Page 41 of Crystal Wrath (Rostov Bratva #1)
“I'm cutting all ties,” I announce, my voice carrying the finality of a judge's sentence. “Whatever history we had ends now. You're no longer under my protection. You're no longer welcome in my territory. You have twenty-four hours to leave Miami.”
Bianca straightens her spine, and I see her pride kick in. It’s the only thing she has left to armor herself with. Her chin lifts, and she attempts to reclaim some dignity in the face of complete defeat.
“Fine.” Her voice is steady now, almost regal. “Then you should know there's a mole in your inner circle.”
I feel the air rush out of my lungs, but I don't let my reaction show. Instead, I narrow my eyes, studying her face for signs of deception.
“You're trying to manipulate me.”
Her lips curve into a bitter smile that holds no warmth, no affection, nothing but the desire to cause pain. “Believe what you want. But the man standing next to you? He's not loyal. Not the way I was.”
The irony of her words, claiming loyalty while admitting to betrayal would be laughable if the implications weren't so serious. But despite everything, despite her proven treachery, something in her tone makes me pause. There's a ring of truth to her words that I can't entirely dismiss.
I laugh, but the sound is low and humorless, devoid of any real amusement. “You don't know the meaning of the word.”
Her face flushes with renewed anger, and she turns sharply toward the door. “You'll see. When your perfect little world comes crashing down, remember that I tried to warn you.”
She storms out, her heels striking the marble like gunshots, each step echoing through the suddenly empty space. I let her go, watching through the window as she disappears into the elevator.
The penthouse feels different now as if her presence has somehow contaminated the air. I pour myself three fingers of vodka and down it in one burning gulp, trying to wash away the taste of betrayal. But her final words echo in my mind, refusing to be dismissed.
Later that night, I call Sergey to my office. He arrives within minutes, his hair still damp from the rain that's been falling steadily since sunset. Water drips from his jacket onto the expensive carpet, but he doesn't seem to notice.
“There's a problem,” I tell him without preamble.
He raises an eyebrow, his expression carefully neutral. “Bianca?”
The fact that he immediately knows who I'm referring to bothers me more than it should. “She claims there's a mole in the bratva. The same claim that Artur made.”
Sergey shrugs, the gesture too casual, too dismissive. “She's trying to stir paranoia. Classic manipulation tactic. Make you doubt everyone around you so you'll crawl back to her.”
“Maybe.” But even as I agree, doubt has taken root deep in my chest like a poisonous seed.
I study Sergey's face in the dim light of my office, searching for any sign of deception.
He's been with the Rostov Bratva since my father was pakhan , working his way up from street soldier to second-in-command through loyalty and competence.
But Bianca's words have planted a seed of suspicion that I can't shake.
I need to know who I can trust. Who is selling pieces of my empire to my enemies while smiling in my face?
Two days pass in a haze of routine business and growing paranoia.
Every conversation feels loaded with hidden meaning.
Every glance from my men is laced with the possibility of betrayal.
I find myself analyzing loyalty that I once took for granted, questioning relationships that have been solid for years.
Then I receive a call from a city official I've paid handsomely over the years. He’s a nervous little man who's been very useful in smoothing over permit issues and zoning problems. His voice trembles as he delivers news that chills me to the core.
There's a development site, one of my newest acquisitions on the riverfront.
Prime real estate that I've been planning to develop into luxury condominiums. According to his records, permits have been approved and inspections passed, but I never signed off on any of them.
I never submitted those applications. The paperwork bears my company's name and my signature, but I have no memory of authorizing the project.
“You're certain about this?” I press, my grip tightening on the phone.
“Absolutely. The permits came through the express channel, the one reserved for your projects. Someone used your authorization codes, and your signatures. If I hadn't been doing a routine audit, I never would have noticed the discrepancy.”
After hanging up, I sit in my office for a long moment, staring at the city beyond my windows.
The riverfront development represents millions of dollars in potential profit, but more importantly, it means a breach in my organization's security.
Someone with access to my codes, my signatures, and my most sensitive business operations has been conducting unauthorized activities under my name.
When I arrive at the site in question an hour later, the tension in my chest becomes a vise that threatens to crush my ribs.
The foundation is already poured, a massive concrete slab that must have cost hundreds of thousands of dollars.
The workers are already here. Men I don't recognize, and crews that don't belong to any of my usual contractors.
Heavy machinery moves across the site like mechanical dinosaurs, reshaping the landscape according to plans I never approved.
The plans posted at the entrance bear my name, my company's logo, and my forged signature.
I approach the site trailer, my jaw clenched so tight it aches. The foreman, a thick-set man with calloused hands and nervous eyes, emerges before I can knock. He recognizes me immediately, and his face goes pale beneath his hard hat.
“Mr. Rostov,” he stammers, tugging at his collar. “I wasn't expecting?—”
“Who authorized this project?” I cut him off, my voice deadly quiet.
His hands tremble as he fumbles with a clipboard, pages fluttering in the humid breeze coming off the water. “We were told this came from the top. Through...Sergey. He said it was a priority project, that you wanted fast-tracked.”
The words land with brutal force, but I refuse to let it show. Instead, I nod slowly as if this information doesn't surprise me, and I'm not calculating how long it would take to make a body disappear in the concrete foundation that's already been poured.
“When did he give you these instructions?”
“Two weeks ago. He came by personally, brought the permits and the payment authorization. Told us to keep it quiet, that you didn't want competitors knowing about the project until it was too late for them to interfere.”
The story makes perfect sense, which is what makes it so dangerous. Sergey would know exactly how to present unauthorized orders in a way that seemed legitimate and how to utilize my methods and reputation to achieve his goals.
The rage I feel is cold and controlled, buried under layers of calculation and years of experience in dealing with betrayal.
I've been here before, faced with the knowledge that someone I trusted has been working against me.
But this time it feels different. This time, the betrayal comes from someone closer to me than a brother who knows all my secrets and weaknesses.
I nod and walk away slowly, my mind racing through possibilities and consequences. The foreman calls after me, asking if he should continue work, but I don't answer. I can't trust my voice to remain steady.
I don't act. Not yet. But the evidence is stacking against Sergey like snow before an avalanche. Bianca and Artur’s warnings, the unauthorized development, and the way he's been pushing certain business decisions lately all fit together into a pattern I don't want to see but can't ignore.
I need proof. Not just suspicious timing and forged documents. I need concrete evidence that leaves no room for doubt and no possibility of mistakes.
Because if Sergey is the mole, if he has been selling my secrets to Bennato and using my name to conduct unauthorized business, he won't live to see another sunrise.