Page 38 of Crystal Wrath (Rostov Bratva #1)
ELENA
My ears are ringing from the gunshots, a high-pitched whine that cuts through every other sound in the gallery.
The chaos around me feels surreal as if I'm watching it through thick glass.
Shattered fragments crunch under my feet with every small movement, and the muffled wail of alarms echoes behind the ornate walls lined with stolen masterpieces.
Renat's men move through the destruction with military precision.
The heist might have been Francesco Bennato's twisted game from the start, but Renat has turned it into a battlefield where survival depends on split-second decisions and unwavering loyalty.
I press myself deeper behind the twisted steel sculpture near the mezzanine, its cold metal biting through my clothes and into my spine.
The abstract curves offer barely enough cover to hide my trembling form, but it's the only protection I can find in this maze of expensive art and flying bullets.
Sweat beads along my hairline and slides down my neck despite the cool air conditioning that hums through the building's vents.
My heart pounds so hard that I can barely hear the sirens wailing in the distance.
I force myself to breathe slowly, quietly, even though my lungs want to gulp air in panicked gasps.
My mind spins wildly between self-preservation and the journalist instincts that got me into this mess in the first place.
I should be looking for an exit, planning my escape route, and figuring out how to get to safety before more shots ring out.
Instead, my eyes keep drifting back to Renat, and I can't look away from the raw power radiating from his movements.
He moves like violence barely held in check, each step calculated and purposeful.
His expensive black suit is now dusted with white plaster from the walls, and there's a jagged tear along his left sleeve that reveals a streak of blood.
I can't tell if it's his or belongs to one of the men who tried to stop him from reaching this point.
The uncertainty makes my stomach clench with worry.
He doesn't pause to assess his injuries.
He simply continues forward with a focus that comes from years of surviving in a world where hesitation means death.
Every decision he makes flows seamlessly into the next action.
When his eyes suddenly lock onto mine across the room, cutting through the smoke and chaos like a laser, goosebumps spread across my limbs.
It's compelling and laced with urgency and fury so deep I can feel the heat of it from twenty feet away.
For one suspended moment, everything else fades into background noise.
The gunfire, the shouting, the sirens. All of it becomes secondary to the connection crackling between us.
Then Bennato steps out of the shadows directly behind me, and the moment shatters like glass.
The cold pressure of a gun barrel slides against the back of my neck with deliberate slowness, and every muscle in my body goes rigid.
My body goes rigid as the reality of the situation hits with brutal clarity.
His breath grazes my cheek, warm and sour, carrying the stench of expensive cigars and something rotten underneath.
The smugness in his voice as he speaks makes my skin crawl.
Each word drips with the satisfaction of a man who believes he has just claimed victory.
He grabs my upper arm with bruising force and yanks me upright, my feet scrambling for purchase on the debris-covered floor.
The gun moves from my neck to dig into my ribs, the metal barrel pressing hard enough to leave a mark through my clothing.
It's a reminder that whatever small amount of power I thought I had in this operation vanished the moment I became his human shield.
The leverage he needs to break Renat's focus and turn this battle in his favor.
“Renat!” Bennato's voice slices through the gallery like a blade, commanding and theatrical. Every conversation stops. Every gun barrel shifts in our direction. The attention of both crews suddenly centers on the tableau we make, predator and prey frozen in a deadly dance.
“Will you keep charging at me like a rabid dog if I blow a hole through her chest?”
Renat stops mid-step, his entire body going still in a way that's more frightening than his previous movement.
The change in his posture is subtle, barely perceptible, but I see it clearly.
The way his back teeth clench. The way his fingers flex almost imperceptibly, inching toward the weapon holstered beneath his jacket.
The way his eyes burn as they settle on me, the gold flecks seeming to catch fire in the dim lighting.
“She means nothing to you, right?” Bennato continues, his grip tightening on my arm until I can't help but wince. He notices my reaction, and his smile widens, revealing teeth that are too white and too perfect. “Or is that just another lie you've been telling yourself, Rostov?”
Renat’s surname carries more than reputation.
It’s steeped in bloodlines and a fierce tradition of family honor that eclipses mere business disputes.
Bennato knows exactly which buttons to push and exactly how to make this personal in a way that goes beyond territory and profit margins.
This is about pride and about proving who truly holds the power in Miami's underworld hierarchy.
Renat takes a step forward, slow and deliberate, like approaching a wounded animal that might lash out without warning.
His voice is low and controlled, but I can hear the Russian accent thickening with each carefully chosen word.
It's a sign of barely restrained emotion that anyone familiar with him would recognize as dangerous.
“Let her go, Francesco,” he orders the quiet authority in his tone more threatening than any shout could be. “This ends with you. Not her.”
Bennato's laugh grates against my nerves like nails on a chalkboard. It's the sound of someone who thinks he's already won and believes he holds all the cards in a game everyone else is still trying to understand.
“You don't get to decide how this ends,” he sneers, pressing the gun harder into my side until I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out. “I should have killed her weeks ago, but then I would have missed watching you unravel like this.”
The casual way he discusses my murder like it's a business decision he's reconsidering makes bile rise in my throat.
But beneath the fear, anger and determination builds.
The same stubborn streak that made me investigate the Bratva in the first place, despite every warning from Nick and every instinct screaming at me to stay away.
The urge to scream bubbles up from somewhere deep in my chest, but I clamp down on it hard.
Panic won't help anyone, least of all me.
Instead, I focus on breathing steadily and watching for any opportunity to break free or help tip the balance in our favor.
That's when I notice the subtle tremor in Bennato's hand where it grips the gun.
It's barely there, just a slight shake that betrays the nerves he's trying desperately to hide.
He's not as in control as he wants everyone to believe.
He's holding a wild card he never expected to matter this much, and Renat's silence, his refusal to beg or negotiate, is clearly throwing off whatever script Bennato had prepared for this confrontation.
The Italian crime boss expected panic, expected Renat to fold immediately when faced with the threat to my life.
Instead, he's getting calculated stillness and focus that suggests this is far from over.
I look directly at Renat, meeting his burning gaze despite the danger pressing into my ribs.
Despite every logical reason to stay quiet and invisible, I need him to see that I'm not giving up.
I trust him to find a way out of this impossible situation.
I nod once, just a small movement that can be mistaken for nerves by anyone else watching.
But Renat understands the message I'm trying to send.
Don't let him win. Don't let this bastard use me to break you.
He understands perfectly. In the space between one heartbeat and the next, everything erupts into violence.
There’s flash of steel as Renat moves faster than should be humanly possible.
The deafening bang of gunfire fills the air, but Bennato jerks sideways, his shot going wide as Renat barrels into him with the full force of months of pent-up rage.
The gun clatters across the marble floor, spinning away from both of them as they crash into a display case full of ancient pottery.
I hit the ground hard, my knees and palms scraping against the debris-covered floor as I roll away from the fighting.
More shots explode around us from both sides, muzzle flashes lighting up the gallery like deadly fireworks.
But all I can focus on is Renat and the way he's unleashing every ounce of his fury on the man who dared to threaten me.
His fists slam into Bennato's face with methodical precision, each blow delivered with violence that comes from years of surviving in a world where mercy is weakness.
His movements are brutal and relentless, but there's control underneath the savagery.
He's not lost to rage. He's channeling it into something focused and devastating.
Someone grabs my arm and drags me toward safety behind a row of thick marble columns.
The man's voice is urgent, shouting instructions I can barely make out over the continuous gunfire echoing through the space.
But I keep looking back at the fight, unable to tear my attention away from the raw display of power and protection.