Page 8 of Crystal Wrath (Rostov Bratva #1)

ELENA

The morning after shouldn't feel like this.

My limbs are still heavy, my skin still humming, and the taste of him lingers faintly on my lips like the final notes of a song that refuses to fade.

I lie there for a moment in the haze of half-sleep, the silk sheets cool against my bare legs, Renat's scent wrapped around me like an invisible chain.

But the warmth I feel isn't safety. It's a warning.

I have crossed a line I told myself I would never approach, let alone tumble over with the kind of reckless, breathless abandon I gave in to last night. And now I have to live with that choice.

Renat is no ordinary man. He is power wrapped in precision.

Charisma with teeth. A walking contradiction.

Sophisticated and savage in equal measures.

And I, Elena Martinez, an investigative journalist with a moral compass sharp enough to draw blood, just slept with the very man I came here to expose. What the hell am I doing?

I slide out of bed without a sound, careful not to disturb him.

His body is sprawled across the other side of the mattress, the faint glow of sunrise catching the ridges of his bare back.

I can’t look at him for too long. If I do, I will forget what I came here for.

I will forget the families in Little Havana, the displacement, the corruption.

I will ignore the danger and fall right back into bed with him.

Last night was a lapse. One I will not repeat.

I find my dress on the floor, slip it on, and snatch my heels from where they were abandoned near the door.

My reflection in the gilded mirror over the dresser stops me in my tracks.

My hair is a mess, my lipstick is long gone, and there is a faint flush across my cheeks that makes me look younger. Softer.

I don’t have time for softness. Not when the story I’m chasing could burn down half of Miami's elite.

The walk of shame feels even worse when you are in the same dress you wore the night before, your hair tangled from a corrupt Russian’s fingers, and your neck marked with evidence of his passion.

The early morning air is saturated with humidity as I exit the Marcelli estate. My phone shows three missed calls from Amelia and a text asking if I am alive. I text her back quickly, assuring her I’m fine and asking to meet at our usual café in an hour.

The taxi driver mercifully doesn’t comment on my appearance, though I catch his knowing glance in the rearview mirror. I sink into the backseat, exhaustion finally catching up with me.

The events of last night play through my mind like a movie I can’t pause.

Renat's hands on my skin, his lips trailing fire down my body, the way he whispered my name against my neck as if it were a sacred incantation.

My body still tingles from his touch, traitorously remembering every caress, every kiss, every moment of pleasure.

I close my eyes, trying to push those memories away and focus on the story. That’s the reason I infiltrated that party in the first place. Little Havana is undergoing rapid change, with longtime residents being displaced by rising rents and suspicious evictions.

My investigation has led me to believe that Renat Rostov is behind much of it, using shell companies and political connections to quietly acquire property and push out the neighborhood's Cuban community.

But proving it has been nearly impossible.

Until now. Being so close to him, I might finally have a chance to gather concrete evidence.

If I can keep my head straight and my heart locked down.

By the time I walk into Morning Brew, a charming little corner café with honey-tinted wood tables and fresh pastries displayed behind glass, Amelia is already seated, sipping a cappuccino and wearing a knowing look in her ocean-blue eyes.

“Late night?” she asks as I drop into the chair across from her.

“Something like that,” I murmur, stirring sugar into my coffee. She leans forward, her glossy blonde ponytail bouncing with the movement.

“Tell me everything. Start from the top. Did you pretend to be the mysterious heiress?”

“Yes.”

“Did anyone fall for it?”

“Most people, yes. But not Renat Rostov.”

Amelia lets out a low whistle. “Damn. And?”

I hesitate, my fingers tightening around the ceramic cup. “And I think I am in over my head.”

Her eyes narrow suspiciously. “What happened?”

“He saw right through me,” I say quietly. “Almost immediately. But he didn’t out me. He played along. I think he was intrigued. Or maybe amused.”

“Renat Rostov doesn’t strike me as the type to do anything for amusement.”

I meet her gaze and hesitate, nibbling on my lower lip. “I ended up in his private room,” I admit. “He asked me questions. I gave vague answers. Then things happened.”

Amelia stares at me in disbelief. “Oh my God! You slept with him?”

