Page 31 of Crystal Wrath (Rostov Bratva #1)

RENAT

Sergey's voice is low, gravel scraping against panic as he steps into my office.

I barely register the words at first, too focused on the flickering screen in front of me, a security feed from one of our waterfront warehouses.

The numbers on the manifest blur together as I review tonight's shipment details, my mind still replaying the conversation I had with Elena this morning.

Her stubborn insistence on returning to work.

The fire in her eyes when she challenged my authority.

The way her lips parted slightly when I kissed her goodbye, soft and yielding despite her protests.

But then I hear the phrase that obliterates everything else.

“They've taken Elena. And Amelia.”

The glass in my hand doesn't just fall to the ground. It shatters in my grip, shards slicing into my palm, blood mingling with the vodka that drips onto the floor. Crystal fragments scatter across the Persian rug like deadly diamonds, catching the light from the brass lamp on my desk.

I don't even feel it.

I rise from the leather chair, the air turning sharp around me, every breath laced with fury.

The office suddenly feels too small, the walls pressing in as rage builds in my chest like a nuclear reactor reaching critical mass.

My hand throbs, but it's distant, meaningless next to the storm raging inside me.

“Who did it? Bennato?” I demand. My voice is low but lethal. Sergey flinches despite himself, his green eyes flickering with a hint of fear. Good. He should be afraid. Everyone should be afraid right now. “Tell me exactly what you know.”

He launches into the report, his words tumbling over each other in his haste to deliver the information.

Elena gave Yavin the slip at the newspaper building, using the bathroom window while he watched the front.

She meets Amelia at a café three blocks away.

Then Bennato's men intercept the girls inside the establishment, using sedatives and one of our own SUV models to throw off suspicion.

They disappear into Miami's sprawling network of side streets and back alleys before anyone in the café could call 911 or intervene.

Surveillance cameras lose them as they head south toward the waterfront district.

It was quick, clean, and professional. That is exactly what I would expect from Francesco Bennato.

I move to the bar cart against the far wall, my movements deliberate despite the fury coursing through my veins.

Blood drips steadily from my palm, leaving a trail of crimson dots across the marble.

I wrap a white towel around my bleeding hand, pressing hard enough to make the cut sting.

The pain grounds me and keeps me focused when every instinct screams to tear the city apart brick by brick until I find her.

Blood seeps through the pristine fabric, warm and sticky against my skin. I don't stop pressing. The physical discomfort is nothing compared to the ache in my chest, the hollow feeling that opened up the moment Sergey spoke Elena's name.

Memories come unbidden, sharp as the glass that cut me.

Elena's voice in my foyer this morning, angry but still vulnerable as she argued for her right to continue working.

Her slender fingers gripped her laptop while she avoided my gaze.

The soft curve of her shoulder beneath my palm when I pulled her close.

The way her body melted against mine despite her protests, her defenses crumbling for just a moment before she rebuilt them.

Her eyes flashed with determination when she told me she wouldn't hide.

The stubborn lift of her chin reminded me why I fell for her in the first place.

The taste of her lips was soft and sweet with a hint of the coffee she'd been drinking.

The small sound she made in the back of her throat when I deepened the kiss, half protest and half surrender.

The look on her face when she challenged me and trusted me just enough to let her guard down and show me the woman beneath the professional facade. Fierce and beautiful and absolutely uncompromising in her pursuit of the truth.

I crush the memory before it softens me. Right now Elena needs the pakhan , not the man who's falling in love with her.

I turn to Sergey, who's been watching me with the wary attention of a man who's seen what happens when I lose control.

“I want every contact we have burning through the night.

I don't care who you have to call, how much it costs, or what favors you have to cash in. Every informant on our payroll. Every rat in the gutter who owes us a debt. Every corrupt cop and crooked politician in our pocket. Find out where Bennato is keeping them.”

He nods, already pulling out his phone, fingers flying over the screen as he starts making calls. “What about our people? Should I pull them back from the docks?”

