Page 67 of Crystal Wrath
Two days pass in a haze of routine business and growing paranoia. Every conversation feels loaded with hidden meaning. Every glance from my men is laced with the possibility of betrayal. I find myself analyzing loyalty that I once took for granted, questioning relationships that have been solid for years.
Then I receive a call from a city official I've paid handsomely over the years. He’s a nervous little man who's been very useful in smoothing over permit issues and zoning problems. His voice trembles as he delivers news that chills me to the core.
There's a development site, one of my newest acquisitions on the riverfront. Prime real estate that I've been planning to develop into luxury condominiums. According to his records, permits have been approved and inspections passed, but I never signed off on any of them. I never submitted those applications. The paperwork bears my company's name and my signature, but I have no memory of authorizing the project.
“You're certain about this?” I press, my grip tightening on the phone.
“Absolutely. The permits came through the express channel, the one reserved for your projects. Someone used your authorization codes, and your signatures. If I hadn't been doing a routine audit, I never would have noticed the discrepancy.”
After hanging up, I sit in my office for a long moment, staring at the city beyond my windows. The riverfront development represents millions of dollars in potential profit, but moreimportantly, it means a breach in my organization's security. Someone with access to my codes, my signatures, and my most sensitive business operations has been conducting unauthorized activities under my name.
When I arrive at the site in question an hour later, the tension in my chest becomes a vise that threatens to crush my ribs.
The foundation is already poured, a massive concrete slab that must have cost hundreds of thousands of dollars. The workers are already here. Men I don't recognize, and crews that don't belong to any of my usual contractors. Heavy machinery moves across the site like mechanical dinosaurs, reshaping the landscape according to plans I never approved.
The plans posted at the entrance bear my name, my company's logo, and my forged signature.
I approach the site trailer, my jaw clenched so tight it aches. The foreman, a thick-set man with calloused hands and nervous eyes, emerges before I can knock. He recognizes me immediately, and his face goes pale beneath his hard hat.
“Mr. Rostov,” he stammers, tugging at his collar. “I wasn't expecting?—”
“Who authorized this project?” I cut him off, my voice deadly quiet.
His hands tremble as he fumbles with a clipboard, pages fluttering in the humid breeze coming off the water. “We were told this came from the top. Through...Sergey. He said it was a priority project, that you wanted fast-tracked.”
The words land with brutal force, but I refuse to let it show. Instead, I nod slowly as if this information doesn't surprise me,and I'm not calculating how long it would take to make a body disappear in the concrete foundation that's already been poured.
“When did he give you these instructions?”
“Two weeks ago. He came by personally, brought the permits and the payment authorization. Told us to keep it quiet, that you didn't want competitors knowing about the project until it was too late for them to interfere.”
The story makes perfect sense, which is what makes it so dangerous. Sergey would know exactly how to present unauthorized orders in a way that seemed legitimate and how to utilize my methods and reputation to achieve his goals.
The rage I feel is cold and controlled, buried under layers of calculation and years of experience in dealing with betrayal. I've been here before, faced with the knowledge that someone I trusted has been working against me. But this time it feels different. This time, the betrayal comes from someone closer to me than a brother who knows all my secrets and weaknesses.
I nod and walk away slowly, my mind racing through possibilities and consequences. The foreman calls after me, asking if he should continue work, but I don't answer. I can't trust my voice to remain steady.
I don't act. Not yet. But the evidence is stacking against Sergey like snow before an avalanche. Bianca and Artur’s warnings, the unauthorized development, and the way he's been pushing certain business decisions lately all fit together into a pattern I don't want to see but can't ignore.
I need proof. Not just suspicious timing and forged documents. I need concrete evidence that leaves no room for doubt and no possibility of mistakes.
Because if Sergey is the mole, if he has been selling my secrets to Bennato and using my name to conduct unauthorized business, he won't live to see another sunrise.
23
ELENA
The hospital smells like antiseptic, and everything around me is cold and white. Even in a city like Miami, where neon signs pulse above crowded sidewalks and the ocean breeze softens the heat's edges, the sterile corridors of Jackson Memorial feel disconnected from it all. The fluorescent lights bleach the walls in a way that makes time feel frozen, like a photograph trapped mid-development, never fully coming to life.
Relief floods through me after days of uncertainty, not knowing if Nick has finally turned the corner from critical to stable. The sterile white walls seem less oppressive now, each step echoing off the polished floors with purpose rather than dread.
Renat walks beside me, his hand on the small of my back in a gesture that's both protective and possessive. The warmth of his palm seeps through the thin fabric of my blouse, grounding me in a way I didn't expect. I don't lean into it, but I also don't move away. I'm too focused on the good news we received this morning, on the fact that Nick has been moved out of the ICU and into a regular room. The doctors finally cleared him fornormal visiting hours, which means he's stable enough to have real conversations instead of the brief monitored visits.
The medical wing feels different from the ICU. Less intensive and more hopeful, like a place where people come to recover rather than fight for their lives. The beeping machines and harsh fluorescent lighting have been replaced by softer illumination and the quiet murmur of normal hospital activity. This is where people get better, where families plan discharge dates instead of memorial services.
Two of Renat's men hang back as we approach the medical wing, their dark suits making them look somewhat out of place in the more casual atmosphere of the recovery ward. They position themselves near the elevator bank, close enough to respond if needed but far enough away to avoid drawing attention from the medical staff. Renat approaches the nurses' station with the same quiet confidence he brings to every situation, and whatever he tells the nurse there gets us directed toward Nick's new room without any complications.
The hallway stretches out before us. Patient rooms line both sides, most with their doors open, revealing glimpses of people on the mend. I hear quiet conversations, the rustle of newspapers, and the sound of television programs playing at low volumes. This is what hope sounds like.
