Page 60 of Crystal Wrath
“Good. Our driver will collect you at the front gates at 9:00pm. He'll drop you at the gallery's side entrance. The cameras go offline at 9:45pm. You’ll have fifteen minutes inside before Bennato's men arrive.”
She nods, her expression focused and determined.
I reach into my jacket and withdraw a folded envelope stamped with the Rostov seal. The seal is more than just a symbol. It's a promise, a threat, and a declaration of ownership. Those who see it know exactly who they're dealing with.
“Inside are new identities for you, Yavin, and Anatoly. Press badges. Guest passes. Everything you need for your entrance.”
She tucks the envelope into her inner pocket. “I'll be ready.”
I step closer, drawn by an invisible force that seems to pull me toward her whenever she's near. I press my forehead to hers, our breaths mingling in the intimate space between us.
“Be careful,” I whisper, the words more important than any order I've ever given.
Her lips part slightly, and I see the same mix of determination and fear that I feel reflected in her eyes. “Always,” she promises.
I force myself to step back and break the connection. I leave her, slipping from the room like a shadow. The mansion's corridors embrace me, familiar and comforting in their predictability. These walls have witnessed the rise of the Rostov Empire, the fall of our enemies, and the forging of alliances that span continents. Tonight, they'll witness the beginning of the end for Francesco Bennato.
Sergey and four of my most trusted men stand around a holographic map of the gallery, their faces bathed in blue light from the projection. They're suited in black combat gear, weapons strapped and loaded, their expressions focused and deadly. These are the men who've stood by me through blood and fire, who've proven their loyalty time and again.
“Status?” I inquire, my gaze sweeping over each man in turn.
Sergey steps forward, his scarred face grave as he clicks a remote that highlights entry points in red. The hologram shifts and rotates, showing the gallery from every angle.
“Team is in position. Surveillance blind spots confirmed. The curator is set for the interview. Cameras will cycle through a maintenance loop at 9:45pm. Bennato arrives at 10:00pm with his escort.”
Perfect timing. The window is narrow, but it's enough. I nod my approval. “Remember, the priority is to secure the gallery and neutralize Bennato.”
“What about Celine?” Sergey asks.
I glance at the laptop monitor, which shows the gallery's exterior and Celine's private quarters above the main exhibition space. She's an unknown variable, potentially dangerous but also potentially useful. “She comes with Bennato. We extract her alive. Question her later.”
Sergey's lips curve in a predatory smile. “Then it's settled.”
I turn back to the hologram, the future dancing in illuminated lines beneath my fingertips. The gallery's layout is now burned into my memory, every room, every corridor, every possible escape route. But my mind keeps drifting to Elena. Putting her in danger defies every protective instinct I possess.
The contradiction tears at me. Protecting her means exposing her to risk but keeping her safe means keeping her away from me and my world. It's an impossible equation. The two impulses are at war within me, threatening to tear me apart.
21
ELENA
My ears are ringing from the gunshots, a high-pitched whine that cuts through every other sound in the gallery. The chaos around me feels surreal as if I'm watching it through thick glass. Shattered fragments crunch under my feet with every small movement, and the muffled wail of alarms echoes behind the ornate walls lined with stolen masterpieces. Renat's men move through the destruction with military precision. The heist might have been Francesco Bennato's twisted game from the start, but Renat has turned it into a battlefield where survival depends on split-second decisions and unwavering loyalty.
I press myself deeper behind the twisted steel sculpture near the mezzanine, its cold metal biting through my clothes and into my spine. The abstract curves offer barely enough cover to hide my trembling form, but it's the only protection I can find in this maze of expensive art and flying bullets. Sweat beads along my hairline and slides down my neck despite the cool air conditioning that hums through the building's vents. My heart pounds so hard that I can barely hear the sirens wailing in the distance.
I force myself to breathe slowly, quietly, even though my lungs want to gulp air in panicked gasps. My mind spins wildly between self-preservation and the journalist instincts that got me into this mess in the first place. I should be looking for an exit, planning my escape route, and figuring out how to get to safety before more shots ring out. Instead, my eyes keep drifting back to Renat, and I can't look away from the raw power radiating from his movements.
He moves like violence barely held in check, each step calculated and purposeful. His expensive black suit is now dusted with white plaster from the walls, and there's a jagged tear along his left sleeve that reveals a streak of blood. I can't tell if it's his or belongs to one of the men who tried to stop him from reaching this point. The uncertainty makes my stomach clench with worry. He doesn't pause to assess his injuries. He simply continues forward with a focus that comes from years of surviving in a world where hesitation means death.
Every decision he makes flows seamlessly into the next action. When his eyes suddenly lock onto mine across the room, cutting through the smoke and chaos like a laser, goosebumps spread across my limbs. It's compelling and laced with urgency and fury so deep I can feel the heat of it from twenty feet away. For one suspended moment, everything else fades into background noise. The gunfire, the shouting, the sirens. All of it becomes secondary to the connection crackling between us.
Then Bennato steps out of the shadows directly behind me, and the moment shatters like glass.
The cold pressure of a gun barrel slides against the back of my neck with deliberate slowness, and every muscle in my body goes rigid. My body goes rigid as the reality of the situation hits with brutal clarity. His breath grazes my cheek, warm and sour,carrying the stench of expensive cigars and something rotten underneath. The smugness in his voice as he speaks makes my skin crawl. Each word drips with the satisfaction of a man who believes he has just claimed victory.
He grabs my upper arm with bruising force and yanks me upright, my feet scrambling for purchase on the debris-covered floor. The gun moves from my neck to dig into my ribs, the metal barrel pressing hard enough to leave a mark through my clothing. It's a reminder that whatever small amount of power I thought I had in this operation vanished the moment I became his human shield. The leverage he needs to break Renat's focus and turn this battle in his favor.
“Renat!” Bennato's voice slices through the gallery like a blade, commanding and theatrical. Every conversation stops. Every gun barrel shifts in our direction. The attention of both crews suddenly centers on the tableau we make, predator and prey frozen in a deadly dance.
