Page 5 of Crystal Wrath (Rostov Bratva #1)

ELENA

I’m losing control of the situation. Fast.

The charade of playing Natalia Petrova lasts exactly thirty-six minutes before Renat Rostov sees through me like I’m made of glass. And yet here I am, still by his side, my real name on his lips, walking deeper into the lion’s den instead of running for the exit.

“The Marcelli estate has been in their family for three generations,” Renat says, his hand resting on the small of my back as he guides me down a dimly lit corridor. “Old money from Sicily that found new purpose in Miami.”

Every nerve ending where his fingers touch me through the thin fabric of my dress feels electrified. The heat of his palm seeps into my skin, and I fight to keep my breathing steady. This isn’t part of the plan. None of this is part of the plan.

“You seem to know a lot about old money for someone who made his fortune so recently,” I say, grateful my voice remains steady despite the riot of sensations coursing through my body.

His smile is slow and predatory. “Research is important in my line of work.”

“And what line of work is that exactly?” I press, unable to help myself. The journalist in me can’t resist digging, even as another part of me that I’m trying desperately to ignore wants to lean into his touch.

“Development. Growth. Progress.” His hand slides slightly lower on my back, not inappropriate but unmistakably possessive. “Creating opportunities where others see only obstacles.”

We pass ornate paintings in gilded frames, their subjects watching our passage with frozen, aristocratic stares.

The hallway opens into a smaller, more intimate lounge tucked away from the main party.

The music is a distant murmur, and the lighting is softer, more golden.

The leather furniture is Italian, and the rugs are Persian.

“The family’s private lounge,” Renat explains, steering me inside. “Victor Marcelli keeps it reserved for his closest associates.”

“And you qualify as that?”

“I qualify as many things, Elena.”

The way he says my name sends a shiver down my spine. Not the fake name I tried to hide behind, but my real one. In his mouth, it sounds like a secret, something intimate shared between conspirators.

“Should I be concerned that you managed to get me alone?” I ask, moving toward the fireplace.

“That depends,” he drawls, crossing to a small bar cart in the corner. “Are you afraid of me?”

I watch him pour two fingers of amber liquid into crystal tumblers. His movements are precise and controlled. Everything about him speaks of power contained rather than power flaunted. It makes him infinitely more dangerous.

“If I were afraid, I wouldn’t be here,” I reply coolly, accepting the glass he offers.

His fingers brush mine during the exchange, sending a jolt of electricity up my arm. Our eyes lock and for a moment, neither of us moves.

“So why are you here, Elena? The truth this time.”

I take a sip of the whiskey to buy myself time. It burns pleasantly down my throat, warming me from within. The truth is a perilous concept.

“I told you, I’m interested in property development along the coast,” I say carefully, sticking as close to my cover story as possible without outright lying.

His eyes narrow slightly. “Bullshit.”

I nearly choke on my drink. “Excuse me?”

“You’re not an investor,” he answers with absolute certainty. “Your hands have never signed real estate contracts. They’ve typed, though. A lot. The slight callus on your middle finger gives it away.”

My fingers instinctively curl around my glass. How did he notice such a detail? I suddenly feel exposed, more naked than if he’d unzipped my dress.

“Maybe I’m a writer,” I counter, going for nonchalance.

“Maybe you are.” He moves close enough that I can smell his cologne. It’s expensive and reminds me of cedar and spice. “But not of fiction.”

My heartbeat quickens. He’s too perceptive, too dangerous for this game.

I should end this charade, make an excuse, and leave.

But the story about what’s happening in Little Havana and who’s behind the forced evictions and mysterious acquisitions is right here, standing in front of me in an impeccably tailored suit, sipping whiskey with infuriating confidence.

“I’m curious about people,” I admit, deciding a partial truth is my safest play. “Especially powerful ones.”

“And what do you do with this curiosity?”

“I satisfy it.”

His lips curve upward. “Is that all you want to satisfy tonight, Elena?”

The question is charged with possibilities. I should be offended. I should shut him down. Instead, a slow burn ignites deep in my core, impossible to ignore.

“That’s presumptuous,” I huff, but my voice has gone slightly husky.

“Is it?” He sets his glass down on a side table and takes a step closer. “You came here under a false name. You sought me out specifically. You’ve been watching me all night when you thought I wasn’t looking.”