“No.” I unwrap the towel, examining the cuts on my palm. They're deep but not serious; the bleeding is already slowing. “Keep normal operations running. I don't want Bennato to know we're coming until we're kicking down his door.”

Sergey's expression darkens. “I'll get the teams ready.”

“Full tactical gear. Heavy weapons. I want enough firepower to level a city block if necessary.” I move to the safe behind my desk, entering the combination with steady fingers despite the rage burning in my veins.

“And Sergey? Make sure everyone understands.

This isn't a just rescue mission. It's an execution. Bennato’s execution.”

The safe swings open, revealing stacks of cash, important documents, and my personal weapons collection. I select a Sig Sauer P226, checking the magazine before sliding it into the holster beneath my jacket.

By the time night stretches across the water like a dark blanket, we're in motion. Two cigarette boats cut through the Gulf waters, their powerful engines muffled by custom silencers that reduce the roar to a whisper. The humid air tastes of salt and diesel fuel.

Each vessel holds a team of six men armed with automatic weapons and explosive devices.

These aren't the thugs who work the docks or collect debts from small-time gamblers.

These are the elite, handpicked soldiers who've proven themselves in situations where failure means death.

Former Spetsnaz operators, discharged Marines, mercenaries who learned their trade in the world's most dangerous places.

Sergey leads the first boat, his scarred face taut with concentration as he studies the GPS coordinates we received from one of our informants.

I'm on the second, standing at the helm with the wheel steady in my hands and a storm brewing behind my eyes.

The engine thrums beneath my feet, vibrating through the fiberglass hull as we slice through the waves at forty knots.

The lights of Miami fade behind us, giving way to the vast darkness of the open water. Stars reflect on the surface like diamonds, beautiful and cold. Under different circumstances, I might appreciate the serenity of the night. But tonight, the beauty feels like a mockery.

Elena is out there somewhere, probably terrified and in pain. Amelia, too, is an innocent caught in the crossfire of a war she never intended to fight. The thought of what Bennato might be doing to them makes my hands clench on the wheel.

I've seen what men like Francesco Bennato do to their enemies.

His casual cruelty is the psychological torture designed to break a person's spirit before breaking their body.

He'll want information from Elena, details about her investigation that could implicate him in a dozen different crimes.

And when he doesn't get what he wants...

I push the thought away. Elena is strong, stronger than she knows.

She survived a childhood of poverty and uncertainty.

She built a career in one of the most competitive industries in the world.

She stood up to me in my own home and faced down a man who terrifies hardened criminals without blinking.

She won't break easily. But everyone has a limit.

The stilt house emerges through the darkness like something out of a nightmare.

Built on concrete pylons fifteen feet above the shallow water, it juts from the mangroves like a rotting tooth.

Weather-worn wood siding, salt-streaked windows, and a front deck littered with cigarette butts and rusted bait buckets.

It's the perfect place for someone like Bennato to conduct business that requires privacy and disposal options.

The structure is larger than I expected, stretching back into the shadows where the mangrove roots create a natural maze.

Multiple levels, several access points, probably a dozen rooms where he could be holding Elena and Amelia.

Finding them in this labyrinth could take precious minutes we don't have.

We kill the engines in perfect synchronization, silence falling over the water. The only sounds are the gentle lapping of waves against the hull and the distant cry of a night bird somewhere in the darkness. My men move quickly, checking their weapons one final time before we begin our assault.

Sergey's boat drifts to the north side of the structure, where a narrow set of wooden steps leads up to the main entrance.

His team will go in hard and fast, drawing attention and creating chaos.

I guide my vessel to the shadowed dock beneath the house, where tangled ropes and a half-submerged fishing boat bob in the water.

I climb the slick pylons with fluid speed, my boots finding purchase on the barnacle-encrusted concrete despite the algae that makes the surface treacherous.

Saltwater drips from my clothes as I haul myself up, my muscles burning with the familiar ache of exertion.

My men follow, silent as ghosts, weapons ready and safeties off.