Page 35 of Crystal Wrath (Rostov Bratva #1)

ELENA

The first time I see her, I don't know who she is.

All I see is a pair of impossibly long legs stepping out of a gleaming black car, the low hum of the engine still vibrating through the drive as she stands there, poised and breathtaking.

Her stilettos are designer, Louboutin, and her cream coat is tailored to perfection, hugging her elegantly slim hourglass figure as if it were crafted specifically for her body.

When she pulls her sunglasses off, I'm met with the kind of bone structure you only ever see on the cover of luxury magazines.

High cheekbones, a straight nose, and perfectly sculpted brows framing deep espresso-brown eyes with impossibly thick, dark lashes.

Her honey-blonde hair catches the Miami sunlight, cascading in soft waves down her back with a glossy sheen that suggests expensive salons and meticulous care.

Even from this distance, I can see the warm, olive glow of her flawless skin, sun-kissed and radiant in a way that screams Mediterranean heritage and meticulous care.

That's when the name clicks into place. Bianca Rossi. Of course, it's her.

She breezes past the guards like she owns the place, every movement sleek and poised, embodying that effortless Italian elegance I've only seen in fashion magazines.

Her statement gold jewelry gleams under the light.

Layered necklaces draw attention to her graceful neck, and bold earrings frame her face perfectly.

A soft murmur of recognition greets her from one of Renat's men, and I notice her full lips curving into a practiced smile painted in what looks like deep crimson.

My stomach knots as I watch her disappear through the front doors of the estate without so much as a glance in my direction.

I'm standing in one of the drawing rooms that overlook the entrance, and the sting of being invisible to her shouldn't matter, but it does.

It matters far more than I want to admit.

I sink onto the edge of the window seat, my body still aching from everything that happened in the Keys.

Renat saved me. Bathed me. Held me as I shook from exhaustion and fear.

And now, just two days later, his ex walks through the front gates as though summoned by instinct.

As though she sensed the smallest crack in his armor and is here to exploit it.

Every inch of her exudes sophistication and control, from her tailored designer blazer to the way she carries herself as if she has never doubted her place in any room she enters.

I don't know what I expect to hear, but I can't stop myself from moving closer to the corridor that leads to Renat's study. I press my back against the cool marble wall, half-hidden behind a stone pillar, as their voices carry toward me.

Bianca's tone is all silk and smoke, carrying that subtle accent that makes even simple words sound seductive. “I heard about what happened. You should have called me.”

“There was no reason to,” Renat replies, his voice low and even.

“No reason? You were injured, Renat. I still care about you.” Her voice drops to that intimate register, suggesting years of shared history and knowing exactly which buttons to push.

There's a moment of silence. I imagine her stepping closer, laying a perfectly manicured hand on his arm, tilting her chin up in that practiced way women like her do. The kind of gesture that's designed to remind him of everything they once shared.

“You're not him anymore,” she murmurs, and I can almost see her intense gaze searching his face, “but you're still mine. You always will be.”

The possessiveness in her voice makes my skin crawl. This isn't the plea of a heartbroken woman. It's the demand of someone who's never been told no, who views people as acquisitions to be reclaimed.

His answer is quiet but resolute. “Bianca, I don't have feelings for you.”

The words cleave through the stillness, swift and precise. I shouldn't feel anything, but my fingers dig into the wall, needing something to anchor me as heat coils low in my stomach.

“So that's it? You throw everything away for her?” There's a sharp edge to her cultured voice now, the silk replaced by steel. “Some little nobody journalist who doesn't understand your world?”

The dismissal in her tone ignites a firestorm in my chest. She says it like I'm disposable, temporary, a phase Renat will grow out of once he remembers what real sophistication looks like.

Renat doesn't reply right away. When he does, his voice is tight. “You don't get to ask me that.”

“You're in love with her.” The words come out flat, disbelieving, as if the very concept offends her refined sensibilities.

Again, that silence. Not a denial. Not a single word to break the tension now stretching taut between them. And that silence screams louder than anything he could have spoken.

Bianca lets out a shaky breath, and for the first time, I hear something crack in her perfectly composed facade. “Unbelievable.”

My stomach twists and my mind races. He doesn't deny it, which should comfort me, but instead it terrifies me because he doesn’t admit it either. His silence says everything and nothing at once.

Renat leaves Bianca standing there alone. Before I slip away, I hear another voice. This one is sharper and colder.

“You shouldn't be here.”

Sergey.

I freeze and paste myself against the wall. I can't see them, but I hear them.

“Why do you care?” Bianca's voice now carries a brittle edge, her usual silk-and-smoke tone replaced by something edgier.

“Because you're making a fool of yourself. He doesn't want you. He never did.”

A pause. I can imagine her straightening, drawing on that innate Italian pride, her espresso eyes flashing with wounded fury.

“He did once,” she mutters, and there's something almost desperate in her voice

“And it ended. You trying to worm your way back into his life isn't going to change that.”

There's something underneath Sergey's words I can’t define. I lean in, my breath shallow.

“Why do you care so much, Sergey? Unless...” Her voice trails off, and I can picture her tilting her head, those sharp eyes studying him with the same intensity she probably uses to evaluate a piece of art. “Oh.”

She doesn't finish the sentence, but she doesn't have to. I hear the silence that follows, and I know she sees it, too. Sergey is in love with her.

“How long?” she asks softly, and there's something almost gentle in her voice now. Not kind, exactly, but curious in the way of someone who's just discovered a new piece to add to her collection.

I step away, my thoughts unraveling.

Everything feels overwhelming, like the truth I chased is now too stifling to carry.

This world isn't built on loyalty or honesty.

It's built on power, strategy, and secrets.

And no matter how much I think I'm adapting, I still feel like the outsider peeking through a locked window, especially when women like Bianca exist in it so effortlessly, wielding their beauty and breeding like weapons.

By the time I reach my bedroom, my blood is simmering. I pace the length of the room twice before Renat appears in the doorway.

“We need to talk,” he begins.

“Perfect timing,” I cut in, folding my arms. “I was just about to come find you. I'm leaving.”

His brow lowers, not in surprise, but in quiet malice. “No, you're not.”

“I wasn't asking for permission,” I hiss.

“And I'm not giving you options.”

My chest rises sharply. “You think just because you saved me, you get to control me? That I'm some kind of possession you can lock away in your mansion until you've decided I'm no longer useful? Just another pretty thing to collect, like your ex thinks I am?”

He crosses the room slowly, the intensity in his gaze sending a spark down my spine. “I saved you because if anything happened to you, it would destroy me.”

The admission knocks the air from my lungs, but I hold my ground. “Then let me go.”

He closes the distance between us in two strides, his hands catching my wrists as he presses me back against the wall. “You want to pretend this doesn't exist between us? Fine. But don't lie to yourself. You feel it too.”

“That doesn't mean I trust you. Not when your perfectly polished ex can just waltz back in here like she owns the place. Like she owns you.”

His grip tightens just enough to make me breathless, his eyes darkening with raw desire. “Then let me show you why you should.”

His mouth crashes into mine, all fire and fury. Built from jealousy and desperation and a need neither of us wants to admit.

He lifts me without effort, carrying me across the room until my back hits the bed. When his mouth trails down my neck, I arch into him, gasping as the fire between us consumes every rational thought I have left.

There is no room for logic here. Only heat. Only need. And when he murmurs my name like a promise, I let myself fall again.