Page 35 of Crystal Wrath
ELENA
The gates close behind us with a mechanical finality that sends a prickle down my spine. Massive wrought-iron scrolls welded into elegant designs swing shut, swallowing the rest of the world behind their imposing reach. The sound echoes through the humid Miami air, sealing me into a world I'm not sure I want to understand. My hands tremble slightly as I press them against my thighs, the fabric of my clothes rough against my palms.
Inside, the estate unfolds like something out of a billionaire's fever dream. The gravel crunches beneath the limousines tires as we pull into a circular driveway that curves around a massive marble fountain. Water spills in delicate arcs from the mouth of a lion carved in stone, its eyes fierce and unblinking as if it's watching me. The sculpted beast appears ready to leap from its marble prison, muscles coiled beneath the smooth surface. Every detail has been crafted with painstaking precision, from the individual strands of its mane to the powerful haunches that speak of barely contained violence.
Renat stands at the top of the steps, hands clasped behind his back, his suit perfectly tailored even though the Miami heat hasbegun to settle thickly in the air. The fabric doesn't show a single wrinkle despite the humidity that makes my borrowed dress cling uncomfortably to my skin. His dark hair is perfectly styled, not a strand out of place, and his posture radiates controlled power that makes lesser men step aside without understanding why. His gaze pins me the moment I step out of the car. There's no warmth in his expression, no smile of welcome. Only watchfulness. Control. The intensity of his stare makes my breath catch in my throat, and I have to force myself not to look away.
“Your bags will be brought in,” he announces before I can utter a word. His voice carries easily across the space between us. “You'll be staying in the east wing. Follow me.”
I hesitate for half a second, long enough to consider making a run for it before logic reasserts itself. The gates have already closed behind us with their electronic hum, and I can see the subtle bulges of security cameras mounted on nearly every surface. Even if I could somehow scale the walls, where would I go? Back to my apartment where Francesco's men might be waiting? Back to the streets where car bombs explode without warning? I'm too exhausted, too bruised, too hunted to pretend I have a better option right now. The bandages on my arms pull tight as I move, reminding me of how close I came to dying. Bennato tried to blow me up. And then his men followed me through the city like wolves scenting blood. If Renat hadn't intervened, I would be nothing more than a memory.
“Thank you,” I murmur to the driver before turning away and trailing after Renat.
The front doors open with a deep creak, revealing a foyer so grand it looks like it belongs in a European palace. The sound reverberates through the space, amplified by the soaring ceilingthat stretches high above us. Polished black marble floors gleam beneath a massive chandelier suspended two stories above us. The fixture must weigh thousands of pounds, its ornate metalwork twisted into intricate patterns that speak of old-world craftsmanship. The light refracts through hundreds of dangling crystals, casting prisms of color onto the vaulted ceiling, which is painted with delicate frescoes. Gold-framed artwork lines the walls, original pieces that probably cost more than most people make in a lifetime. Everything smells like money and lemon polish, with an underlying hint of power. Or secrets.
It’s beautiful. And it’s completely cold. There’s no warmth here. No life. Just order and silence and the sense that everything, every rug, every carefully positioned vase, has been placed exactly where Renat wants it. No more, no less. The silence feels oppressive, broken only by the soft whisper of our footsteps against the marble and the distant hum of climate control systems working to maintain perfect temperatures. I realize I haven't heard a single voice since we entered. There are no signs of staff or other occupants. The place feels like a museum after hours when all the visitors have gone home, and only the ghosts remain.
“This way,” he declares, his voice low but firm. The words echo slightly in the vast space. He walks without waiting for me to respond, and I have to quicken my pace to match his long strides. My shoes click against the marble, the sound sharp and intrusive in the cathedral-like silence.
We pass room after room of polished perfection. A formal dining room with a gleaming mahogany table that could seat twenty, its surface reflecting the light from another crystal chandelier. The chairs are upholstered in cream silk that appears to have neverbeen touched by human hands. A library with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes that appear more decorative than functional, and a fireplace carved from white stone. A sitting room with cream-colored sofas positioned around a glass coffee table that holds nothing but a single orchid in a crystal vase.
