Page 23 of Crystal Wrath
I hunch lower in my seat, pretending to stir cream into the coffee I haven't touched, my hands trembling so badly that I almost drop the spoon. The metal clinks against the mug with tiny sounds that seem impossibly loud in my heightened state of awareness.
My mind flashes back to Renat and his warnings, which I dismissed as intimidation tactics.People have been murdered for asking fewer questions than you.The words hit differently now, loaded with the possibility that he was trying to save my life rather than scare me into submission.
The two men linger outside, their presence changing the atmosphere on the street like storm clouds gathering before a hurricane. Other pedestrians give them a wide berth, some unconscious instinct warning them away from predators in expensive suits.
One of them cups his hand to the glass window of the coffee shop, peering inside with cold eyes that seem to catalog every face, every exit, every potential hiding place. I sink lower in my chair, using the potted plant as cover while my heart tries to beat its way out of my chest.
Please don't see me. Please don't see me. Please don't see me.
The mantra runs through my head like a prayer to whatever gods protect foolish journalists who've gotten in too deep.
My phone buzzes again with a message from Amelia.Get out the back. I'll pick you up around the block. Corner of Jasper and 10th.
I wait, counting seconds that feel like hours. The men continue their surveillance of the street, patient and professional in a way that tells me this isn't their first time hunting someone through Miami's urban maze. Ten minutes crawl by like a slow bleed, each moment stretching thin with tension and the possibility of discovery.
Finally, the men cross the street and disappear into a cell phone shop, probably checking to see if I've taken refuge there. I take my chance rushing out the back door, moving as quickly as I can without running. Down a trash-lined alley that smells of rotting fruit and industrial cleaning supplies. Around the corner, my bag bouncing against my hip with each hurried step.
Amelia's white Lexus screeches to a halt at the corner, and I've never been so happy to see her perfectly styled blonde hair and worried expression. I throw the passenger door open and dive in, disregarding dignity and grace.
“Go,” I gasp, still breathless from fear and exertion.
She doesn't ask questions. Just puts the car in drive and speeds away from the corner as if we're fleeing a natural disaster. Her knuckles are white on the steering wheel, and I can see the pulse jumping in her throat.
Only once we're blocks away, winding through residential neighborhoods where children play in front yards and families are starting to think about dinner, do I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
My hands are still shaking as I give her directions to her own apartment, my voice hoarse with residual terror, my mind muddied with panic. My car can stay behind for now. I'll figureout how to retrieve it later when I'm not being actively hunted through the streets of Miami.
Once we're inside her apartment, I collapse onto her cream-colored couch, body folding under me like scaffolding giving way. Amelia locks every bolt and double-checks the curtains, her face pale with fear that mirrors my own.
“Elena, you can't keep doing this,” she says, her voice tight with worry. “They're watching you now. This isn't some theoretical danger anymore. These people know who you are, where you go, what you're investigating.”
I nod, too rattled to form coherent words. My mouth feels like cotton, and my limbs are heavy with exhaustion that has nothing to do with physical exertion and everything to do with the crash that comes after flooding your system with adrenaline.
Later, alone in her guest bedroom surrounded by her collection of romance novels and scented candles, I replay it all. The SUV. The suits. The ice in my veins when I realized they were following me, hunting me through city streets like I was prey.
Renat's warning is no longer just ominous. It's prophecy. And I was too arrogant, too convinced of my own invincibility to listen.
But fear doesn't mean surrender. It can't. Too many people are counting on me to tell their stories, to expose the corruption that's destroying their communities one property deed at a time. My mother's face appears in my mind again, tired but determined, promising that someday things will be different.
I won't run. I won't stop. I'll dig deeper. And I'll do it smarter. Because I'm not just fighting for my story anymore. I'm fighting to survive it.
8
RENAT
I spend the entire morning pretending not to think about Elena. Which, of course, means I think about nothing else.
I sit in my penthouse office overlooking Biscayne Bay, the glass walls framing the city like a work of art. The water glistens with the early sun, yachts drifting like toys for the rich. From this height, everything looks clean. Perfect. As if corruption doesn't seep through every inch of this place like humidity. The morning light catches the crystal decanter on my desk, scattering rainbows across the mahogany surface that my father would have called weakness. Beauty for beauty's sake. But I've learned that power without refinement is just thuggery, and thuggery gets you killed in this business.
My hands rest on the polished wood desk, but my thoughts are still in that cramped, sunlit apartment. Elena’s voice, sharp as broken glass, telling me to get out. The feel of her body pressed against mine, the desperation in our kiss, the truth neither of us wanted to admit lingering in the space between. The way her dark hair fell across her shoulders when she turned away fromme, dismissing me like I was nothing more than a mistake she needed to forget.
She got under my skin. Fast and deep. It's unsettling in ways I can't quantify. I've built my life on predictability, on controlling every variable until the outcome is guaranteed. When my father died and left me this empire, I was twenty-five and hungry for respect. I earned it by being methodical and never allowing emotion to cloud my judgment. Every decision is calculated. Every relationship is transactional. Even the women who warm my bed know their place in the hierarchy of my priorities.
But Elena Martinez refuses to fit into any category I've created for her.
Everything in my life has its place. My men know the chain of command. My businesses run like clockwork. My enemies fall in line or disappear. The docks I control move cargo without question. The politicians I own vote the way I need them to. The judges I've bought rule in my favor. It's a symphony of corruption that plays exactly the notes I conduct.
But Elena, she's chaos wrapped in soft skin and stubborn fire. And that chaos is beginning to rot the foundation I spent a decade building. She makes me want things I convinced myself I didn't need. Safety that doesn't come from fear. Respect that isn't bought. Connection that exists without contracts or leverage.
