Page 19 of Crystal Wrath
“One of his men spotted her at the records office last week. He recognized her from a protest about a year ago. It was some housing justice rally where she was giving interviews. He took her picture with a telephoto lens. He's got a file on her now.”
Rage unfurls in my gut like smoke from a slow-burning fuse. The thought of Bennato's men watching Elena, photographing her, and building a case against her makes my vision blur around the edges.
Francesco Bennato represents everything I despise about the old ways. He's sloppy, violent for the sake of violence, and stupid enough to think muscle can solve every problem. He's been trying to muscle in on my territory for years, using tactics that draw too much attention from law enforcement.
“Did he say anything about moving on her?”
Sergey shrugs, but there's tension in his shoulders that tells me he's more concerned than he's letting on. “Not yet. But it's Bennato. When has he ever played fair? When has he ever shown restraint?”
I'm already standing and reaching for my keys. My pulse thunders with something dangerously close to panic, and that terrifies me more than any threat Bennato could make.
I don't panic. I haven't panicked since I was a child hiding in closets while my father's enemies came calling. But the thought of Elena in Bennato's crosshairs and the image of her bodywashing up in the bay makes something primal and protective surge through me.
“Where are you going?” Sergey calls after me.
“To handle this before it becomes a problem.”
Her apartment building is modest but clean, tucked in a quieter corner of downtown with bougainvillea crawling up the weathered brick. The neighborhood is undergoing a transition as old Florida charm gives way to modern condos and trendy coffee shops. It's the type of area developers love to target. Full of potential profit for those willing to displace the existing residents.
I take the stairs two at a time, adrenaline pushing me faster than the ancient elevator could carry me. By the time I reach her door, my heart is pounding against my ribs like a caged animal.
I knock hard. And then I knock harder. Control seems to have abandoned me entirely.
When she opens the door, she's barefoot, dressed in black leggings and a fitted tee that hugs her curves in all the right places. Her hair is pulled up in a messy bun, and she's not wearing any makeup. She looks infuriatingly soft and vulnerable in a way that makes me want to wrap her in bulletproof armor and hide her somewhere Bennato will never find her.
Her eyes widen when she sees me. “Renat? What the hell are you doing here?”
I push past her without invitation, scanning her apartment for signs of threats and evidence that someone else has been here. The space is small but warm, filled with books, plants, and personal touches that make a place feel like home. Cuban artwork hangs on the walls, and a photo on the mantle shows a woman who must be her mother, as she bears a resemblance to her.
“We need to talk,” I tell her, turning to face her as she closes the door.
“Excuse me? You don't just barge into my home without an invitation. You can't just show up here and?—”
“Francesco Bennato knows who you are.”
The words hit her so hard she takes a step back. I watch the color drain from her face and see her back press against the door as if she needs the support.
“What?”
“He has a file on you. He knows you're investigating real estate developments. He's seen you at the records office, at City Hall. He knows your name, Elena, and that means you're already dead.”
Right now, she looks exactly like what she is. A young woman who has gotten in over her head and pushed too hard, attracting the attention of predators.
“How do you know this?”
“Because I have ears everywhere in this city. Because information is power, and power is survival.”
Her expression hardens, steel replacing vulnerability. “Of course you do. Mafia prince that you are.”
The accusation stings more than it should. “You don't get it. Francesco Bennato doesn’t kill people just for fun. Not for show or even revenge. He kills them as a way of keeping the air clear and maintaining order. If you keep digging into his business?—”
“I'm not stopping.”
“Then you're signing your death warrant.”
“So…what? You're here to save me? Is that your Bratva code now? Rescue the journalist you fucked and threatened in the same breath?”
The rage flares white-hot through my chest. She's pushing me, challenging me, making me feel things I don't want to feel. Making me care about someone who should be nothing more than a problem to be solved.
