Page 6 of Crystal Wrath
“Let’s not insult each other’s intelligence,” I insist, my voice still pleasant but edged with steel. “You’re not Natalia Petrova. So,who sent you? The FBI? TheMiami Herald? Or is it something more personal?”
To her credit, she doesn’t flinch or pull away. “What makes you think I’m not who I say I am?”
“Because the real Natalia has a tattoo of a fox on her left shoulder,” I declare. “And when she drinks vodka, she holds her breath first, a habit she picked up from her father. You didn’t do either.”
She stares at me for a long moment, calculation clear in her eyes. Then she laughs, a soft, genuine sound that catches me off guard.
“Maybe I had it removed,” she suggests, her eyes sparkling with challenge. “Maybe I broke the habit.”
“Maybe you’re playing a dangerous game.”
“Aren’t we all?”
The music ends, but I don’t release her. My hand remains firm against her back, my other hand still holding hers. Around us, couples begin to disperse, returning to their tables or moving to the bar.
“I could have you removed,” I threaten quietly. “One word to security, and you’d be escorted out and blacklisted from every event like this in Miami.”
She tilts her head slightly. “But you won’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re curious,” she replies. “And because you’re enjoying this too much.”
She isn’t wrong. Most of my interactions are predictable. Business meetings, negotiations, threats veiled as promises. This woman is something else entirely. A puzzle I want to solve, piece by piece.
“Walk with me,” I insist, guiding her toward the terrace doors.
The night air is warm and heavy with the scent of salt and tropical flowers. The terrace overlooks the sprawling gardens of the Marcelli estate, illuminated by thousands of tiny lights woven through the trees and shrubs. In the distance, the Miami skyline glitters against the night sky, a testament to wealth and influence.
She moves to the railing, her fingers curling around the ornate iron. The moonlight paints her skin silver, making her look ethereal.
“Beautiful view,” she comments, her voice soft.
“Yes,” I agree, watching her rather than the skyline.
She turns to find me staring and doesn’t look away. “Mr. Rostov?—”
“Renat,” I correct.
“Renat,” she repeats, my name rolling off her tongue like caramel. “What exactly do you want from me?”
“The truth would be a good start.”
She smiles a genuine smile that transforms her face. “The truth is rarely simple.”
“Try me.”
She opens her mouth as if to speak, then closes it again, her attention caught by something over my shoulder. Her expression changes and hardens into something close to fear.
I turn, following her gaze. Across the terrace, a man in a gray suit watches us closely. Middle-aged and unremarkable except for the intensity of his focus and the press credentials partially hidden in his pocket.
When I look back at her, she’s composed herself, but I see the flash of recognition in her eyes. The momentary panic.
“Friend of yours?” I ask.
“Hardly,” she mutters. “Just someone I’d rather avoid.”
“Why?”
