Page 25 of Crystal Wrath (Rostov Bratva #1)

RENAT

The first light of dawn filters through the windows of my office, painting the bay in hues of silver and steel.

I don't move from the leather armchair despite the stiffness settling into my limbs.

My elbows rest on the desk, fingers steepled beneath my chin, eyes fixed on the untouched glass of vodka I poured hours ago. I haven't slept.

Elena.

Her name alone stirs something volatile in my chest. I can still feel her in my hands, taste her defiance on my tongue, and hear her accusations echoing through the library as we stood toe to toe, our fury turning into fire.

The memory of her legs wrapped around me, and the way she whispered my name haunts every corner of my mind.

I tried to make her see reason and warn her.

Instead, we crossed a line neither of us should have.

I stripped her defenses and gave her a glimpse into a world that has no place for softness.

The scent of her perfume clings to my shirt, a floral whisper that makes my jaw clench.

I should have taken a shower, changed clothes, anything to distance myself from what happened between us.

But part of me wants to hold onto it, this tangible reminder that for a brief moment, someone looked at me like I was more than just a monster in an expensive suit.

And yet, here I sit, unable to banish the image of her from my mind.

The stubborn tilt of her chin. The hurt in her voice when she accused me of keeping her prisoner.

The way she looked at me like she wanted to understand me and hated herself for it.

The contradiction in her eyes when she told me she didn't trust me but wanted to.

Those words pierced me in a way no blade ever could.

I run my hand through my hair, the familiar strain of responsibility creeping across my shoulders.

She doesn't belong here. Not in this life.

Not with a man like me. What we did last night was reckless.

Dangerous. And I can't let it happen again.

No matter how much my body craves her touch, no matter how the memory of her soft moans threatens to drive me to madness.

The rational part of my brain knows I should send her away. Find her a safehouse in another city, maybe even another country. Give her a new identity and enough money to start over somewhere Bennato's reach can't find her. It would be the smart thing to do. The right thing to do.

But the thought of Elena disappearing from my life forever makes something violent twist in my gut. The idea of waking up in this estate without her presence somewhere within these walls feels like a death sentence I'm not prepared to serve.

I reach for the vodka and down it in a single motion, welcoming the burn as it slides down my throat. The alcohol does nothing to numb the chaos in my head, but it gives me something to focus on besides the way Elena's skin feels under my hands.

My phone buzzes against the desk, the vibration breaking the silence with a jolt of urgency. I glance down at the screen, expecting another routine update from one of my lieutenants. Instead, I see a message from Artur, one of my oldest and most trusted vors.

We have a problem. There's a mole.

My spine stiffens. The empty glass in my hand nearly slips, but I catch it before it falls. I reread the message twice to make sure I didn't misinterpret it, the words burning themselves into my retinas.

A mole. Inside my organization. The rage is immediate, white-hot, and blinding.

I slam the glass down on the desk, the sound cracking through the silence.

The crystal doesn't shatter, but hairline fractures spread across its surface like a spider web.

Whoever this traitor is, they've just signed their death sentence.

I've built this empire on loyalty and fear in equal measures.

Every man who works for me knows the price of betrayal.

I've made examples of those who thought they could play both sides and left their bodies where my enemies would find them.

The message was always clear: you're either with the Rostov Bratva, or you're dead.

But now, someone has chosen to test that rule.

My mind races through possibilities. Who has access to sensitive information? Who knows about shipments, territory disputes, and financial arrangements? The list is shorter than I'd prefer but longer than I'd hoped. Too many people know too much about my operations. Including Elena's presence here.

The thought barrels into me, leaving me reeling. If there's a mole in my organization, they know about her. They know she's here, under my protection, sharing my bed.

I pick up my phone again and dial Sergey's number. He answers on the second ring, his voice rough with sleep.

“ Pakhan ?”

“Get to the estate. Now." The words come out blunt, but I don't soften them. There's no time for pleasantries when everything I've built might be crumbling around me.

“What's happened?”

“Just get here. We'll discuss it when you arrive.”

