Page 17 of Crystal Wrath (Rostov Bratva #1)

The memory comes flooding back. The black SUV. The chase through downtown Miami. The desperate decision to abandon my car and disappear into the crowd. It feels like it happened weeks ago instead of less than twenty-four hours.

“I was being followed,” I whisper, my voice coming out hoarse and raw.

He stops mid-step, his entire body going still. “What?”

“Black SUV. Two men in suits. They weren't exactly subtle about it. I managed to lose them in a coffee shop, but I couldn't risk leading them back to my car. Or my apartment.”

Nick doesn't sit down. Instead, he rubs a hand down his face, and I watch the lines around his mouth deepen into crevasses. He suddenly looks every one of his sixty-three years.

“You need to walk away, Elena,” he declares. “This story, it's too big. Too messy. Too dangerous. We're talking about organized crime here. You're a twenty-four-year-old reporter with a few years of experience, not a goddamn federal agent.”

The words tumble out of my mouth in a whisper. “I got a call. Just now. At my desk.”

His eyes snap to mine, and I see my own fear reflected there.

“A threat. From Bennato himself. He knows who I am. He knows what I'm doing. He knows where I work.”

Nick curses under his breath, a string of profanity that would make a sailor blush. He moves to the window and grabs the blinds, yanking them shut so no one can see into the office. The room immediately feels smaller and more claustrophobic.

“Shit, Elena. This is exactly what I was afraid of.”

But even as fear claws at my throat and my hands continue to shake, I feel something else rising in my chest. Determination. Stubborn, foolish determination.

“I'm close,” I insist, leaning forward in my chair. “If he's threatening me directly, it means I've found something important. He's scared. That means I'm doing something right.”

Nick crosses the room in two quick strides and grabs my shoulders, his grip firm enough to ground me but gentle enough not to hurt.

“Scared men kill people, Elena,” he states, his voice low and intense. “Scared men with money and connections and no conscience kill people without thinking twice about it.”

His words settle into my chest like stones sinking to the bottom of a lake. But even as the depth of them threatens to drag me under, I shake my head in defiance. My hands are still trembling, but my voice is steady when I speak.

“If I stop now, I'll never forgive myself. What about the families in Little Havana who've been forced out of their homes? What about the small business owners who've been driven into bankruptcy? What about the people who've died under mysterious circumstances? I can't just walk away from that.”

“You don't have to die for it.”

“I'm not planning on dying,” I mutter, pulling away from his grip. “But I won't let them scare me into silence, Nick. That's exactly what they want. They want me to disappear, to stop asking questions, to let them continue destroying lives without consequence.”

He exhales heavily, staring at me like I'm a bomb he doesn't know how to defuse. The silence stretches between us, filled with unspoken fears and stubborn determination.

“Be careful,” he finally murmurs, his voice quieter now, almost pleading. “And promise me that if things get worse, if they escalate beyond phone calls and surveillance, you'll walk away.”

I open my mouth to respond, then close it again. The promise he wants is one I can't make. We both know it, even if neither of us wants to admit it.

Not because I want to lie to him but because we both understand that I won't walk away. I can't. This story has its hooks in me now, and I'm going to follow it wherever it leads, even if that place is dangerous.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of forced normalcy.

I write the recycling article, answer emails, and attend a staff meeting about budget cuts.

But underneath it all, Bennato's threat echoes in my mind like a song I can't shake.

Every time my phone rings, every time someone approaches my desk, every time I hear footsteps in the hallway, my heart rate spikes.

By the time evening arrives, I'm exhausted from being in a constant state of alertness.

My shoulders ache from tension, and my jaw hurts from clenching my teeth.

It's dark when I finally shut down my computer and grab my bag.

The newsroom has emptied out except for the night shift reporters and the cleaning crew, who are just beginning their rounds.

The building feels different at night, larger and more echoing.

The familiar sounds of the day have been replaced by the low hum of the vending machine and the occasional creak of old air vents settling into nighttime mode.

