Page 37 of Crystal Wrath (Rostov Bratva #1)

RENAT

I stand over the broken body of Luca Moretti, his gray suit spattered with blood, as his final breath leaves him.

The night air in the warehouse swirls with dust and the acrid tang of gunpowder.

I tilt my head to the side, letting the echoes of that single shot fade into the cavernous space, then turn toward Sergey.

“Search him,” I command, my voice low and steady. “Find the keys to his index card case and the phone.”

Sergey kneels beside the corpse, his scarred hands moving with detached familiarity. Blood pools beneath Luca's head, seeping into the cracks of the concrete floor. The metallic scent mingles with the warehouse's perpetual mustiness, creating an atmosphere of death and decay.

He retrieves a slim envelope of keys and a smartphone, one of many Luca used to coordinate Bennato's schemes.

The phone is still warm from his pocket.

Its screen is cracked but functional. I take it from Sergey's grasp and switch it on, scanning the text messages already streaming across the screen.

Bennato's plans unfold before me in digital fragments.

An art heist at the Rothchild Gallery. A masterpiece snatched under the nose of every security camera in Miami.

The woman behind the gallery, Celine Boucher, is embedded deep in the operation.

She is Bennato's girlfriend and the key to accessing the most valuable pieces in the collection.

Her involvement makes this personal for him, which means it becomes personal for me as well.

I scroll through the messages, my jaw clenching as I read the details.

Bennato has been planning this for months, using Celine's position to map out security protocols and identify the most valuable targets. The arrogance of it all, thinking he can continue to operate as if I’m not going to end his miserable life.

He underestimates what happens when someone threatens what belongs to me.

I tuck the phone into the inside pocket of my tailored jacket, then retrieve Luca's card case.

Its leather cover is monogrammed in gold with the initials L.M.

Inside, there are index cards scrawled with dates, times, and gallery floor plans, as well as security rosters.

Luca's handwriting is cramped and hurried but legible enough to decipher the intricate details of the planned heist.

Each card represents hours of surveillance and planning. Guard rotations, camera blind spots, entry and exit points. The level of detail is impressive. Bennato may be my enemy, but he's never been stupid. That's what makes him dangerous. That's also what will make destroying him so satisfying.

“Get rid of the body,” I order, stepping back from the spreading pool of blood. “Remove every trace of him before dawn.”

Sergey nods, already reaching for the gasoline canisters we keep stored in the warehouse's darker corners.

The flames will consume Luca's remains, leaving nothing but ashes and memories.

In this business, disappearances are more effective than discoveries.

Questions lead to investigations, and investigations lead to complications we can't afford.

I let my men carry out the command while I walk toward the warehouse's exit, my footsteps echoing in the vast space.

The metal door groans as I push it open, revealing the Miami skyline in the distance.

The city glitters like shattered stars against the black canvas of night, each light representing lives that continue unaware of the violence that lurks in the shadows.

Leaving the warehouse, I climb into my car, a black Mercedes with tinted windows and an engine that purrs with restrained power.

The leather seats embrace me like an old friend and the familiar scent of cologne and leather polish fills my nostrils.

This car has been with me through countless operations, its armor plating hidden beneath elegant curves.

It's as much a weapon as it's a means of transportation.

Sergey slides into the passenger seat, his bulk filling the space.

I glimpse the reflection of his eyes in the rearview mirror, alert, calculating, and the only man I trust to watch my back.

We've been through too much together for doubt to exist between us.

His loyalty is absolute, forged in the fires of shared violence and mutual respect.

“Gather a team,” I say, my voice clipped with authority. “We move on the Rothchild Gallery tonight.”

He nods and punches a number into his secure line, the encrypted phone connecting him to our most trusted soldiers.

These men have proven themselves in blood and fire, each one handpicked for their skills and unwavering loyalty to the Rostov name.

They'll follow my orders without question, even unto death.

Meanwhile, I exhale slowly, feeling the familiar rush of power that electrifies my veins when a plan comes together. Every step from Luca's corpse to my estate brings me closer to the confrontation I've been preparing for.

Bennato has no idea what happens when you cross me and threaten what I've built with my own hands. When you threaten the woman that means the most to me. The blood of my enemies has watered the soil of my empire, and tonight, I'll add his to that foundation.

I find Elena in the study of the east wing, seated behind the massive oak desk.

The desk is a relic from the old country, carved from a single piece of wood that survived the revolution and the war that followed.

Its surface bears the scars of countless meetings, negotiations, and decisions that shaped my family's destiny.

Elena's legs are tucked beneath her on the leather chair, her posture relaxed despite the stakes of our situation.

She holds a stack of folders that include blueprints of the Rothchild Gallery, security protocols, and a roster of Celine's staff.

Her preparation is thorough, professional, and exactly what I expected from her.

Her dark hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail, a few strands escaping to frame her determined face.

The afternoon light streaming through the windows illuminates the mocha highlights in her hair, creating a halo effect that makes her look almost angelic.

The irony isn't lost on me. An angel in the devil's den.

When she hears my footsteps, she stands, her movements natural and unguarded.

For a moment, our gazes lock, and I feel that familiar electric spark passing between us.

Heat crackles in the air, an unspoken tension that has nothing to do with business and everything to do with the magnetic pull that draws us together despite all logic.

“You found the information,” I observe, sliding into the chair. My breadth of my shoulders fills the space between us.

She lifts one eyebrow, the gesture equal parts challenge and invitation. There's no fear in her eyes, only determination mixed with a bit of excitement. She's embracing this world, embracing the danger and me.

