Page 25 of Crystal Wrath
“Watch yourself,” I say quietly.
He nods, but I can see the resentment simmering beneath the surface. “I'll call Bianca.”
After he leaves, I sit in the silence of my office and try to remember when everything became so complicated. When I was younger, the world was simpler. Enemies were obvious. Friends were rare but loyal. Women were beautiful diversions who understood the rules of engagement.
Now I have a journalist who should be my enemy but feels like salvation. A former lover who should be in my past but keeps pulling me backward. And a second-in-command who's starting to look at me like he's measuring the distance between my shoulders for a knife.
I pour another vodka and watch the sun climb higher over my kingdom of glass and steel and secrets. Tonight, I'll face Bianca. Tonight, I'll try to remember why I ended things with her in the first place.
Tonight, I'll try not to think about Elena. But I already know I'll fail.
Le Jardin sparkles with the elegance of privilege as I arrive at exactly seven o'clock. Glass walls reveal the Miami skyline in all its neon glory, garden chandeliers cast everything in warm gold, and the menus have no prices because they are reserved for those who don't need to ask. The hostess recognizes me immediately, her smile bright with fear disguised as respect.
“Mr. Rostov, your table is ready.”
She leads me through the main dining room, past tables filled with people who shape the world with phone calls and handshakes. Politicians I own. Businessmen who owe me favors. Society wives who look the other way when their husbands need my services. They nod respectfully as I pass, understanding that my presence here legitimizes their own.
Bianca is already seated in the private alcove I requested, a section of the restaurant reserved for conversations that requirediscretion. She stands when she sees me, all tailored curves and gold jewelry that catches the light like liquid fire. The silk of her emerald dress fits her waist with dangerous precision, the neckline sharp enough to cut. Her honey-blonde hair is swept up in a way that shows off the elegant line of her neck, and her espresso eyes are already calculating my mood.
“Renat,” she purrs, gliding toward me in heels that click with the authority of a woman who knows her power.
“Bianca.” I kiss her cheek out of habit, catching the warm, citrusy perfume she's wearing. It smells expensive and calculated, like everything else about her.
She sits, crossing her legs slowly and deliberately. Her skin gleams under the low lighting, flawless and sun-kissed from her weekend trips to Key West. Her full lips are painted in a deep wine-red that matches her nails, and the corner of her mouth lifts like she's already won something I haven't offered.
“I wasn't sure you'd come,” she says, lifting her glass of what I know is a 2016 Barolo. She's always had expensive taste.
“You said it was urgent.”
She smiles into her wine, and the expression transforms her face from beautiful to devastating. “Everything is urgent when it's your name on the marquee.”
The waiter arrives and Bianca orders for both of us like she always does. Filet mignon, rare. Truffle risotto. Bordeaux from 2015. Her taste is impeccable and insufferable, a combination that used to drive me crazy with desire and frustration. She talks to the waiter in fluent Italian, her voice musical and commanding. The man blushes and nearly trips over himself to please her. She's always had that effect on people.
We make small talk at first, words dressed as importance but functioning as foreplay in her world. The condo project is behind schedule because of permit issues. Fabric delays from Milan. Paint swatches that don't match her vision. She talks with her hands, slender fingers adorned in gold rings that glimmer as she speaks. Her nails are perfectly manicured, painted in that same deep, wine-red color that evokes thoughts of blood and roses.
But her eyes, those deep brown eyes with lashes like smoke, never leave mine. She's reading me, cataloging every micro-expression, every tell. It's what made her so good at her job and so dangerous as a lover.
“The penthouse units are going to be spectacular,” she says, leaning forward slightly. The movement is calculated to give me a better view of her cleavage, and I'm annoyed at myself for noticing. “I've sourced marble from the same quarry Michelangelo used. The Italian government doesn't usually allow exports, but I have connections.”
Of course, she does. Bianca has always been able to charm her way into places others can't reach. It's how she built her reputation as Miami's most sought-after designer. It's also how she ended up in my bed six years ago and stayed there for two tumultuous years.
“And the common areas?” I ask, genuinely curious despite the undercurrents of tension.
“Library with first-edition books, wine cellar with temperature-controlled storage, infinity pool that seems to blend with the bay. Your buyers will feel like they're living in a fairy tale.”
She knows how to sell dreams. It's one of her most dangerous talents.
The meal arrives with the theatrical presentation that Le Jardin is famous for. We eat in comfortable silence at first, but I can feel the tension of things unsaid between us. Regret. Lust. Power. Loss. The way we ended still sits between us like a scar that never quite healed.
She cuts into her steak with surgical precision, each movement graceful and deliberate. “So,” she says at last, dabbing her mouth with a napkin. “This woman.”
I don't answer, but my fork stops halfway to my mouth.
Bianca's gaze sharpens, and I remember why she was so good at reading people. She notices everything. “You didn't mention her, but I hear things. A reporter, right? That's the rumor making the rounds.”
“Then you already know more than you should.”
She tilts her head, studying me like I'm a puzzle she's trying to solve. “I know you, Renat. I know how you move through the world. I know the pulse in your neck when something matters. And you've got that look tonight.”