I step into the corridor and head toward the back exit where my car is parked. The hallway stretches ahead of me, lit by harsh fluorescent lights that flicker occasionally. My footsteps echo off the polished floor, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet building.

A strange chill wraps around my spine like invisible fingers. The hair on my arms stands up, and every instinct I possess starts screaming warnings.

I slow down, my senses suddenly hyperaware of everything around me. The air feels different, charged with an energy that makes my skin crawl. My keys jingle softly in my hand as I approach the back exit, the sound seeming to announce my presence to anyone who might be listening.

I pause at the glass doors that lead to the parking lot, my hand hovering over the push bar. Through the security glass, I can see my car sitting alone under the parking lot lights, exactly where I left it this morning. The lot appears empty, peaceful even. But something feels wrong.

The breeze shifts as I step outside, carrying scents that don't belong. The usual smell of asphalt and exhaust is there, but underneath it lurks something else. Something metallic and sharp. Something acrid that makes my nose wrinkle and my stomach turn.

I pause at the edge of the lot, every nerve in my body firing warning signals.

My car sits ten feet ahead, looking perfectly normal under the harsh glare of the security lights.

The rational part of my brain tells me I'm being paranoid, that Bennato's phone call has made me jumpy.

But the primitive part of my brain, the part that evolved to keep humans alive in dangerous situations, is telling me to run.

I take a step forward. Then another. My keys are ready in my right hand, the car remote positioned between my fingers like a makeshift weapon.

My phone is clutched tightly in the other.

Just a few more steps, and I’ll be safe inside my little Honda, driving home to my apartment, where I can lock the door and try to forget this day ever happened.

A sharp sound breaks the silence to my left. My head snaps in that direction, and my phone slips from my grasp, crashing to the pavement.

Nothing. Just empty air. Just my paranoia. I crouch down to retrieve my phone, my heart hammering in my chest.

And then the world explodes.

A roar, unlike anything I've ever heard, tears through the night. Not the rumble of an engine or the crash of thunder, but something destructive that seems to come from the earth itself.

My body lifts off the ground before my mind can process what's happening.

The sensation is surreal, dreamlike as if gravity has suddenly decided to release its hold on me.

Heat sears across my skin as if I've been thrown into an oven.

A blinding light floods my vision, brighter than the sun and more colorful than anything I've ever seen.

Colors explode behind my eyelids in patterns that don't exist in nature.

Then I crash back to earth, my body slamming into the pavement with a force that drives all the air from my lungs.

My shoulder takes the brunt of the impact, and pain explodes through my bones like lightning.

The asphalt is rough and unforgiving against my skin, tearing through my clothes and scraping away layers of flesh.

Glass rains from the sky like deadly confetti, the pieces catching the street lights as they fall. Some of the shards are as large as dinner plates, others as small as sand grains. They crash around me, creating a symphony of destruction that drowns out everything else.

Car alarms begin wailing, their electronic screams adding to the chaos. The sound is disorienting, emanating from all directions simultaneously. Somewhere in the distance, I can hear more glass breaking and people shouting.

I taste copper in my mouth, a metallic, warm sensation. Blood. My own blood. The realization comes slowly, filtered through the shock and confusion that has overtaken my brain.

“Elena! Jesus, Elena!”

The voice seems to come from very far away, though I can feel footsteps thundering toward me across the pavement. It's familiar and comforting. Nick's voice is rough with panic and concern.

Strong arms pull me up from the ground, though every nerve in my body protests the movement. My vision flickers in and out like a television with bad reception. My ears ring with a high-pitched whine that drowns out almost everything else, making it difficult to process what's happening around me.

“Call an ambulance!” Nick yells at someone, his voice seeming to come from underwater. He cradles me close to his chest, and I can feel his heart hammering against his ribs. “Stay with me, Elena. Don't you dare close your eyes.”

But keeping my eyes open feels impossible. My eyelids are lead weights, and the darkness that keeps trying to claim me feels so peaceful, so welcoming. It would be so easy to just let go, to stop fighting and let the blackness wash over me.