He doesn't ask questions, just mutters that he's on his way and hangs up. I appreciate that about Sergey. He's never been one to waste time with unnecessary words or explanations. When I give an order, he follows it without question.

I stand and pace to the window, watching the sun climb higher over the bay. Miami is waking up, yawning as another day begins. It looks peaceful. Innocent. Nothing like the snake pit of betrayal and violence I know it really is.

Twenty minutes later, Sergey strides into my office without knocking.

His dark hair is slightly disheveled, and there are still creases on his cheek from his pillow, but his green eyes are alert and focused.

He's dressed in black jeans and a tactical shirt, armed and ready for whatever storm I'm about to unleash.

“Artur says we have a mole,” I begin, keeping my voice low and sharp. I don't bother with greetings or small talk. We've worked together long enough that he knows when I'm in crisis mode.

Sergey's brow furrows, the scar over his left eye pulling tight. “Did Artur give details?”

“No. Just the warning.” I hand him my phone so he can read the message himself. “He wouldn't have reached out unless he had solid reason to believe it's true.”

Sergey studies the screen, his expression growing darker. “Could be nothing. Rumors. Someone making a power grab.”

“If it were nothing, Artur would have handled it himself. But he didn't.” I take the phone back and slide it into my pocket. “He came to me because he thinks this goes deep enough to threaten the entire operation.”

Sergey crosses his arms over his chest, the muscles in his shoulders tensing. “What do you want me to do?”

“First, I want you to think. Has anyone been asking questions they shouldn't? Acting strangely? Showing up places they don't belong?”

He's quiet for a long moment, his gaze distant as he sifts through recent memories. “Eduard's been nervous lately. Jumpy. But his wife just had a baby, so that could explain it.”

“What about Peter?”

“Same as always. Focused on the port operations. No complaints from his crew.”

“Anatoly?”

“Security's been tight. No breaches, no unusual activity.” Sergey pauses. “Though he did ask about the journalist.”

My blood turns to ice. “What did he ask?”

“Just wondered if she was still here. Whether she posed any ongoing threat to the organization.”

I study Sergey's face, looking for any sign of deception. His expression remains neutral, but something in his tone doesn't sit right with me. “What did you tell him?”

“That it wasn't his concern. That you were handling the situation.”

The answer is reasonable, but it doesn't ease the tension coiling in my gut. Too many people are asking about Elena. Too many people know she's here when she should be a secret known only to my most trusted inner circle.

“I want you to gather the senior vors,” I order, making a decision that could either expose the traitor or drive them deeper underground. “Tell them we're meeting in the penthouse in one hour.”

Sergey nods once, sharp and efficient. “Understood.”

He doesn't ask why I want the meeting there instead of here in my office. He knows the penthouse is where I conduct my most sensitive business, where the walls are thicker, and the security is absolute. It's where I go when I need to ensure complete privacy.

After Sergey leaves, I pour another vodka and force myself to think strategically.

If there's a mole in my organization, they're someone close enough to access real intelligence.

Someone who knows about shipments, territories, and financial arrangements.

Someone who could do serious damage if they want to.

The question is, what do they want? Money? Power? Or are they working for Bennato directly?

I finish the vodka and head upstairs to change clothes.

The shirt I'm wearing still carries Elena's scent, and I can't afford any distractions during what might be the most important meeting of my life.

I choose a black suit, Italian-made and perfectly tailored, with a charcoal shirt underneath.

The colors are deliberate. In the Russian tradition, black represents power and authority. Today, I need both.

The penthouse occupies the entire top floor of the building, a space I reserve for only the most critical business. The room smells like cigar smoke and cold steel, familiar scents that usually bring me comfort. Today, they just remind me how alone I am at the top of this empire.

The floor-to-ceiling windows offer a panoramic view of the city, but I keep the curtains drawn. This meeting isn't about the view. It's about survival.

I position myself behind the massive desk that dominates the room, my back to the windows. The chair is more throne than seat, designed to intimidate and impress. I need every psychological advantage I can get.