Page 15 of Crystal Wrath (Rostov Bratva #1)

Le Jardin sparkles with the elegance of privilege as I arrive at exactly seven o'clock.

Glass walls reveal the Miami skyline in all its neon glory, garden chandeliers cast everything in warm gold, and the menus have no prices because they are reserved for those who don't need to ask.

The hostess recognizes me immediately, her smile bright with fear disguised as respect.

“Mr. Rostov, your table is ready.”

She leads me through the main dining room, past tables filled with people who shape the world with phone calls and handshakes.

Politicians I own. Businessmen who owe me favors.

Society wives who look the other way when their husbands need my services.

They nod respectfully as I pass, understanding that my presence here legitimizes their own.

Bianca is already seated in the private alcove I requested, a section of the restaurant reserved for conversations that require discretion.

She stands when she sees me, all tailored curves and gold jewelry that catches the light like liquid fire.

The silk of her emerald dress fits her waist with dangerous precision, the neckline sharp enough to cut.

Her honey-blonde hair is swept up in a way that shows off the elegant line of her neck, and her espresso eyes are already calculating my mood.

“Renat,” she purrs, gliding toward me in heels that click with the authority of a woman who knows her power.

“Bianca.” I kiss her cheek out of habit, catching the warm, citrusy perfume she's wearing. It smells expensive and calculated, like everything else about her.

She sits, crossing her legs slowly and deliberately.

Her skin gleams under the low lighting, flawless and sun-kissed from her weekend trips to Key West. Her full lips are painted in a deep wine-red that matches her nails, and the corner of her mouth lifts like she's already won something I haven't offered.

“I wasn't sure you'd come,” she says, lifting her glass of what I know is a 2016 Barolo. She's always had expensive taste.

“You said it was urgent.”

She smiles into her wine, and the expression transforms her face from beautiful to devastating. “Everything is urgent when it's your name on the marquee.”

The waiter arrives and Bianca orders for both of us like she always does.

Filet mignon, rare. Truffle risotto. Bordeaux from 2015.

Her taste is impeccable and insufferable, a combination that used to drive me crazy with desire and frustration.

She talks to the waiter in fluent Italian, her voice musical and commanding.

The man blushes and nearly trips over himself to please her. She's always had that effect on people.

We make small talk at first, words dressed as importance but functioning as foreplay in her world.

The condo project is behind schedule because of permit issues.

Fabric delays from Milan. Paint swatches that don't match her vision.

She talks with her hands, slender fingers adorned in gold rings that glimmer as she speaks.

Her nails are perfectly manicured, painted in that same deep, wine-red color that evokes thoughts of blood and roses.

But her eyes, those deep brown eyes with lashes like smoke, never leave mine. She's reading me, cataloging every micro-expression, every tell. It's what made her so good at her job and so dangerous as a lover.

“The penthouse units are going to be spectacular,” she says, leaning forward slightly.

The movement is calculated to give me a better view of her cleavage, and I'm annoyed at myself for noticing.

“I've sourced marble from the same quarry Michelangelo used.

The Italian government doesn't usually allow exports, but I have connections.”

Of course, she does. Bianca has always been able to charm her way into places others can't reach. It's how she built her reputation as Miami's most sought-after designer. It's also how she ended up in my bed six years ago and stayed there for two tumultuous years.

“And the common areas?” I ask, genuinely curious despite the undercurrents of tension.

“Library with first-edition books, wine cellar with temperature-controlled storage, infinity pool that seems to blend with the bay. Your buyers will feel like they're living in a fairy tale.”

She knows how to sell dreams. It's one of her most dangerous talents.

The meal arrives with the theatrical presentation that Le Jardin is famous for. We eat in comfortable silence at first, but I can feel the tension of things unsaid between us. Regret. Lust. Power. Loss. The way we ended still sits between us like a scar that never quite healed.

She cuts into her steak with surgical precision, each movement graceful and deliberate. “So,” she says at last, dabbing her mouth with a napkin. “This woman.”

I don't answer, but my fork stops halfway to my mouth.

Bianca's gaze sharpens, and I remember why she was so good at reading people. She notices everything. “You didn't mention her, but I hear things. A reporter, right? That's the rumor making the rounds.”

“Then you already know more than you should.”

She tilts her head, studying me like I'm a puzzle she's trying to solve. “I know you, Renat. I know how you move through the world. I know the pulse in your neck when something matters. And you've got that look tonight.”

I stay quiet, carving into the steak with restrained aggression.

“I remember when you used to look at me that way.”

The words hit their target. I set my glass down and meet her eyes. “Bianca.”

Her fingers brush mine across the table.

The touch is soft, familiar, and electric in ways I'd forgotten.

It's meant to disarm me, to lure me into a softness that feels dangerously familiar.

Her skin is silken and warm, exactly as I remember from nights when the world outside our bedroom didn't exist.

“You don't have to pretend with me,” she says, her voice dropping to a husky whisper. “You can stop being the pakhan for five minutes. Just be the man I used to know. Let me help you remember what that feels like.”

There's a vulnerability in her tone that catches me off guard. Or maybe it's performance. With Bianca, it's always both. She's an artist at manipulation, but the emotions underneath are real. That's what made our relationship so intense and so destructive.

I look at her, really look at her. The woman who once saw the darkest parts of me and kissed them anyway.

But I’m not the man she wants anymore. That version of me is gone.

And I can’t pretend Elena hasn’t changed everything.

That she hasn’t reminded me what it feels like to want something beyond power, fear, and control.

Still, when Bianca rises from her seat and holds out her hand, I take it. Old habits die hard.