I nod once. “It was a mistake.”

“Oh honey...” she exhales, leaning back. “You’re not just playing with fire. You’re rolling around in it naked.”

“I know.” I drop my forehead to the table for a second, groaning softly. “I know.”

“Is he dangerous?” she whispers.

“Yes. But he didn’t hurt me.”

“Not physically, maybe. But emotionally? Professionally?” Her voice softens. “Elena, this could ruin everything you have worked for.”

“I know,” I say again, firmer this time. “That is why it will not happen again.”

Amelia watches me carefully. “You still think he’s connected to the corruption?”

“I’m sure of it. And now more than ever, I need to prove it.”

She nods slowly. “Okay. But you need to be smart. And careful. And for the love of God, do not sleep with him again.”

“I won’t,” I vow.

After breakfast, I head to the newsroom.

The building is already buzzing, phones ringing, and keyboards clacking in a chaotic rhythm that feels like home.

I push open the glass door, nod at the receptionist, and make my way to my desk in the back corner.

It’s cluttered and chaotic, stacked with files, notebooks, and empty coffee cups.

I sink into my chair and boot up my computer, the screen flickering to life with a familiar hum.

I try to focus on my notes from last night.

I type up everything I remember: the overheard conversations, the whispered rumors, the body language between Renat and the commissioner.

I catalog the brands of liquor, the layout of the mansion, and the security details.

But every few minutes, my mind drifts back to the feel of Renat's lips against mine.

The way his voice dipped when he said my name.

The way his hand fit against my lower back.

“Martinez.”

The voice cuts through my daydream like a knife, gruff, authoritative, and familiar. I look up to see Nicholas “Nick” Anderson standing over my desk, his imposing figure creating a shadow across my notes.

At sixty-three, the Editor-in-Chief of The Miami Journal still commands every room he enters despite his modest five-foot- ten frame.

His stocky build and slightly rounded belly don't diminish the natural authority he projects.

Today, his silver-gray hair is somewhat disheveled, as if he's been running his hands through it while poring over the morning's headlines.

His sharp gray-blue eyes, the same ones that have spotted fabrications in stories and brilliance in rookie reporters for over four decades, study me from behind thick-framed reading glasses.

The Florida sun has etched deep lines around those watchful eyes, evidence of years spent chasing stories under the Miami heat.

His salt-and-pepper beard, definitely more salt than pepper these days, is neatly trimmed, though I notice a small coffee stain near the corner of his mouth.

Nick's sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, exposing forearms dotted with age spots and old scars from his days as a war correspondent. His tie, navy with subtle gold stripes, hangs loosely around his neck as if conformity to dress codes is an afterthought.

In the four years since he plucked me fresh from journalism school, Nick has been my mentor, my editor, and the closest thing to a father figure I’ve ever had.

He's the only one who believed in me when I pitched my first investigative piece.

He's also the one who stayed late to help me rewrite it when it fell short of his exacting standards.

I watch as he taps the pen in his hand against my desk, his tell when he's concerned or deep in thought. From the worry lines creasing his forehead, I can tell which one it is today.

“In my office. Now,” he demands, clutching a coffee mug that smells like it's been reheated at least three times since dawn. The mug itself faded and chipped at the rim, bears the barely legible logo of a journalism conference from 2018.

I grab my notebook and follow him, heart thudding. I've seen that look before. It’s not anger, exactly, but the protective concern of someone who has pulled too many young reporters out of dangerous situations over the years.

He closes the door behind us, leans against his desk, and crosses his arms. “You went to the Marcelli gala.”

It’s not a question.

“I did.”

“Under a fake name.”

“Technically, yes.”

“Technically?” His voice rises an octave. He removes his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose.

I sit across from him, taking in the familiar surroundings of his office.

The wall behind his desk is a testament to his career.

There are framed front pages of his biggest stories, a slightly yellowed Pulitzer nomination certificate, and a photo of him with a journalist he once mentored who went on to win the actual prize.

That photo has always been positioned where he can see it while working, a reminder of his legacy in shaping careers like mine.

“I had to get inside,” I explain. “No one would have let a journalist past the front gate.”