Page 32 of Crystal Wrath (Rostov Bratva #1)

The underside of the house is a maze of support beams and electrical conduits, everything coated with the green slime that grows in perpetual dampness.

I can hear voices above us, muffled by the floorboards but close enough to make out individual words.

Accented English, the rhythm of men playing cards and complaining about the heat.

I signal my team to split up, using hand gestures perfected through years of operations in places where a single mistake meant death.

Two men head for the eastern approach, while two more take the western route.

I go straight up the middle, following the sound of voices to what I hope is the main room.

The floorboards creak under my weight despite my efforts at stealth. This place was built for fishing, not fortress duty. Every step threatens to announce my presence to anyone listening carefully enough.

I breach the back door with a single kick, the rotten wood splintering around the lock like matchsticks.

The hinges scream in protest as the door swings open, but there's no time for subtlety now.

I'm inside, moving fast through a narrow hallway lined with peeling wallpaper and water-stained photographs of long-dead fishermen.

Gunfire erupts near the front of the house, loud, sudden, and perfectly timed.

Sergey's team is pulling attention exactly as planned, automatic weapons chattering in controlled bursts.

Shouts echo through the thin walls, panic and confusion spreading as Bennato's men scramble to respond to the threat.

I keep moving, following the layout I memorized from the satellite images we pulled earlier.

The kitchen to the left is empty except for takeout containers and beer bottles.

The living room is to the right, where two men are crouched behind an overturned couch, firing through broken windows at Sergey's position.

They don't see me coming.

The first one turns as I enter the room, startled by movement in his peripheral vision. He's young, maybe twenty-five, with the hollow-eyed look of a man who's spent too much time sampling his own product. His weapon is a cheap pistol, the chrome finish worn away by nervous handling.

He doesn't even have time to raise it. I drive my combat knife into his neck just below the jaw, angling upward to sever the carotid artery and vocal cords in one motion. He drops without a sound, blood pooling on the warped hardwood floor.

His partner realizes what's happening and spins around, finger already on the trigger of his assault rifle.

The muzzle flashes once, twice, bullets gouging chunks from the doorframe where my head was a split second earlier.

I roll left, coming up behind a rust-stained file cabinet that has seen better days.

He fires again, the rounds punching through the cabinet's thin metal skin. But his position is fixed now, committed to the angle that gives him a clear shot at my cover.

I rise and put three rounds center mass, the suppressed shots barely audible over the chaos outside. He drops like a rag doll, his weapon clattering across the floor to rest against a stack of moldy magazines.

The eastern hallway stretches ahead of me, dim and narrow, lined with doors that could hide anything.

I move carefully now, checking each room methodically.

Empty bedrooms filled with mattresses that reek of cigarettes and unwashed bodies.

A bathroom where the toilet has been broken for so long that moss grows in the standing water.

Then I reach the final door, and something inside my chest clenches like a fist around my heart. I don't announce myself. I simply kick the door open and step inside, weapon ready for whatever I might find.

Elena.

She's on the floor beside Amelia, both women bound with rope and duct tape, their clothes torn and dirty from hours of captivity.

Elena's dark hair is disheveled, strands sticking to her face where tears have dried on her cheeks.

Her olive skin is pale with exhaustion and fear, but her brown eyes still burn with the fierce determination that made me fall in love with her.

Those eyes lock with mine across the small room, and the relief that slams into my chest threatens to overwhelm every other emotion. She's alive. She's conscious. She's here, and I can protect her now.

“Mmmph!” The sound comes from behind the tape covering her mouth, desperate, hopeful, and heartbreaking all at once.

I cross the room in three long strides, dropping to my knees beside her. My hands shake as I reach for the edge of the tape, fury, and relief warring in my chest as I see the red marks where the adhesive has irritated her skin.

I tear the tape from her mouth as gently as I can manage, but she still gasps in pain as it pulls away.

“Renat...” Her voice is raw, broken from hours of breathing through her nose, but it's the most beautiful sound I've ever heard.

Her lips are swollen and cracked, and her breathing is shallow and rapid. I can see the places where the rope has cut into her wrists, the skin raw and bleeding from her struggles. Fresh rage builds in my chest, hot and clean and absolutely murderous.

I slice through the rest of her bindings, my combat knife parting the thick rope like it's made of paper. She flinches as circulation returns to her hands and feet, but she doesn't make a sound. Always so strong, even now.

“Are you hurt?” I ask, running my hands over her arms and shoulders, checking for injuries I might have missed.

“Did they...” I can't finish the question.

The thought of Bennato's men touching her, hurting her in ways that would leave scars deeper than rope burns, makes me want to burn this entire structure to the ground with everyone inside.

She shakes her head quickly, understanding what I can't bring myself to voice. “We're okay. Mostly. But we tried to get out.”

“What do you mean?”

Her eyes dart toward the corner of the room, where several floorboards have been pried up, revealing the dark water below.

“There's a boat under the house. We found it when we were looking for a way out.

We were trying to drop down and use it to escape, but Bennato's men caught us before we could get through the floor.”

My back teeth clench together as I imagine the scene. Elena and Amelia, working desperately with their bare hands to create an escape route, probably cutting themselves on the rough wood and rusty nails. Fighting for their freedom even when the situation seemed hopeless.

“They taped us up again after that,” she continues, her voice gaining strength as she talks. “Said the boss wanted to talk to us personally when he got back.”

