Page 29 of Crystal Wrath (Rostov Bratva #1)
ELENA
The world narrows into a blur of muffled sounds and blinding light.
I wake to the sharp ache in my wrists and the bitter taste of cloth pressing against my tongue.
My arms are bound behind my back with a coarse rope that digs into my skin, and my ankles are lashed together.
A strip of thick fabric muffles every sound I try to make, trapping even my breath.
My head throbs with a persistent pounding that makes thinking difficult.
The last thing I remember is sitting across from Amelia in the café, watching those two men in expensive suits walk through the door.
Everything after that is fragmented. Hands grabbed me, the sharp prick of something in my neck, the world tilting sideways as consciousness slipped away.
Beside me, Amelia is gagged and tied just as tightly.
Her honey-blonde hair is disheveled, strands sticking to her tear-streaked cheeks.
Her bright blue eyes, usually sparkling with mischief and warmth, are wide with panic as they flicker toward me.
Dark mascara runs in rivulets down her face, and her pastel pink blazer is wrinkled and torn at one shoulder.
I give her the smallest nod I can manage, urging her to stay calm.
The last thing we need is to feed whoever did this with our fear.
We're inside a dimly lit room that smells of mildew and salt.
The air is thick and humid, carrying the unmistakable scent of ocean decay.
The walls are wooden, weathered gray planks that appear to have endured decades of salt spray and hurricane winds.
The windows are shuttered tight, blocking out most of the natural light except for thin slivers that sneak through the gaps.
Judging by the creaking of boards beneath us and the subtle sway I can feel, we're on stilts.
Maybe a beach house. A cheap one, judging by the peeling paint and water stains that mottle the ceiling.
Somewhere far from the city. Far from help.
The floorboards are rough and splintered, pressing uncomfortably against my hip where I lie on my side.
Dust motes dance in the narrow beams of sunlight, and I can hear the distant crash of waves against wooden pilings below us.
The sound should be soothing, but instead, it feels ominous, like a countdown to a terrible fate.
My mouth is dry as sandpaper, and my throat feels raw from whatever they used to knock us out. Every muscle in my body aches from being unconscious in an awkward position, and the ropes around my wrists are so tight that my fingers are starting to tingle with numbness.
Voices rise from beyond the closed door, muffled but clearly agitated.
I strain to make out words, but the thick walls and my own disorientation make it impossible.
Heavy footfalls follow, deliberate and measured, then the groan of rusted hinges as the door opens.
Sunlight streams in around the figure standing in the doorway, creating a dark silhouette that makes my stomach clench with dread.
Francesco Bennato.
Even backlit and shadowed, I recognize him immediately.
His presence drains the warmth from the air like a cold front moving in.
He enters slowly, fully in control, each step a reminder that he intends to savor every moment.
His tailored linen shirt is crisp ivory, too refined for the filth of this ramshackle room, and the scent of expensive cologne mixes unpleasantly with the stink of damp wood and decay.
The contrast is jarring, this polished predator in such squalid surroundings.
Behind him, two men follow. One is the burly guard from the café, his expensive suit now rumpled from the heat and exertion.
The other is younger, with cold eyes and scarred knuckles that tell a story of violence as a profession.
Both watch us with the detached interest of men who have done this before.
Bennato walks to me with unhurried steps, his leather shoes clicking against the rough planks.
He stops just short of where I lie on the floor, close enough that I can see the details of his face clearly.
His gray eyes are even more piercing up close, and the jagged scar along his right jawline glows faintly in the dim light.
His thick brown hair is slicked back perfectly, not a strand out of place despite the humidity.
With a casual snap of his fingers, the man behind him steps forward and removes the gag from my mouth. The fabric tears away from my lips, taking skin with it. I cough violently, my throat raw and burning. The taste of cotton and blood fills my mouth.
Bennato lowers himself to a crouch, placing himself at eye level with me.
His movements are fluid and controlled like a predator sizing up wounded prey.
His cologne is overwhelmingly strong this close, with notes of bergamot and sandalwood that would normally be pleasant but now make my stomach turn.
