Page 59 of Crystal Wrath
I let my men carry out the command while I walk toward the warehouse's exit, my footsteps echoing in the vast space. The metal door groans as I push it open, revealing the Miami skyline in the distance. The city glitters like shattered stars against the black canvas of night, each light representing lives that continue unaware of the violence that lurks in the shadows.
Leaving the warehouse, I climb into my car, a black Mercedes with tinted windows and an engine that purrs with restrained power. The leather seats embrace me like an old friend and the familiar scent of cologne and leather polish fills my nostrils. This car has been with me through countless operations, its armor plating hidden beneath elegant curves. It's as much a weapon as it's a means of transportation.
Sergey slides into the passenger seat, his bulk filling the space. I glimpse the reflection of his eyes in the rearview mirror, alert, calculating, and the only man I trust to watch my back. We've been through too much together for doubt to exist between us. His loyalty is absolute, forged in the fires of shared violence and mutual respect.
“Gather a team,” I say, my voice clipped with authority. “We move on the Rothchild Gallery tonight.”
He nods and punches a number into his secure line, the encrypted phone connecting him to our most trusted soldiers. These men have proven themselves in blood and fire, each one handpicked for their skills and unwavering loyalty to the Rostovname. They'll follow my orders without question, even unto death.
Meanwhile, I exhale slowly, feeling the familiar rush of power that electrifies my veins when a plan comes together. Every step from Luca's corpse to my estate brings me closer to the confrontation I've been preparing for.
Bennato has no idea what happens when you cross me and threaten what I've built with my own hands. When you threaten the woman that means the most to me. The blood of my enemies has watered the soil of my empire, and tonight, I'll add his to that foundation.
I find Elena in the study of the east wing, seated behind the massive oak desk. The desk is a relic from the old country, carved from a single piece of wood that survived the revolution and the war that followed. Its surface bears the scars of countless meetings, negotiations, and decisions that shaped my family's destiny.
Elena's legs are tucked beneath her on the leather chair, her posture relaxed despite the stakes of our situation. She holds a stack of folders that include blueprints of the Rothchild Gallery, security protocols, and a roster of Celine's staff. Her preparation is thorough, professional, and exactly what I expected from her.
Her dark hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail, a few strands escaping to frame her determined face. The afternoon light streaming through the windows illuminates the mocha highlights in her hair, creating a halo effect that makes her lookalmost angelic. The irony isn't lost on me. An angel in the devil's den.
When she hears my footsteps, she stands, her movements natural and unguarded. For a moment, our gazes lock, and I feel that familiar electric spark passing between us. Heat crackles in the air, an unspoken tension that has nothing to do with business and everything to do with the magnetic pull that draws us together despite all logic.
“You found the information,” I observe, sliding into the chair. My breadth of my shoulders fills the space between us.
She lifts one eyebrow, the gesture equal parts challenge and invitation. There's no fear in her eyes, only determination mixed with a bit of excitement. She's embracing this world, embracing the danger and me.
“You requested my journalistic contacts,” she replies steadily. “I delivered. I arranged a meeting with the gallery's assistant curator, who's eager to showcase Celine's new installations. She'll give us access under the guise of a press preview.”
The corner of my mouth curves upward in approval. Elena's resourcefulness continues to impress me. Her ability to think on her feet, adapt to changing circumstances, and gain people's trust are valuable skills.
“Good. That's the opening we need.” I lean forward, my hands flat on the desk's polished surface, and study her face. “Tonight, we infiltrate the Rothchild. You'll pose as the reporter who wants an exclusive feature forGlobal Arts Magazine. You know the story. A portrait of Celine as Miami's premier art dealer. It's the perfect cover.”
Her eyes glint with a hint of apprehension, but it disappears quickly. She's brave, I'll give her that. Most people would be terrified at the prospect of walking into a trap with armed criminals, but Elena seems almost eager for the challenge.
“And you'll be there. In the shadows.”
“When the alarms fall silent, I'll be beside you,” I promise, my voice dropping to a more intimate register. “You stay close. Don't wander. No heroics.”
Elena's lips part as if to protest, but she holds herself in check. The fire in her eyes tells me she's not entirely comfortable with playing a passive role, but she understands the stakes. One wrong move could get us both killed.
“Understood,” she answers, her voice firm with resolve.
I rise from the chair, closing the distance between us until I can feel the warmth radiating from her skin. She tilts her chin up to meet my gaze, her brown eyes steady and unwavering.
“Remember every detail,” I say softly. “The layout of the gallery, the location of the cameras, the patrol routes. If anything goes wrong, I'll get you out. That's a promise.”
She nods, a tight, controlled movement that sends a thrill coursing through me. The trust she's placing in me is humbling and terrifying in equal measures. The thought of losing her, of failing to keep her safe, feels unbearable. But this is what it will take to bring down Bennato and eliminate the threat hanging over her.
“I know you will,” she whispers back.
I kiss her deeply, then turn away from her, signaling the end of our intimate moment. “Go prepare. We leave in three hours.”
Night falls like a velvet curtain over Miami, transforming the city into a playground of shadows and neon. I watch as Elena slips into a tailored black blazer and trousers for tonight's operation. The fit is perfect, hugging her curves while allowing for freedom of movement.
I hand her a slim earpiece and microphone, no larger than a button, wired to our secure communication channel. The technology is military-grade, encrypted, and undetectable by standard surveillance equipment. In the Bratva, communication is often the difference between life and death.
“Comm check,” I instruct, activating my own earpiece.
She taps the device nestled in her ear. “Loud and clear.”
