Page 28 of Crystal Wrath (Rostov Bratva #1)
As I carefully sift through the papers strewn across the floor, picking up fragments of stories and scattered notes, a cold realization begins to settle in my stomach like lead. Something is missing. Several somethings, actually.
The files I'd compiled on the Bennato family are gone.
The zoning records that revealed suspicious property transactions, the financial documents that tracked money through various shell companies, and the witness statements I'd collected from people brave enough to speak about corruption in the city government. All of it vanished.
But they weren't thorough enough. Hidden in my desk drawer, beneath a stack of old press releases, I find a USB drive containing digital copies of some of my research.
Not everything, but enough to continue the investigation.
My hands shake as I pocket it, looking around to make sure no one is watching.
The air in the office feels colder now, charged with menace. Whoever did this wasn't just trying to hurt Nick. They were sending me a message: back off.
I grab my phone and call Amelia, needing to hear a friendly voice in this nightmare.
“Elena? Thank God, I've been worried sick. I heard about the shooting on the news.”
“Nick was shot,” I confirm, my voice hollow with exhaustion. “He's going to make it, but the office is completely trashed. Files are missing. Someone wanted to send a message, and they made sure it was received loud and clear.”
“Oh my God, Elena. Where are you right now?” Amelia's voice is tight with worry, and I can hear her moving around, probably grabbing her keys. “We need to meet. Let me come get you.”
Before I can respond, Yavin reappears in the doorway of the newsroom. His expression is firm, his stance impenetrable like a wall of muscle and determination. The easy camaraderie from the hospital has been replaced by a professional focus.
“Renat instructed me to take you back to the mansion,” he announces, his accent thickening with authority.
I grip the phone tighter, my knuckles turning white. “I'm not ready to go yet. There's still work to do here.”
“It wasn't a request,” Yavin replies, and there's something in his tone that brooks no argument. “I was given specific orders.”
My pulse spikes and I feel the familiar sensation of walls closing in around me. The newsroom, once my sanctuary and safe haven, now feels like another cage. The freedom I tasted this morning is already slipping away, replaced by the oppressive hold of protection that feels more like imprisonment.
“Tell him I'll be there after I meet with Amelia,” I try to negotiate. But Yavin shakes his head before I finish speaking.
“I was told to bring you back. Directly. No stops, no detours.”
The panic I've been holding at bay since finding Nick begins to rise in my throat like bile. I swallow hard, forcing myself to maintain composure. “I need to use the restroom before we leave.”
Yavin considers this for a moment, then nods once. “Make it quick.”
I step into the small bathroom at the back of the office and close the door quietly behind me.
For a moment, I stare at my reflection in the cracked mirror above the sink.
My cheeks are flushed with stress and anger, my dark hair falling out of its ponytail in messy waves.
I look tired and overwhelmed, but there's something else in my eyes. Determination.
I'm not going back to that estate to be locked away while someone tries to destroy everything I've worked for.
Nick is lying in a hospital bed because of the story I'm chasing.
I owe it to him, to myself, and to every person who might be hurt by the corruption I'm trying to expose to see this through.
The window above the toilet is small but functional, with a screen that's seen better days. I test it with my fingers, and it gives way easily. Years of deferred maintenance have made it loose in its frame.
With one last glance at the door, I hoist myself up and climb through the opening, dropping onto the narrow alley behind the building. My feet hit the pavement with a soft thud, and I quickly brush off my clothes and smooth my hair.
I walk briskly around the corner, trying to look casual despite my racing heart.
A few blocks away, I spot a small café I used to frequent during my college days.
The walls are still painted the same soft mint green, and the familiar scent of cinnamon and espresso wraps around me like a comforting hug.
I slide into a booth near the back, positioning myself where I can see the front door and the rear exit as I pull out my phone.
“Amelia, I need you to come get me. Now.” I keep my voice low, glancing around to make sure no one is paying attention to my conversation.
“Where are you?”
I give her the address of the café, then spend the next ten minutes trying to process everything that's happened.
Nick's pale face keeps flashing in my mind, along with the sight of his blood soaking through his shirt.
The missing files represent months of work, connections I painstakingly built, and sources who trusted me with information that could destroy their lives if it fell into the wrong hands.
When Amelia slides into the seat across from me, her honey-blonde hair tucked behind her ears and her bright blue eyes wide with concern, I feel some of the tension leave my shoulders.
She's wearing a pastel pink blazer over dark jeans, looking every inch the successful PR professional, but I can see the worry lines around her eyes.
“Are you okay? What happened exactly?” she asks, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. Her fingers are warm and steady, grounding me in the moment.
Before I can answer, the cheerful chime of the café door interrupts our conversation.
Two men step inside. They're wearing expensive, tailored suits, and their expressions are as hard as granite.
The fabric looks expensive, well-fitted, and entirely out of place in this casual neighborhood café.
But it's their eyes that make my blood run cold.
They're calculating and scanning the room with the methodical precision of predators searching for prey.
A low gasp escapes my lips as recognition hits me. These aren't random customers stopping by for coffee. They're here for me.
“Amelia,” I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper as I reach for her hand across the small table. My fingers find hers, and I squeeze gently, trying to communicate the urgency without alerting the men who have just entered. “We need to leave. Right now.”
But even as the words leave my mouth, I know it's already too late. The men have spotted us, and there's nowhere to run.