“You requested my journalistic contacts,” she replies steadily. “I delivered. I arranged a meeting with the gallery's assistant curator, who's eager to showcase Celine's new installations. She'll give us access under the guise of a press preview.”

The corner of my mouth curves upward in approval. Elena's resourcefulness continues to impress me. Her ability to think on her feet, adapt to changing circumstances, and gain people's trust are valuable skills.

“Good. That's the opening we need.” I lean forward, my hands flat on the desk's polished surface, and study her face.

“Tonight, we infiltrate the Rothchild. You'll pose as the reporter who wants an exclusive feature for Global Arts Magazine .

You know the story. A portrait of Celine as Miami's premier art dealer. It's the perfect cover.”

Her eyes glint with a hint of apprehension, but it disappears quickly. She's brave, I'll give her that. Most people would be terrified at the prospect of walking into a trap with armed criminals, but Elena seems almost eager for the challenge.

“And you'll be there. In the shadows.”

“When the alarms fall silent, I'll be beside you,” I promise, my voice dropping to a more intimate register. “You stay close. Don't wander. No heroics.”

Elena's lips part as if to protest, but she holds herself in check. The fire in her eyes tells me she's not entirely comfortable with playing a passive role, but she understands the stakes. One wrong move could get us both killed.

“Understood,” she answers, her voice firm with resolve.

I rise from the chair, closing the distance between us until I can feel the warmth radiating from her skin. She tilts her chin up to meet my gaze, her brown eyes steady and unwavering.

“Remember every detail,” I say softly. “The layout of the gallery, the location of the cameras, the patrol routes. If anything goes wrong, I'll get you out. That's a promise.”

She nods, a tight, controlled movement that sends a thrill coursing through me.

The trust she's placing in me is humbling and terrifying in equal measures.

The thought of losing her, of failing to keep her safe, feels unbearable.

But this is what it will take to bring down Bennato and eliminate the threat hanging over her.

“I know you will,” she whispers back.

I kiss her deeply, then turn away from her, signaling the end of our intimate moment. “Go prepare. We leave in three hours.”

Night falls like a velvet curtain over Miami, transforming the city into a playground of shadows and neon. I watch as Elena slips into a tailored black blazer and trousers for tonight's operation. The fit is perfect, hugging her curves while allowing for freedom of movement.

I hand her a slim earpiece and microphone, no larger than a button, wired to our secure communication channel. The technology is military-grade, encrypted, and undetectable by standard surveillance equipment. In the Bratva, communication is often the difference between life and death.

“Comm check,” I instruct, activating my own earpiece.

She taps the device nestled in her ear. “Loud and clear.”

“Good. Our driver will collect you at the front gates at 9:00pm. He'll drop you at the gallery's side entrance. The cameras go offline at 9:45pm. You’ll have fifteen minutes inside before Bennato's men arrive.”

She nods, her expression focused and determined.

I reach into my jacket and withdraw a folded envelope stamped with the Rostov seal. The seal is more than just a symbol. It's a promise, a threat, and a declaration of ownership. Those who see it know exactly who they're dealing with.

“Inside are new identities for you, Yavin, and Anatoly. Press badges. Guest passes. Everything you need for your entrance.”

She tucks the envelope into her inner pocket. “I'll be ready.”

I step closer, drawn by an invisible force that seems to pull me toward her whenever she's near. I press my forehead to hers, our breaths mingling in the intimate space between us.

“Be careful,” I whisper, the words more important than any order I've ever given.

Her lips part slightly, and I see the same mix of determination and fear that I feel reflected in her eyes. “Always,” she promises.

I force myself to step back and break the connection.

I leave her, slipping from the room like a shadow.

The mansion's corridors embrace me, familiar and comforting in their predictability.

These walls have witnessed the rise of the Rostov Empire, the fall of our enemies, and the forging of alliances that span continents.

Tonight, they'll witness the beginning of the end for Francesco Bennato.

Sergey and four of my most trusted men stand around a holographic map of the gallery, their faces bathed in blue light from the projection.

They're suited in black combat gear, weapons strapped and loaded, their expressions focused and deadly.

These are the men who've stood by me through blood and fire, who've proven their loyalty time and again.

“Status?” I inquire, my gaze sweeping over each man in turn.

Sergey steps forward, his scarred face grave as he clicks a remote that highlights entry points in red. The hologram shifts and rotates, showing the gallery from every angle.

“Team is in position. Surveillance blind spots confirmed. The curator is set for the interview. Cameras will cycle through a maintenance loop at 9:45pm. Bennato arrives at 10:00pm with his escort.”

Perfect timing. The window is narrow, but it's enough. I nod my approval. “Remember, the priority is to secure the gallery and neutralize Bennato.”

“What about Celine?” Sergey asks.

I glance at the laptop monitor, which shows the gallery's exterior and Celine's private quarters above the main exhibition space. She's an unknown variable, potentially dangerous but also potentially useful. “She comes with Bennato. We extract her alive. Question her later.”

Sergey's lips curve in a predatory smile. “Then it's settled.”

I turn back to the hologram, the future dancing in illuminated lines beneath my fingertips.

The gallery's layout is now burned into my memory, every room, every corridor, every possible escape route.

But my mind keeps drifting to Elena. Putting her in danger defies every protective instinct I possess.

The contradiction tears at me. Protecting her means exposing her to risk but keeping her safe means keeping her away from me and my world. It's an impossible equation. The two impulses are at war within me, threatening to tear me apart.