Page 28 of Crystal Wrath
The memory sends heat spiraling through my chest, and I press my palms flat against the cool surface of my desk to ground myself. I shouldn't feel this way about a man like him. A man wrapped in danger and draped in charm that feels genuine yet calculated. A man who commands fear with a simple look. Who trades in secrets the way other people trade baseball cards. A man who warned me, explicitly and unmistakably, to stop digging into his world.
But here I am, still digging. Still asking questions that apparently have very dangerous answers.
I drag my fingers through my hair, frustrated with myself and the situation I've stumbled into. The strands feel tangled and unwashed, a testament to the many late nights spent hunched over research and the early mornings spent chasing leads. I came to the office today intending to work, to make real progress on the Bennato story. But my mind keeps drifting back to that moment outside the records office when the world shifted beneath my feet, and I realized I was being followed.
The memory makes my ribs ache, not from a physical injury but from the echo of fear that had lodged itself there like a splinter. I can still see that black SUV in my peripheral vision and feel the pressure of unseen eyes tracking my every movement. The men inside had been patient and professional. They'd kept their distance but made sure I knew they were there. A warning wrapped in surveillance.
My phone buzzes against the desk, jolting me from the memory. It's a text from my landlord about next month's rent. I delete it without responding and try to refocus on the article I'msupposed to be writing about the city's new recycling program. Riveting stuff. The words on my screen might as well be written in a foreign language for all the sense they make to my scattered brain.
I lean back in my chair and survey the newsroom. Janet from Sports is arguing with someone over the phone about a photo credit. Tom from Local Government is eating what appears to be his third sandwich of the day while simultaneously typing and talking to his wife about their daughter's soccer practice. Sarah from Lifestyle is painting her nails a bright shade of coral that will definitely leave marks on her keyboard. It's all so normal and wonderfully mundane.
How did I go from covering school board meetings and restaurant openings to having my life threatened by organized crime figures? When did my biggest worry stop being whether I could afford my student loan payments and start being whether I'd live to see my next birthday?
A sharp ring cuts through the din of the newsroom. It takes me a moment to realize it's coming from my desk phone, the landline that rarely rings because most people have my cell number. My heart jumps like a startled rabbit, and I reach for the receiver without thinking. My hand hovers over it for just a moment, some primal instinct warning me that this call will change everything. But I've never been good at listening to my instincts when my curiosity is involved.
“This is Elena,” I answer, working to keep my voice steady and professional despite the sudden hammering of my heart.
There's a pause on the other end. Static hisses softly in my ear like the sound of waves retreating across the sand. Then a voiceemerges from the white noise, low and velvet-smooth, with an Italian accent that oozes menace despite its cultured tones.
“You don't know when to stop.”
The words hit me like ice water. Every hair on the back of my neck rises, and I go rigid in my chair. My free hand grips the edge of my desk so tightly that my knuckles go white. The normal sounds of the newsroom fade into background noise as my entire world narrows to the voice on the other end of the line.
“I beg your pardon?” I manage, though my throat feels like it's closing.
“Francesco Bennato doesn't appreciate your curiosity,” the man continues, his voice gliding through the phone line like a knife slipping through silk. Each word is precisely enunciated and carefully chosen for maximum impact. “You think you're clever, chasing ghosts through city files. But you're poking around in places that don't welcome you.”
My mouth goes dry as dust. My tongue feels thick and useless. Around me, the newsroom continues its normal rhythm, oblivious to the fact that my world is tilting off its axis. I watch Janet gesture emphatically while talking into her headset. I watch Tom unwrap what appears to be a fourth sandwich, and watch Sarah blow on her freshly painted nails. None of them know that death has just called my direct line.
“Who is this?” I whisper.
“You already know.”
And I do. The certainty settles in my bones like concrete. This is Francesco Bennato himself, the man I've been investigating for weeks. The man whose financial dealings have left a trail ofdisplaced families and suspicious deaths. The man whose very existence seems to drape shadows over everything he touches. My stomach churns with a mixture of fear and, inexplicably, excitement. I've spent so long chasing leads and following paper trails that I'd started to think of him as more myth than man. But his voice is very real, very present, very threatening.
“Stop your little game, Miss Martinez,” he continues. The way he says my name sends fresh chills down my spine. “Or the next car you climb into might be your coffin.”
The line goes dead with a soft click that sounds unnaturally loud in the sudden silence that fills my head.
I don't realize I'm shaking until I try to set the receiver back in its cradle, and it rattles against the plastic base like castanets. My breath comes in short, clipped bursts that don't seem to bring enough oxygen to my lungs. I press a hand to my chest, trying to slow my racing heart, trying to think clearly through the panic that's threatening to overwhelm me.
I glance around the newsroom, but no one notices my distress. They're all immersed in their own stories, their own deadlines, their own little worlds. For a moment that stretches into eternity, I'm completely alone in a room full of people. The isolation is almost as frightening as the phone call itself.
I need to move. Sitting here, replaying Bennato's words over and over, will only exacerbate the fear. I push back from my desk and rise slowly, my legs wobbling beneath me like I'm learning to walk all over again. The floor seems unsteady as if the building is swaying. The overhead fluorescent lights suddenly seem too bright, too harsh, outlining everything in unforgiving detail. The walls feel like they're pressing in from all sides and the wholeworld has narrowed to that voice and the promise of violence behind it.
“Martinez.”
I spin around at the sound of Nick's voice, nearly losing my balance in the process. He stands a few feet away, his weathered face creased with its usual frown. His coffee-stained mug is clutched in one hand like a shield, and there are ink stains on his shirt sleeve. Nick has been my editor for years, and I've learned to read his moods, like weather patterns. Right now, storm clouds are gathering.
“Office. Now.”
The words are clipped, brooking no argument. I follow him across the newsroom on autopilot, my limbs moving while my mind continues to spin. His office is small and cramped, filled with stacks of newspapers and empty sandwich wrappers that he has forgotten to discard. Usually, this space feels comforting, like a museum dedicated to the nobility of our profession. Today, it feels like a cage.
His office door clicks shut behind us with a finality that makes my stomach clench. He doesn't waste time with pleasantries.
“I had to go get your damn car from an alley,” he growls, beginning to pace back and forth behind his desk. “You left it there for hours. Do you have any idea how dangerous that was? How worried I was when you didn't answer your phone?”
The memory comes flooding back. The black SUV. The chase through downtown Miami. The desperate decision to abandon my car and disappear into the crowd. It feels like it happened weeks ago instead of less than twenty-four hours.
