Page 21 of Crystal Wrath
I try to push thoughts of Renat out of my mind, but they claw their way in like thorns snagging silk. No matter how I bury myself in work, they find me through the rustle of paper, the hum of fluorescent lights, and the silence between each click of the keyboard. I shouldn't be thinking about him. Not after the way he invaded my apartment and kissed me like he had every right to. And definitely not after the way I let him.
The memory of his hands on my waist burns like a brand. The way his fingers threaded through my hair, the heat of his body pressed against mine, the desperate hunger in his kiss that matched my own. I tell myself it was just adrenaline, the dangerous thrill of being close to someone who could destroy me with a single phone call. But my body remembers the way he made me feel alive in a way I haven't felt in years.
I remind myself why I'm here. Why I became a journalist. Why I lie awake at night combing through property deeds and zoning records. The truth. Justice. All the ideals I clung to when my mother came home exhausted from triple shifts and neighbors were evicted from buildings owned by invisible landlords withforeign names and bottomless bank accounts. That's who I'm fighting for.
My mother's face flashes in my mind, the way she looked when we got the eviction notice from our apartment in Little Havana. I was twelve, old enough to understand that we were being pushed out to make room for something shinier, something that would make rich people richer. She held that notice in her trembling hands and promised me that someday, things would be different. That someday, people like us would have a voice.
I became that voice. I won't let her down now, no matter how complicated this has become.
Still, as I drive toward the City Records office, I feel the whisper of Renat’s warning in my head like a storm rumbling on the horizon.There are forces in this city much darker than zoning boards and property deeds.I shake the memory off, along with the way his voice dropped to that dangerous whisper when he said it. If I let fear win, I might as well quit right now. I'm not that girl.
The radio drones with afternoon traffic reports and pop music that feels too cheerful for my mood. Miami's skyline stretches before me, glass towers reaching toward a cloudless sky, each one representing millions of dollars and countless displaced families. The city looks beautiful from a distance, but I know the ugly truth hiding beneath all that gleaming concrete and steel.
My phone buzzes with a text from Nick.Any updates on the Rostov story?
I type back quickly at a red light.Working on it. Have a lead today.
His response comes immediately.Be careful, Martinez. That's an order.
If only he knew how deep I've already gone. How far past careful I've traveled.
The records office is squat and square, made of sun-bleached concrete with aging window slats and a creaky automatic door that groans as I step through. It smells faintly of mildew and government-issued despair, mixed with burnt coffee and the staleness that comes from decades of bureaucratic indifference. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, flooding the room in a harsh, unflattering glare.
A bored clerk eyes me over wire-rimmed glasses, barely looking up from his crossword puzzle. His nameplate reads “Gerald Hoffman,” and he has the look of someone who's been sitting behind this desk since the Clinton administration. A man who's seen every type of person come through these doors looking for answers, secrets, or ammunition.
“Afternoon,” I greet, offering a polite smile that I hope looks more confident than I feel. “I need access to property records for the 33135 zip code. And anything tied to Enclave Development, Mariner Holdings, and Candelaro International.”
His pen pauses mid-square, and for the first time, he looks at me with interest. His pale blue eyes narrow slightly, studying my face like he's trying to place me or figure out my angle.
“You a reporter?”
I could lie and create some elaborate cover story. But something about Gerald's tired expression tells me he's heard every excuse in the book.
“Freelance researcher.” Close enough to the truth without setting off alarm bells.
He motions lazily toward a back desk, his attention already drifting back to his puzzle. “They're digitized. Computer's slow as molasses in January. Don't spill anything on it, and don't expect miracles. Half the records from before 2010 are still corrupted from the system upgrade.”
I settle into the chair, which squeaks ominously under my weight. The computer monitor is ancient, probably dating back to the Bush administration, and the keyboard keys are worn smooth from countless fingers searching for truth in digital filing cabinets. The mouse has a slight stutter that makes navigation feel like trying to perform surgery with oven mitts.
But I'm patient. I've learned to be. Investigative journalism is ninety percent patience and ten percent pure stubborn determination.
My fingers fly across the keyboard despite the technical limitations. The system groans like it's dying a slow, electronic death, but it gives me what I want. Parcel after parcel, ownership trails that vanish into LLCs registered in tax havens. Delaware shell companies, with names like Sunset Holdings and Pacific Ventures, revealing absolutely nothing about who really owns them or what they plan to do with Miami's most vulnerable neighborhoods. A maze designed to hide monsters, just like Renat said. The thought of him sends another unwelcome flutter through my chest, but I push it down and focus on the screen.
I dig deeper and cross-reference property sales with zoning changes, city council votes, and campaign contributions. A pattern begins to form, like a photograph developing in slow motion. Different company names, same addresses, samemailing post office box in Brickell. The same law firm handles the paperwork. The same expedited approval process that somehow skips all the usual bureaucratic delays.
That's not just a coincidence. That's coordination.
One name keeps appearing in the digital paper trail like a signature on a master plan: Samuil Kozlov, listed as the registered agent for at least fifteen different companies. A quick search reveals that Mr. Kozlov doesn't seem to exist anywhere else. No social media presence, no public records, no employment history. He's a ghost with a law degree, existing only to sign documents and file paperwork.
The deeper I dig, the more the web expands. Properties in Little Havana, but also in Overtown, and in parts of Coral Gables that haven't been gentrified yet. A systematic acquisition of land that follows demographic patterns, targeting communities with high percentages of elderly residents, recent immigrants, and families without the resources to fight back.
My notebook is filled with connections, arrows, and question marks. After two hours, my hand cramps from scribbling notes, and my eyes burn from staring at the flickering screen. But I have more than enough to draw a comprehensive web of corruption. My fingers ache, and my brain hums with the kind of urgency that comes with knowing you're onto something big. Something dangerous.
I pack up quickly, slinging my bag over my shoulder, stepping out into the humid late afternoon air. Miami's heat hits me like a wall, thick and oppressive even as the sun starts its descent toward the horizon. Palm trees rustle in the breeze that carries the scent of saltwater and car exhaust, the familiar cocktail of an urban paradise.
The parking lot is nearly empty now, just a few scattered cars belonging to government workers putting in overtime or citizens dealing with bureaucratic nightmares. My car sits in the same spot where I left it three hours ago, baking in the Florida sun until the interior feels like a convection oven.
That's when I see it. A black SUV. Parked across the street, the engine idling despite the heat. Tinted windows so dark I can't see inside, with chrome details that catch the afternoon light like predatory eyes. It wasn't there when I arrived. I would have noticed this vehicle that screams money and menace in equal measure.
