Page 4 of Crystal Wrath (Rostov Bratva #1)

She falters for just a moment, her step missing the beat. Most people wouldn’t notice, but I feel it. A crack in her facade.

“Survival,” she answers finally. “Just like everyone else.”

I spin her again, using the movement to scan the room.

David watches us from the table, his expression one of concern.

Sergey stands near the exit, hands clasped in front of him, eyes continuously moving.

The security detail I insisted on, despite Marcelli’s protests, is positioned strategically around the perimeter.

When I pull her back to me, I hold her closer than before. “Who are you working for?”

Her eyes widen with practiced innocence. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Let’s not insult each other’s intelligence,” I insist, my voice still pleasant but edged with steel. “You’re not Natalia Petrova. So, who sent you? The FBI? The Miami Herald ? Or is it something more personal?”

To her credit, she doesn’t flinch or pull away. “What makes you think I’m not who I say I am?”

“Because the real Natalia has a tattoo of a fox on her left shoulder,” I declare. “And when she drinks vodka, she holds her breath first, a habit she picked up from her father. You didn’t do either.”

She stares at me for a long moment, calculation clear in her eyes. Then she laughs, a soft, genuine sound that catches me off guard.

“Maybe I had it removed,” she suggests, her eyes sparkling with challenge. “Maybe I broke the habit.”

“Maybe you’re playing a dangerous game.”

“Aren’t we all?”

The music ends, but I don’t release her. My hand remains firm against her back, my other hand still holding hers. Around us, couples begin to disperse, returning to their tables or moving to the bar.

“I could have you removed,” I threaten quietly. “One word to security, and you’d be escorted out and blacklisted from every event like this in Miami.”

She tilts her head slightly. “But you won’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re curious,” she replies. “And because you’re enjoying this too much.”

She isn’t wrong. Most of my interactions are predictable. Business meetings, negotiations, threats veiled as promises. This woman is something else entirely. A puzzle I want to solve, piece by piece.

“Walk with me,” I insist, guiding her toward the terrace doors.

The night air is warm and heavy with the scent of salt and tropical flowers.

The terrace overlooks the sprawling gardens of the Marcelli estate, illuminated by thousands of tiny lights woven through the trees and shrubs.

In the distance, the Miami skyline glitters against the night sky, a testament to wealth and influence.

She moves to the railing, her fingers curling around the ornate iron. The moonlight paints her skin silver, making her look ethereal.

“Beautiful view,” she comments, her voice soft.

“Yes,” I agree, watching her rather than the skyline.

She turns to find me staring and doesn’t look away. “Mr. Rostov?—”

“Renat,” I correct.

“Renat,” she repeats, my name rolling off her tongue like caramel. “What exactly do you want from me?”

“The truth would be a good start.”

She smiles a genuine smile that transforms her face. “The truth is rarely simple.”

“Try me.”

She opens her mouth as if to speak, then closes it again, her attention caught by something over my shoulder. Her expression changes and hardens into something close to fear.

I turn, following her gaze. Across the terrace, a man in a gray suit watches us closely. Middle-aged and unremarkable except for the intensity of his focus and the press credentials partially hidden in his pocket.

When I look back at her, she’s composed herself, but I see the flash of recognition in her eyes. The momentary panic.

“Friend of yours?” I ask.

“Hardly,” she mutters. “Just someone I’d rather avoid.”

“Why?”

“Personal reasons.”

I step closer to her, using my body to shield her from the man’s view. “Another lie, Natalia...or whatever your real name is.”

She looks up at me, conflict written in her eyes. She’s measuring options and calculating risks. I recognize the process. I’ve done it countless times myself.

“Elena,” she says finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “My name is Elena.”

The truth, freely given. It’s a start.

“Elena,” I repeat, tasting her real name. It suits her better than Natalia. Less cold. More fire. “And what brings Elena to my world, pretending to be a Russian heiress?”

She visibly struggles with her answer, her eyes darting to the man in the gray suit and back to me.

“Curiosity,” she says finally. “And maybe a bit of desperation.”

“Dangerous combination.”

“So I’ve been told.”

I reach out tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. The gesture is intimate, but she doesn’t pull away.

“You’re playing with fire,” I warn her.

“Maybe fire is exactly what I need.”

Her voice is soft but determined, and something in her words and the way she looks at me ignites a spark deep in my chest. I thought I’d buried it long ago in the frozen ground of my homeland.

She’s a mystery I want to unravel, slowly and thoroughly. And despite the risk and the obvious deception, I find myself drawn to her like a moth to flame.

Elena struggles to maintain her cover, but she seems captivated by my presence. Our chemistry crackles and the tension between us becomes impossible to ignore.

“Stay close to me tonight,” I whisper. “Consider it protection.”

“From what?”

I glance at the man in the gray suit, who now watches us with open hostility. “From whatever you’re running from. And from whatever brought you here in the first place.”

She nods slowly, understanding dawning in her eyes. She might be a fraud, but she isn’t stupid. She recognizes the offer in my words.

“And what’s the price for such protection?” she questions.

I smile, slow and deliberate. “We’ll negotiate that later.”

As I lead her back inside, I catch Sergey’s eye across the room and nod once. He understands immediately, moving to intercept the man in the gray suit.

Tonight, Elena belongs to me. Tomorrow, I’ll discover what she’s really after. And then we’ll see just how far this dangerous game can go.