The private dining room is empty except for us. Leather chaise lounge, velvet drapes, a view of the skyline through floor-to-ceiling glass. The city spreads out below us like a circuit board, with all its lights, connections, and hidden currents of power.

She closes the door behind us and turns, her fingers sliding smoothly down the straps of her dress. “You remember this room?” she whispers.

I do. We've been here before, months ago, when she was trying to convince me to take her back after our last explosive breakup. The memory is sharp and painful, wrapped in the scent of her perfume and the taste of regret.

She steps closer, her dress sliding lower, revealing sun-warmed skin and a delicate collarbone. Her perfume fills the space, sweet and heavy. She presses her body against mine, and I can feel the heat of her through the thin silk. Her lips brush my jaw, soft and insistent.

“This could be easy,” she murmurs against my neck. “You and me. No complications. No reporters asking dangerous questions. Just us, the way it used to be.”

My hands find her waist, instinct overriding reason.

She's familiar in ways that Elena isn't. Known.

Safe. Predictable. She moans softly, her breath hot against my neck, and I remember why I couldn't stay away from her for two years.

Her mouth finds mine, and the kiss is hungry, desperate, tasting of wine and memories.

For a moment, I kiss her back. I let myself fall into the warmth of something that once felt like love.

And then I stop. Because it's not her I'm thinking about.

When I close my eyes, I see dark hair instead of blonde, brown eyes instead of hazel, and a mouth that challenges me instead of simply tempting me.

Because it's not Elena.

I step away, the absence between us as loud as a gunshot.

Bianca blinks, her lipstick smeared, her hair mussed. Hurt flashes across her face like lightning, quickly buried beneath the polished elegance she wears as a shield. She straightens her dress without a word, her movements sharp.

“I see,” she says, her tone as cool as winter.

“I didn't come here for this,” I state.

She nods slowly, and I can see her rebuilding her walls. “No. You came here because you're falling for someone you shouldn't. And that terrifies you more than anything.”

I don't deny it. I can't.

“She's going to destroy you,” Bianca says quietly. “Not intentionally. But she's going to make you soft, make you weak. And in your world, weakness is a death sentence.”

“Maybe I'm tired of being afraid of death.”

“And maybe you're lying to yourself.” She picks up her purse. Her movements are graceful despite the tremors in her hands. “But I hope you're right. I hope she's worth what you're risking.”

I leave without another word, but her perfume follows me out into the night.

Back at the penthouse, the air feels heavier than usual. The scent of cigar smoke lingers in the hallway, mixing with the salt air from the bay. I find Sergey in the study, seated near the window, a tumbler of vodka in one hand and a Cuban cigar in the other.

He glances up when I enter, and I notice the slight flush in his cheeks that tells me he's been drinking for some time. “Well?”

“She tried,” I say, pouring myself a drink from the crystal decanter on the sidebar.

“Of course, she did.” He takes a long drag from his cigar, the ember glowing orange in the dim light. “Bianca's always been good at knowing what men want.”

I sit across from him in the leather chair that had been my father's favorite spot. For a moment, I can almost pretend we're just two old friends sharing a drink instead of a boss and his second-in-command navigating the treacherous waters of loyalty and ambition.

“She said some things,” I admit.

Sergey's eyes meet mine, and there's something in them I can't quite identify. “About Elena?”

I nod, taking a sip of vodka. The burn feels good, cleansing.

He scoffs, but there's an edge to it. “We've got enough problems without adding emotional distractions to the list.”

I arch a brow, studying his face. “You sound jealous.”

“I'm not,” he responds quickly.

“You've always had a thing for Bianca.” It's not a question.

His jaw tics and his grip tightens on his glass. “She's yours. Was, anyway.”

“That's not an answer.”

He downs the rest of his drink in one swallow, then stares into the empty glass like it holds answers. “Doesn't matter.”

“It does. If you're making decisions based on feelings you're not admitting to yourself or me, then it matters a great deal.”

“I'm not,” he snaps, but his voice carries the strain of a lie. “I'm making decisions based on survival. And right now, you're getting too soft.”

My hands tighten around the glass. The crystal is warm from the heat of my palms, and I have to resist the urge to throw it at his head. “Say that again.”

“You're getting careless, Renat. We've got Bennato breathing down our necks, trying to muscle in on our territory.

We've got the feds sniffing around our docks, asking questions about shipping manifests that don't add up.

And you're chasing after a girl who could blow this entire operation sky-high with a single article.” He leans forward, his green eyes intense.

“I don't care if she's got legs for days and a mouth that makes you think stupid thoughts. She's a liability.”

He's not wrong. Elena is dangerous in ways that have nothing to do with her profession and everything to do with how she makes me feel. She makes me want to be better than I am, and in my line of work, being better often means being dead.

But he's not right either.

“Elena's smart,” I point out. “She's not trying to expose me. She's trying to understand the world she stumbled into.”

“And when she writes that story? When your name's plastered on the front page under ‘Russian Mafia Kingpin’? When every federal agency in the country decides you're worth their full attention?”

“She won't.”

“You don't know that,” he sneers.

“I do,” I retort, and I realize I mean it. “Because I know her.”

Sergey exhales hard and stands. “Then I hope to hell you're right. Because if you're not, if she burns us all down for the sake of a byline, I'm not going down with the ship.”

He doesn't finish the sentence, but the threat is clear. He leaves me alone with the fire and the knowledge of everything I'm risking.

Elena's name whispers through the smoke like a prayer. I close my eyes and realize, with a clarity that's more terrifying than any rival or threat, that she's already mine. And I don't know if that will save us or destroy us both.