Have I been that obvious? I thought I’d been careful and professional, keeping my journalistic observations subtle. But he’s been watching me watch him.

“Maybe I just find you interesting,” I admit.

“Interesting enough to risk being caught? To place yourself in a potentially dangerous situation with a man you don’t know?” He reaches out, tracing one finger along my bare collarbone. “That’s not curiosity, Elena. That’s either foolishness or attraction. Which is it?”

I don’t back away from his touch. My skin burns where his finger has been like he’s marked me in a primitive way.

“Can’t it be both?”

He chuckles a deep sound that vibrates through me. “Honest at last.”

Before I can respond, his hand comes up to cup my face, his thumb brushing over my lower lip. His eyes lock onto mine, searching for permission or resistance. I give neither, frozen in place by the sheer intensity of his gaze.

“I should warn you,” he murmurs, “I’m not a good man, Elena.”

“I never thought you were.”

Something flashes in his eyes, maybe approval or quiet respect for my candor. Then he leans down, and his lips find mine.

The kiss is nothing like I expected. I anticipate dominance, perhaps even violence. But his mouth is gentle at first, testing, teasing, coaxing a response from me. When I don’t pull away, his other hand slides around my waist, drawing me against the hard plane of his chest.

I tell myself I’m playing along with the story, and this is just part of my cover. But the lie disintegrates the moment my hands move of their own accord, sliding up his chest to his shoulders. His body is all hard muscle beneath the expensive suit, and I can feel his heat through the fabric.

The kiss deepens. His tongue traces the seam of my lips, demanding entrance, and I grant it. The taste of whiskey blends with his distinct flavor, flooding my senses. His hand at my waist slides lower, fingers splaying across my hip, pulling me tighter against him.

Warning bells clang in my mind, reminding me who he is, who I am, and what I’m doing here. But they seem distant, muffled by the blood rushing in my ears and the heat building between us.

When he finally breaks the kiss, we’re both breathing harder. He doesn’t release me, keeping one hand on my hip, the other now tangled in my hair.

“That,” he says, his voice rough, “is not what I expected when I decided to confront you tonight.”

I manage a breathless laugh. “Disappointed?”

“Intrigued.” His thumb traces my lower lip again, damp now from our kiss. “Come with me.”

It’s not a question but an assumption of compliance.

In any other circumstance, with any other man, I’d bristle at the command.

But something about Renat Rostov short-circuits my usual defenses.

Or maybe it’s just the story. The access.

The opportunity to see behind the curtain of power that shrouds Miami’s elite scene.

At least, that’s what I tell myself as I follow him out of the lounge and down another hallway, his hand firmly clasping mine.

We ascend a curved staircase to the second floor of the mansion, passing oil paintings of stern-faced Italians and ornate vases on pedestals. The music from the ballroom fades entirely, replaced by the sound of our footsteps on marble and the distant sound of the ocean through open windows.

“Where are we going?” I question.

“Somewhere private.”

He stops before a door at the end of the hall, producing a key from his pocket. The lock clicks, and he pushes the door open, gesturing for me to enter first.

The bedroom is elegant but masculine, decorated in deep blues and rich mahogany. A four-poster bed dominates one wall while floor-to-ceiling windows reveal a balcony overlooking the gardens and, beyond them, the glittering Miami skyline.

“You have a key to a bedroom in someone else’s mansion?” I raise an eyebrow, impressed despite myself.

Renat closes the door behind us, the lock clicking softly. “Victor keeps rooms for certain associates who might need...discretion.”

“How convenient.” I move to the windows, buying time to collect my thoughts. What am I doing here? This has gone far beyond research for a story. But I can’t deny the pull between us, the electric current that seems to connect my body to his across the room.

Behind me, I hear the pop of a cork. I turn to see him pouring champagne into flutes, his movements fluid.

“Tell me about yourself, Elena,” he says, handing me a glass. “The real you, not the fiction you created for tonight.”

I take a sip of champagne, the bubbles fizzing pleasantly on my tongue. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything.” He sits on the edge of the bed, loosening his tie. “Start with your last name.”

“Martinez,” I reply after a pause. There’s no point lying about something he could easily discover. “Elena Martinez.”

“Cuban?”

I nod. “On my mother’s side. She came over to the United States when I was a baby.”

“And what do you do, Elena Martinez, when you’re not impersonating Russian heiresses at galas?”