Everything is perfect. Everything is empty.
The hallways stretch endlessly before us, lined with more artwork and subtle lighting that creates pools of warmth against the cool marble walls. I catch glimpses of other rooms through open doorways, each one more opulent than the last. A music room with a grand piano that gleams like black water. An office with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the bay. A conservatory filled with exotic plants that must require constant care. Yet, despite all this luxury and obvious wealth, the place feels hollow, like a stage set waiting for actors who will never arrive.
We ascend a sweeping staircase, and at last he stops at a tall white door near the end of a hallway lined with silver sconces. The fixtures throw gentle light against the walls, creating intricate shadow patterns that shift slightly as we move.
“This is your room. There's a private bath inside, a closet with clothing that should fit, and anything else you might need.”
The way he phrases it, like he's personally selected everything for my comfort, sends an unexpected shiver down my spine. How does he know what I might need? How does he know my size? The questions pile up in my mind, but I push them aside for now.
I step past him slowly, very aware of the way his cologne mixes with the scent of expensive fabric softener and the spice of his skin. The proximity makes my pulse quicken in ways I don't want to examine. The room is large, maybe the size of my entire apartment in Little Havana. Pale gray walls provide a soothing backdrop for carefully chosen furnishings. A king-sized bed dominates the space, dressed in charcoal sheets that look like they have thread counts for royalty, with a velvet bench at the foot upholstered in deep burgundy.
The windows stretch from floor to ceiling, opening onto a private balcony that overlooks a perfectly manicured garden. Every hedge has been trimmed to geometric precision, and every flower bed has been arranged in patterns that convey a sense of professional landscaping. In the distance, the bay glimmers beneath the dipping sun, its surface shimmering like a sea of scattered diamonds dancing across the water.
The furniture appears to be authentic antiques, pieces that probably have provenance papers and insurance policies. A writing desk sits near one window, its surface clear except for a single lamp with a cream shade. An armoire stands against one wall, its dark wood polished to a mirror shine. A sitting area near the balcony doors features two chairs upholstered in soft gray fabric with a small table between them.
It should feel like safety. It should feel like a sanctuary. It doesn't.
The luxury can't hide the fact that I'm here against my will, protected but not free. The silence presses against my eardrums, making me hyperaware of every small sound. The whisper of my breathing. The soft rustle of fabric as I move. The distant hum of electronics that seem to watch from hidden corners.
“You'll stay in this wing,” Renat declares from behind me. I turn. He's leaning against the doorway now, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. The position should make him appear relaxed, but instead, it emphasizes the controlled strength in his frame. His jacket pulls slightly across his shoulders, hinting at the muscle beneath the expensive fabric. “Don't go into the west wing. Don't speak to staff unless it's necessary. And don't leave the property. If you need anything, use the call panel.”
He gestures toward a small device mounted near the door, its surface smooth and black like everything else in this place. The rules he's laying out sound reasonable on the surface, but underneath them is the unmistakable ring of commands. Not suggestions. Orders.
My temper sparks to life before I can stop it. The emotion feels clean and familiar after the confusion and fear of the past few days. “So that's how this is going to work? You’re going to keep me under house arrest?”
“I saved your life,” he responds evenly, his voice carrying no heat despite my accusation. “And I'm trying to keep you alive. You can call it whatever you want.”
The calmness in his tone only fuels my frustration. How can he be so controlled when everything in my world has been turned upside down? How can he stand there looking perfectly composed while I feel like I'm coming apart at the seams?
My jaw tightens as I struggle to find words that don't sound petulant. “What's in the west wing?”
His eyes shift just for a second. The reaction is so brief I almost miss it, but there's something there. A crack in the perfect facade. “Rooms that don't concern you.”
That tells me everything and nothing. The non-answer is more revealing than any detailed explanation would have been. Whatever he keeps in that part of the house matters to him.
I nod once, sharp and short, and turn away from his penetrating stare. “Fine. Anything else, Warden?”