I help her sit up, supporting her weight as the feeling returns to her legs. She's shaking, with fine tremors running through her entire body, but her voice is steady, and her eyes are clear. No signs of serious injury or drug-induced confusion.

“You were smart to try,” I tell her, meaning every word. “I'm getting you out of here. Both of you.”

I turn my attention to Amelia, who's been watching our reunion with desperate hope in her bright blue eyes.

Her honey-blonde hair is matted with sweat and tears, and her designer clothes are rumpled and stained.

But she's alive, conscious, and apparently unharmed beyond the rope burns on her wrists.

I cut through her restraints quickly, my hands steady despite the urgency building in my chest. Every second we spend in this room is another chance for Bennato to return.

“Can you walk?” I ask Amelia as I help her sit up.

She nods, testing her legs gingerly. “I think so. Everything's just...numb.”

“The feeling will come back.” I stand and extend my hand to Elena, who accepts it without hesitation. Her fingers are cold against mine, but her grip is strong. “We need to move. Now.”

She tries to stand on her own, but her legs buckle after hours of being bound in the same position. I catch her before she can fall, lifting her into my arms despite her immediate protests.

“I can walk,” she insists, but her voice lacks conviction.

“Not fast enough.” I adjust my grip, making sure she's secure against my chest. She weighs almost nothing, all sharp angles and a determined spirit wrapped in a deceptively delicate packaging. “And I'm not taking any chances.”

She doesn't argue further, instead wrapping her arms around my neck and pressing her face against my shoulder. I can feel her heartbeat against my chest, rapid but steady.

We head for the back of the house, moving as quickly as stealth allows. Amelia follows behind us, her designer heels clicking softly on the warped floorboards despite her efforts at silence. The gunfire outside has intensified, Sergey's team keeping Bennato's men occupied while we make our escape.

I can hear my pulse in my ears, a steady rhythm that matches our footsteps as we navigate the narrow hallway. Every shadow could hide an enemy. Every creak of the old building could be someone moving to intercept us.

We're halfway to the stairs when a spray of bullets tears through the wall beside us, splinters of wood and drywall exploding in all directions.

Someone's figured out our position and probably spotted us through one of the broken windows.

I pivot immediately, turning my body to shield Elena as much as possible while still maintaining forward momentum.

A sharp sting blooms on my left side, just below my ribcage. Hot and immediate and completely irrelevant compared to getting Elena to safety. I grunt and keep moving, my grip on her tightening protectively.

“Renat!” she cries, her hand sliding to my waist where warmth is already spreading through my shirt. “You're bleeding!”

“I’ve had worse,” I mutter, even though every step drives a sharp jolt through my ribs. The bullet went in at an angle and exited clean, missing anything vital. “We move now.”

More gunfire follows us as we reach the stairwell that leads down to the water level. I can hear boots on the floorboards above, Bennato's men regrouping and trying to cut off our escape route.

Amelia takes the lead down the rickety steps, her hands gripping the salt-corroded railing for support. My men are already in position at the dock below, laying down cover fire from behind the concrete pylons. Smoke and muzzle flashes light up the darkness like a deadly fireworks display.

The boats are exactly where we left them, engines idling and ready for immediate departure. Sergey waves from the vessel docked under the eastern support beam, his team already aboard and weapons trained on the structure above us.

I pass Amelia to one of my men, making sure she's secure before giving the order. “Get her clear. Full speed back to shore.”

Sergey hesitates for just a moment, his green eyes flicking between me and the blood now visible on my shirt. “ Pakhan ...”

“Go.” The word comes out barked, but there's no time for discussion. “That's an order.”

He nods once and a few of our men throw flaming bottles of fury at the house. The boat pulls away from the dock with a roar of engines, Amelia's blonde hair whipping in the wind as they accelerate toward the distant lights of Miami. One hostage safe. One more to go.

I take Elena to my boat, settling her carefully in the passenger seat before taking the wheel. She immediately tries to examine my wound, her hands gentle but insistent as she lifts the edge of my shirt.

“You need medical attention,” she whispers, her voice tight with concern. “This is serious.”

“I'll live,” I answer, though the pain is getting worse now that the adrenaline is starting to fade.

The boat lurches forward as I engage the throttle, salt spray washing over the windshield as we accelerate away from the burning structure behind us. Elena sits beside me, one hand gripping the safety rail and the other pressed against my wounded side, applying pressure to slow the bleeding.

The stilt house is now fully engulfed, flames licking at the night sky. Any evidence of what happened here tonight will be consumed by fire and salt water, leaving nothing but charred pilings and unanswered questions.

Francesco Bennato's men are either dead or scattered to the winds.

Their carefully planned operation turned into a disaster that would cost him his reputation and resources he couldn't afford to lose.

But the man himself wasn't there, probably sitting in some air-conditioned office while his subordinates did the dirty work.

He's still out there. Still dangerous. Still a threat to Elena and everything I care about.

But tonight, she's safe. Tonight, she's alive and breathing and pressed against my side as we race across the dark water toward home. The pain in my ribs is nothing compared to the relief flooding through my system, the bone-deep satisfaction of having her back where she belongs.

She leans into me, her forehead against my jaw, and I let the full impact of what almost happened settle over us both.

The fear I couldn't afford to feel during the rescue.

The rage that still burns in my chest like molten metal.

The absolute certainty that losing her would have destroyed something fundamental inside me.

“You came,” she whispers, her breath warm against my neck.

“I always will,” I promise, meaning it more than any words I've ever spoken.