Page 3 of Crystal Wrath (Rostov Bratva #1)

RENAT

I take her hand and hold it longer than I need to. Her skin is warm, her grip steady.

She isn’t Natalia Petrova. Not even close.

I’ve known the real Natalia since she was fifteen.

She’s an heiress with a Cartier trust fund and a cocaine habit inherited from her father’s mistress.

She wouldn’t be caught dead at a gala like this without a dozen handlers and a bored scowl on her face.

And she sure as hell wouldn’t walk in alone.

But this woman? She acts like she belongs here. Her posture, her polish, the smile trained to hit just the right pitch of detached charm. It’s all too deliberate and self-possessed. Natalia Petrova toys with rebellion. This woman appears to have fought her way through it to stand here.

I watched her from the edge of the crowd, sipping slowly at a flute of champagne. She stood at the entrance, speaking with the woman who had the guest list. When I heard her say the name Natalia Petrova, my curiosity spiked.

“Natalia Petrova,” she said, her tone level. Not too practiced, but confident.

The woman checking the guest list hesitated but didn’t question it. She murmured a polite, “Of course, Miss Petrova,” and made a quick note beside the forged identity.

All eyes turned to her as she stepped across the threshold into the private reception room.

She’s temptation tailored in black silk.

The gown skims her hips like it’s been poured over her curves.

She’s so beautiful she can make a man forget how to speak.

Her hair is long and dark, cascading over one shoulder in soft natural waves.

Her golden olive skin shimmers faintly beneath the chandeliers.

Her profile is sharp and elegant, but there’s something raw in the way she moves, as if she hasn’t always been in places like this, but she’s learning quickly.

She isn’t here to flirt or to be seen. She’s here for something else, and I intend to find out what.

“Come,” I say, offering my arm. “Let’s make this interesting.”

There’s a pause, a sliver of indecision, but she takes it. Her fingers curl around my forearm, light but certain.

The pressure of her touch ignites something primal deep inside me.

I haven’t felt it in a long time, not since Moscow, and certainly not since arriving in Miami when I was twenty-one.

It’s been nine years of predictable women in this city.

They want my money, my connections, or the thrill of bedding a man with my reputation. They bore me within minutes.

This one is different. Her eyes hold secrets, and beneath that sleek black dress is a woman playing a dangerous game. My kind of game.

I lead her through the crowd to my table.

Sergey and David are already seated, along with a few rotating faces from the local power circuit.

A real estate baron, a plastic surgeon who owes me a favor, a city commissioner who knows better than to speak unless spoken to, and all of them are curious as hell when I show up with a woman on my arm.

I don’t introduce her. Let them wonder.

Sergey raises an eyebrow, his scar pulling his left eye into a permanent squint.

The jagged line across his face is a souvenir from his days as my father’s enforcer in Saint Petersburg.

Now, he is my second-in-command in Miami, and very little surprises him anymore except, apparently, me walking in with a beautiful fraud.

“Renat,” he says, his voice thick with a Russian accent. “Your guest looks thirsty.”

The fake Natalia gives him a cool smile. “I’m fine, thank you.”

David leans forward, all slick charm and expensive cologne.

Unlike Sergey, who wears his Russian heritage like armor, David is American-born and Harvard-educated, handling the legitimate side of my business empire.

His suits are tailored in London, his manner impeccable, and his conscience flexible enough to work for me.

“We haven’t had the pleasure,” David says, extending his hand. “David Michaels, CFO of Rostov Developments.”

She shakes his hand with practiced grace. “Natalia Petrova.”

The lie rolls off her tongue so smoothly I almost believe it myself. Almost.

She sits gracefully, crossing one leg over the other, the slit in her dress parting just enough to show a toned calf and the edge of her thigh. Not flashy. Not careless. Just enough to make a man lose his focus.

I watch her closely, noting how she holds herself.

Her posture is perfect, with her shoulders back and a slightly raised chin.

But there’s tension in her jaw, and her eyes never stop assessing and cataloging.

Those aren’t the mannerisms of a trust fund baby.

They’re the habits of someone who survives by staying alert.

The city commissioner leans toward her, all teeth and political charm. “Miss Petrova, what brings you to Miami? Business or pleasure?”

“A bit of both,” she replies, her voice smooth as silk. “Miami has opportunities that interest me.”

