the corner, and I've never been so happy to see her perfectly styled blonde hair and worried expression. I throw the passenger door open and dive in, disregarding dignity and grace.

“Go,” I gasp, still breathless from fear and exertion.

She doesn't ask questions. Just puts the car in drive and speeds away from the corner as if we're fleeing a natural disaster. Her knuckles are white on the steering wheel, and I can see the pulse jumping in her throat.

Only once we're blocks away, winding through residential neighborhoods where children play in front yards and families are starting to think about dinner, do I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

My hands are still shaking as I give her directions to her own apartment, my voice hoarse with residual terror, my mind muddied with panic. My car can stay behind for now. I'll figure out how to retrieve it later when I'm not being actively hunted through the streets of Miami.

Once we're inside her apartment, I collapse onto her cream-colored couch, body folding under me like scaffolding giving way. Amelia locks every bolt and double-checks the curtains, her face pale with fear that mirrors my own.

“Elena, you can't keep doing this,” she says, her voice tight with worry. “They're watching you now. This isn't some theoretical danger anymore. These people know who you are, where you go, what you're investigating.”

I nod, too rattled to form coherent words. My mouth feels like cotton, and my limbs are heavy with exhaustion that has nothing to do with physical exertion and everything to do with the crash that comes after flooding your system with adrenaline.

Later, alone in her guest bedroom surrounded by her collection of romance novels and scented candles, I replay it all. The SUV. The suits. The ice in my veins when I realized they were following me, hunting me through city streets like I was prey.

Renat's warning is no longer just ominous. It's prophecy. And I was too arrogant, too convinced of my own invincibility to listen.

But fear doesn't mean surrender. It can't. Too many people are counting on me to tell their stories, to expose the corruption that's destroying their communities one property deed at a time.

My mother's face appears in my mind again, tired but determined, promising that someday things will be different.

I won't run. I won't stop. I'll dig deeper. And I'll do it smarter. Because I'm not just fighting for my story anymore. I'm fighting to survive it.