Page 17 of Crystal Wrath
The blue dress hangs in my closet like a question mark, a threat, and a promise. And despite everything, I already know the answer.
6
RENAT
The ocean glimmers like liquid sapphire beyond the patio at Azul, and the candlelight on our table flickers gently against the soft breeze. It should feel like a romantic evening. Elegant. Safe. But there's nothing safe about what I'm doing right now, and I'm aware of it. More importantly, she knows it too.
Elena Martinez sits across from me in understated elegance, wearing a silky blue dress that clings to her curves. The fabric catches the flickering candlelight with each subtle movement, creating shadows that dance across her collarbone. She pretends not to notice the heads turning in our direction, the quiet curiosity that always follows when I walk into a room with a woman who doesn't belong in this world. She's good at pretending, but I notice it all. The way the maître d's eyes linger when he seats us. The subtle double-takes from other diners. The server who stumbles slightly over his words when Elena smiles at him. I notice everything because survival in my world depends on seeing what others miss.
Elena meets my gaze with that same maddening calm she wore the first night we met. Unflinching and guarded. Tempting assin and twice as dangerous. Her fingers curl around the stem of her wine glass like she's bracing for impact, knuckles just barely white with tension. The small gesture betrays her despite her composed exterior.
Sheshouldbe bracing herself. What she doesn't understand yet is that this dinner isn't just about satisfying mutual curiosity. It's about determining whether she lives or dies.
“You know,” I begin, letting each word settle like stones dropped into still water, “people have been murdered for asking fewer questions than you.”
She doesn't flinch. The wine glass doesn't tremble in her grip. Her breathing doesn't change. I respect that kind of control, even as it frustrates me. Most people would be sweating by now, looking for exits, making excuses to leave. Elena Martinez takes a measured sip of her Pinot Grigio and considers my words as if we're discussing the weather.
“Maybe they asked the wrong people,” she notes.
My lips tilt upward despite myself. There's something deliciously reckless about her composure. “Or maybe they asked the right ones, and that was the problem.”
She leans forward slightly, and her scent drifts across the table. Jasmine mixed with sea salt from the ocean breeze and something softer beneath it all. The unmistakable essence of her.
“Are you warning me? Or threatening me?”
I let the question hang in the air as I swirl the vodka in my glass, watching the clear liquid catch the light. The irony isn't lost on me that I'm drinking Russian spirits while trying to decide thefate of a Cuban American journalist who's gotten too close to secrets that could topple empires.
“That depends,” I state, setting the glass down with deliberate precision. “Would you listen to a warning?”
Her eyes narrow with challenge and recklessness. In the candlelight, they're the color of dark chocolate, warm and inviting and completely at odds with the steel in her spine. “Maybe. If I believed it was sincere.”
I lean back in my chair, studying her face for tells. The slight tightening around her eyes. The way her pulse beats just a fraction faster at the base of her throat. The careful way she's holding herself, like a coiled spring ready to launch.
“It is sincere,” I assure her, injecting enough conviction into my voice that even she can't miss it. “Elena, you are dancing in a minefield. You think you're digging up a story about real estate and corruption, about greedy developers pushing out families. What you're actually doing is dragging your heels through the blood-soaked roots of men who don’t hesitate to eliminate threats.”
She doesn't break eye contact. Doesn't look away. Doesn't give me the satisfaction of seeing fear flicker across her features. Instead, she tilts her head slightly, like she's processing the information and filing it away for later use.
“And which one are you, Renat? The man who warns or the man who eliminates?”
The question cuts deeper than it should. I've eliminated plenty of threats over the years. Men who crossed my family, who tried to muscle in on our territory, who thought they could take what we'd built. I've done it with my own hands, and I've orderedothers to do it for me. The blood on my ledger could fill Biscayne Bay.
But sitting here, looking at Elena in her blue dress with her defiant eyes and her dangerous questions, I feel something I haven't experienced in years. Uncertainty. About what she represents and what I want to do with her.
I don't answer immediately. I let her sit in silence, feeling the force of what she's pushing against. The magnitude of the world she's trying to expose.
“Both,” I affirm.
Her breath hitches. Barely perceptible, but I see it. I see everything when it comes to her.
“Then why am I still sitting here?”
“Because I haven't decided what you are yet. A threat that needs to be eliminated, or something else entirely.”
She exhales slowly, and for a moment, I think she might back down. Might finally grasp the enormity of the danger she's courting and choose self-preservation over journalistic integrity. But Elena Martinez doesn't know how to do that. It's part of what makes her so fascinating and so infuriating.
“Tell me about the properties in Little Havana,” she says, her voice steady as granite. “Who really owns them? Who's behind the shell companies?”
I arch a brow, genuinely impressed by her audacity. “Bold of you to think I'd answer that.”