“You have been busy, Elena,” he remarks, his voice low and deceptively calm. There's no anger in his tone, which somehow makes it more terrifying. “Poking into matters that do not concern you.”
I work my jaw, trying to get feeling back into my face.
My tongue feels thick and clumsy, but I force myself to speak clearly.
I lift my chin as much as the awkward position allows, ignoring the way my neck strains against the tension in my shoulders.
“Your men broke into the newsroom. They shot my editor.”
His smile is slow and completely humorless, the expression of a man who takes pleasure in others' pain. “That was just a warning. Nick survived, did he not?”
The casual way he mentions Nick's name as if they're old friends makes bile rise in my throat.
“If you think this will scare me into silence, you're wasting your time,” I manage, proud that my voice doesn't shake.
He chuckles, a sound devoid of any real amusement, and rises to his feet with the same fluid grace. “Your bravery is admirable. Foolish, but admirable.”
He turns his gaze to Amelia, and I watch her try to shrink away from his attention. Her bound body trembles against the ropes and fresh tears spill down her cheeks. The sight of her terror ignites something fierce and protective in my chest.
“And who is this lovely friend?” His voice takes on a different quality when he looks at her, something hungry that makes my skin crawl.
“Leave her out of this. She has nothing to do with my investigation.”
“That's unfortunate for her,” he replies smoothly, his tone suggesting he couldn't care less about Amelia's innocence. “Collateral damage is rarely fair.”
He steps back and gestures to one of his men with the authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed without question.
The man moves forward and removes Amelia's gag with the same roughness he used on mine.
She gasps for air, her chest heaving as she tries to fill her lungs.
Fresh tears well in her bright blue eyes, and she looks at me with a desperation that breaks my heart.
“Tell me what you've learned, Elena,” Bennato murmurs, returning his attention to me. His gray eyes bore into mine, searching for weakness. “Be honest, and this doesn't have to end badly for either of you.”
I meet his gaze without flinching, drawing on every ounce of strength my mother taught me.
Ana Martinez fled an abusive husband with nothing but her baby daughter and the clothes on her back.
She worked three jobs to keep us fed and housed, never once complaining or giving up.
I won't dishonor her memory by breaking now.
“I don't have anything you don't already know. Just whispers. Hints.”
The lie sours on my tongue, but I hold his stare.
In truth, I have much more than whispers.
The USB drive hidden in my pocket contains months of painstaking research.
Financial records that trace money through dozens of shell companies.
Property deeds that show suspicious ownership transfers.
Witness statements from individuals who were brave enough to speak out about corruption in city government.
Names, dates, and amounts. Enough to bring down his entire operation if it ever comes to light.
He studies me for a long moment, his head tilted slightly like he's trying to read my thoughts. The silence stretches between us, broken only by the distant sound of waves and Amelia's labored breathing. Then, he strikes without warning.
The back of his hand cracks across my cheek with stunning force. Stars explode behind my eyes, and I fall to my side, the breath knocked from my lungs. The taste of blood fills my mouth, and my ear rings with a high-pitched whine. Pain radiates from my jaw up into my temple, sharp and throbbing.
“You insult my intelligence,” Bennato hisses, crouching beside me again. His calm demeanor has cracked, revealing the violence underneath. “You've dug up names. Accounts. Offshore holdings. Shell companies linked to me and mine. Do you think I would let that go?”
I blink away tears, trying to focus through the pain. My cheek feels hot and swollen, and I can taste blood where my teeth cut into my lip. But I force myself to look at him, to show him that he hasn't broken me.
“I haven't published anything. I was verifying sources.”
The truth and the lie blend together perfectly. I am verifying sources, but I am also much closer to publication than he realizes. Nick and I planned to run the first article in the series within the week, pending final fact-checks and legal review.
“Then perhaps you need motivation,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to something almost conversational.
He signals to one of the guards with a subtle gesture. The man steps forward and hauls Amelia upright by her bound arms, making her cry out in pain. Her terrified whimper cuts through me like broken glass, and I struggle against my own restraints, trying desperately to reach her.