Page 15 of Crystal Wrath
“I had to get inside,” I explain. “No one would have let a journalist past the front gate.”
“You put yourself in the middle of a goddamn hornet's nest.” His pen tapping intensifies, a rapid rhythm against the wooden desk. “Christ, Elena. Do you know what these people are capable of?”
“I know.”
He stares at me, the hard lines of his face unreadable but the concern in his eyes unmistakable. It’s the same look he gave me when I insisted on covering the Miami gang violence last year and narrowly escaping injury during the harbor explosion. It's the look of someone who cares too much to watch me fail but respects me too much to hold me back.
“Tell me you got something,” he breathes, reaching for his coffee mug, taking a sip, and grimacing at the taste.
I flip open my notebook. “The conversations I overheard confirm that Renat Rostov has influence over city officials. The commissioner was practically eating out of his hand. There were real estate barons, bankers, and politicians. The power in that room was unreal.”
Nick rubs a hand over his face, his wedding ring still worn and catching the fluorescent light, though his wife passed away three years ago. “And what do you want to do with this?”
“I want to write the exposé. Miami's elite are laundering their reputations through charity galas while displacing families in Little Havana. It is not just shady, it’s criminal. And I think Rostov is at the center of it.”
He sighs and sinks into his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. “You want to poke a corrupt Russian with a stick?”
“I want to expose the truth.”
“Elena...” He pinches the bridge of his nose again. “You’re a damn good journalist. One of the best I’ve seen in years. But this story is dangerous. These are not petty criminals. These are men who will kill to protect their empires.”
His voice softens slightly, and I catch a glimpse of the man beneath the editor. The one who keeps a photo of his late wife and grown daughter on his credenza, who once told me, after too many scotches at the holiday party, that he sees some of himself in me. The man who worries I might follow too closely in his footsteps, including the ones that led to a near-fatal shooting in Bosnia in '95.
“I’m not asking you to send it to print today. Just let me dig.”
He hesitates, his hand unconsciously touching the faint scar above his collarbone, a souvenir from that war zone. Then, with a grunt, he nods. “You have one week. But if I so much as hear you are in trouble, I’m pulling the plug.”
“Deal.”
I return to my desk and pull up every file I have on Renat Rostov. On the surface, he’s spotless. A real estate mogul with a penchant for philanthropy. He has invested millions in revitalizing Miami's waterfront, funded public art installations, and supported environmental efforts to preserve the coastal wetlands. His perfect teeth shine in every photo, his custom suits are always impeccable, and his arms are often draped around the shoulders of politicians and philanthropists.
But the deeper I dig, the more it all feels like a smokescreen.
The shell corporations buying up land in vulnerable neighborhoods all lead to addresses tied to his subsidiaries. There are whispers in obscure forums and buried comments in watchdog articles. The donations to nonprofits coincide suspiciously with zoning changes and the issuance of fast-tracked permits. A few emails, encrypted but sloppily forwarded, suggest bribery and backdoor deals.
And then I find it. An old investigative file from a shuttered news blog.
Renat Rostov. Russian-born. Moved to Miami at twenty-one. Took over his father's development firm. Allegedly connected to the Bratva, though nothing was ever proven. Rumors link him to several violent incidents swept under the rug by city officials with ties to his real estate company.
And most damning of all is the mention of a rivalry with the Bennato family. The Italian crime syndicate has been established in Miami for a longer period, with deep political connections. There have been whispers of violence between the two factions, including vandalism, missing people, and bombings dismissed as gas leaks.
My fingers hover over the keyboard. If I write this, I could expose one of the most powerful and dangerous criminal empires in Miami. But if I get it wrong or dig too deep...
I glance at the small photograph taped to my monitor. My mom holding me as a baby on a beach in Cuba, smiling despite everything. I take a breath then I start to type.
The words flow easily. Facts, figures, and quotes from anonymous sources, as well as carefully constructed connections between seemingly unrelated events. I outline the pattern of property acquisition in Little Havana, the coincidental timing of zoning changes, and the mysterious disappearance of vocal community advocates who opposed the development. I trace shell companies back to their origins, follow money through offshore accounts, and highlight the convenient political donations that precede each new project approval.
Three hours pass before I catch my breath. My back aches from hunching over the keyboard, and my coffee has gone cold. But on my screen is the skeleton of what could be the biggest story of my career. All I need now is proof. Something concrete that ties Renat directly to the corruption I know exists.
My phone buzzes on the desk, startling me. I pick it up, expecting Amelia. Instead, an unknown number lights up the screen.
“Hello?” I answer cautiously.
“Elena Martinez.” His voice slides through the phone like warm honey, sending an involuntary zing down my spine. “I trust you slept well.”
My mouth goes dry. “How did you get this number?”
Renat chuckles, the sound doing strange things to my core. “I have resources.”