I try to focus on Nick's face, but he's a blur of worry and gray hair. His mouth is moving, but I can only catch fragments of what he's saying. Something about staying awake. Help is on the way. Something about everything being okay.

The last thing I hear before the darkness finally swallows me whole is the distant wail of sirens, growing closer with each passing second.

The hospital lights are sterile and cold, but they bring me back from the void that has claimed me.

My eyes flutter open slowly, fighting against the brightness that seems to pierce straight through to my brain.

For a moment, everything is white, quiet, and peaceful.

No pain, no fear, no memories of what brought me here.

Then reality crashes back like a wave hitting the shore.

Pain floods through my body, dull but insistent and absolutely inescapable.

My shoulder feels like it's been put through a meat grinder, wrapped in bandages that are too tight and smell like antiseptic.

My face stings with dozens of small cuts, each one a reminder of the glass that fell from the sky.

My whole body aches like I've been hit by a truck, then run over by the same truck, then maybe hit by a second truck just for good measure.

“Elena.”

The voice is soft, gentle, and filled with a sense of relief and love. Amelia. My best friend. The person who knows me better than anyone else in the world.

She's sitting by my bedside in an uncomfortable-looking plastic chair, her usually perfect appearance disheveled and tear-stained.

Her blonde hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, and she's wearing the same clothes she had on yesterday, which means she's been here all night.

Her hands are wrapped around mine like she's trying to anchor me to this world, to keep me from floating away.

“You're awake,” she breathes, and fresh tears spill down her cheeks. “Oh my God, I thought I thought I was going to lose you.”

Her voice breaks on the last word, and I can see the fear in her eyes. It’s a deep, primal fear of having someone you love almost torn away from you.

“I'm okay,” I whisper, though my voice comes out cracked and thin like old paper. Even talking hurts, like my vocal cords have been scraped raw.

“No, you're not,” she says firmly, wiping her cheeks with trembling hands. “You almost died, Elena. Your car exploded. You were just feet away from it. If you hadn't dropped your phone and stopped to pick it up…”

The memory comes back in pieces, like a jigsaw puzzle assembling itself in my mind. Walking toward my car. The strange feeling that something was wrong. Fumbling with my keys and dropping my phone. Bending down to retrieve it just as the world erupted in fire and light.

If I hadn't dropped my phone, if I hadn't paused those few seconds to pick it up, I would have been standing right next to my car when the bomb went off. I would be dead right now instead of lying in a hospital bed counting my injuries.

“He called me,” I whisper. “Bennato. He threatened me. I didn't think he'd actually do it.”

“I don't care about the story!” Amelia snaps, her voice sharp with anger and fear.

“I don't care about Bennato or organized crime or any of it.

I care about you. You're my best friend, the closest thing to a sister I've ever had.

If you keep digging into this, they're going to try to kill you again. And next time you might not survive.” Her voice breaks completely. “I can't lose you.”

She dissolves into sobs, her shoulders shaking with the force of her grief and fear. I want to comfort her and tell her that everything will be okay, but I can't make that promise. Not when we both know that what happened tonight is just the beginning.

Tears well in my own eyes, but I blink them away. There's something else rising in my chest now that pushes back against the fear and pain. A fire that burns steadily and unyielding, fed by anger and determination and a stubborn refusal to be intimidated.

“They tried to kill me,” I say, my voice low but growing stronger with each word. “Which means I'm close to something big. Something that scares them enough to risk murder. I can't stop now.”

Amelia covers her face with her hands and sobs quietly, the sound muffled but heartbreaking. I know I'm hurting her by refusing to walk away. I know she's terrified of what might happen next. But I also know that I can't let fear win. I can't let them silence me with threats and violence.

Outside the window, the Miami skyline twinkles in the distance, bright and indifferent to the drama playing out in this hospital room.

The city continues its relentless rhythm, millions of people going about their lives, unaware that somewhere in those glittering towers, decisions are being made that will determine whether I live or die.