“And what opportunities might those be?” I ask, watching her reaction.

Her eyes meet mine, unflinching. “Real estate, primarily. I’ve been told waterfront property is the smartest investment in a city that’s slowly sinking.”

The plastic surgeon chuckles. “Grim outlook for a beautiful woman.”

“Beauty doesn’t change facts,” she replies, taking a sip of champagne.

Around us, the table buzzes with low conversation and veiled compliments. David tries to get her to talk. He inquires about her family, background, and time in Moscow.

She dodges like a pro. Says just enough to seem polished but not enough to be traced. I listen carefully, noting what she doesn’t say more than what she does. She’s playing a role. But the girl beneath it is sharper than she lets on. And something about that makes my blood run hot.

I signal to a waiter, who brings over a bottle of vodka. Not the commercial stuff they serve at the bar, but my private reserve. Imported from Russia, distilled six times, and cold as a Siberian winter.

“Tell me about your father’s business in Moscow,” I probe, pouring her a glass. “I’ve heard interesting things about Petrova Holdings.”

Her fingers close around the glass. “My father prefers to keep business and pleasure separate. Something I inherited from him.”

“Along with his money?”

“Along with his caution,” she counters, raising the glass to her lips.

She tosses back the vodka like a native Russian without flinching or grimacing. Either she’s used to strong alcohol, or she’s determined not to show weakness. Both possibilities intrigue me.

I lean toward her, keeping my voice low. “Tell me, what exactly are you looking for tonight?”

She turns her head. “Is this an interrogation?”

“Just curiosity.”

She swirls her champagne in the glass. “Let’s say I’m here for the view.”

I look down at her legs, then back up to her face. “So am I.”

She rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t move away.

The real Natalia Petrova is in Switzerland.

I confirmed it myself just last week when a business associate mentioned seeing her at a clinic in Zurich.

The woman beside me is an impostor, but a fascinating one.

Most people who lie to me do it out of fear or greed.

This woman seems driven by something else entirely.

“Dance with me,” I say, rising from my chair and offering my hand.

She hesitates, calculating the risks. “I wasn’t aware dancing was part of your interrogation technique.”

“It’s not an interrogation if you’re enjoying it.”

Her smile is small but genuine. “Bold assumption.”

Nevertheless, she takes my hand and allows me to lead her to the dance floor. Her movements are fluid and graceful. When I place my hand on the small of her back, I feel the heat of her skin through the thin fabric of her dress.

“You’re very good at this,” I say as we move across the floor. “The dancing, the conversation, the entire charade.”

Her eyes widen slightly, but she recovers quickly. “I’ve had practice.”

“At dancing or lying?”

“Both serve their purpose,” she replies, her voice low, meant only for me.

I pull her closer, my hand firm against her back. The music changes, slowing to a more intimate tone. Around us, couples press closer together, swaying rather than dancing. I adjust my grip, drawing her against me until I can feel the rise and fall of her chest against mine.

“You haven’t answered my question,” I whisper, my lips close to her ear. “What are you looking for here?”

“Would you believe me if I said I was looking for you?”

Her admission surprises me. “Why would Natalia Petrova be looking for me?”

She pulls back slightly, meeting my gaze. “Perhaps Natalia has interests that align with yours.”

“And what interests would those be?”

“Property development along the coast.” She pauses, choosing her words carefully. “Specifically, about the Little Havana properties.”

Now we’re getting somewhere. She’s fishing for information about my business dealings.

“I’ve read that you sponsor city beautification projects and donate to environmental causes, helping preserve Miami's coastal beauty.”

“That is correct,” I reply, spinning her slowly under my arm before pulling her back against me. “My objective is to revitalize Miami's urban landscape.”

“Even when that change means people lose their homes?”

There it is. A flash of something genuine. Anger, perhaps, or moral outrage. It's not the reaction of someone looking to invest in property.

“Business is business,” I state, spinning her again slowly. “The strong survive. The weak adapt or disappear.”

“Is that the Rostov philosophy?”

“It’s the way of the world.”

She shakes her head slightly. “Not everyone sees it that way.”

“Those people don’t last long in this world.”

Her body tenses against mine. Fear? Anger? I can’t tell. But I feel the shift in her energy, the subtle resistance in her frame.

“And what about your world, Natalia?” I ask, my voice low. “What philosophies guide the daughter of Alexander Petrova?”