Page 31 of Crystal Wrath
“I don't care about the story!” Amelia snaps, her voice sharp with anger and fear. “I don't care about Bennato or organized crime or any of it. I care about you. You're my best friend, the closest thing to a sister I've ever had. If you keep digging into this, they're going to try to kill you again. And next time you might not survive.” Her voice breaks completely. “I can't lose you.”
She dissolves into sobs, her shoulders shaking with the force of her grief and fear. I want to comfort her and tell her that everything will be okay, but I can't make that promise. Not when we both know that what happened tonight is just the beginning.
Tears well in my own eyes, but I blink them away. There's something else rising in my chest now that pushes back against the fear and pain. A fire that burns steadily and unyielding, fed by anger and determination and a stubborn refusal to be intimidated.
“They tried to kill me,” I say, my voice low but growing stronger with each word. “Which means I'm close to something big. Something that scares them enough to risk murder. I can't stop now.”
Amelia covers her face with her hands and sobs quietly, the sound muffled but heartbreaking. I know I'm hurting her by refusing to walk away. I know she's terrified of what might happen next. But I also know that I can't let fear win. I can't let them silence me with threats and violence.
Outside the window, the Miami skyline twinkles in the distance, bright and indifferent to the drama playing out in this hospital room. The city continues its relentless rhythm, millions ofpeople going about their lives, unaware that somewhere in those glittering towers, decisions are being made that will determine whether I live or die.
10
RENAT
The call comes while I'm reviewing the contracts for the Seaside Tower development, my eyes scanning terms I already know by heart. Numbers that represent millions of dollars blur together on the page as my mind wanders to thoughts I shouldn't be having. Thoughts of Elena. Her laugh from the other night still echoes in my head, warm and genuine in a way that cuts through the cold steel of my daily existence. The way she looked at me when she thought I wasn't watching, as if she were tracing invisible threads, hoping they'd lead to something she could finally understand.
I shake my head and force myself to focus on the documents spread across my desk. The Seaside Tower represents months of careful planning, strategic acquisitions, and delicate negotiations with city officials who understand the value of cooperation. It's a legitimate business venture, one of many that helps launder the blood money. But even as I read through zoning permits and construction timelines, my thoughts drift back to her.
I haven't wanted anything beyond power and respect for so long that I've forgotten what desire feels like when it isn’t tied to conquest or control. But Elena awakens something in me that feels suspiciously like hope, and in my world, hope is the first step toward ruin.
The heavy oak door to my office swings open without warning, interrupting my brooding thoughts. Sergey enters the room without knocking, which immediately sets my teeth on edge. He's one of the few people I tolerate because of our history. But today, his lack of courtesy strikes me as particularly grating.
His face is pale, drained of color in a way that makes the scar over his left eye stand out like a lightning bolt across his forehead. The tension in his jaw is sharp enough to draw blood, and his green eyes hold something I rarely see there. Fear.
“Elena's car exploded.”
The words strike like a bullet to my chest, and for a moment, I don't move. I don't blink or breathe. The contract in my hands becomes meaningless, the elegant script swimming before my eyes as my brain struggles to process what he's just announced. The world narrows to those four words and the implications they carry.
“What?” My voice is ice and steel, each syllable precise and deadly.
“She's alive,” Sergey adds quickly, his hands fidgeting at his sides in that nervous habit he's never been able to break. “Thrown back by the blast. A few injuries. Nick Anderson called an ambulance. She's at Jackson Memorial.”
I push away from my desk with such force that the chair slams into the glass wall behind me. The sound reverberates throughthe office like a thunderclap, but I barely register it. Everything inside me narrows to a single, brutal instinct. Protection. Vengeance. The need to see her, to touch her, to confirm with my own eyes that she's breathing.
“Get the car,” I order, my voice cutting through the air like a blade. “Now.”
I don't hear whatever Sergey mutters in response. I'm already moving, sliding on my jacket as I storm through the hallway that leads from my office to the elevator. My footsteps echo off the polished marble floors, each step a drumbeat of barely contained rage. The elevator can't move fast enough, and I find myself pacing the small space like a storm trapped in a glass jar. The air around me feels thick with the static buzz of fury that threatens to consume everything in its path.
I've spent a lifetime building power. Brick by bloody brick, carefully constructed over years of calculated moves and strategic eliminations. My empire stretches from the docks of Miami to the penthouses of South Beach, built on a foundation of fear and respect that took decades to establish. But nothing in that empire feels solid at this moment. Because Elena is bleeding. And someone tried to kill her.
The drive to Jackson Memorial unfolds in a haze of Miami traffic and the steady thrum of the Mercedes engine. I've already pulled out my phone and called every contact I have in emergency services. Information flows to me in fragments, each piece adding to the picture of what happened. She's stable. Conscious. Room 403. Two cracked ribs, superficial burns, and lacerations across her cheek and arms from the shattered glass. Nick Anderson hasn't left her side, and Amelia arrived less than ten minutes after the ambulance.
But I don't care about any of them. Only her.
The hospital smells like antiseptic and death, scents that bring back memories I'd rather keep buried. I've been in places like this before, visiting fallen soldiers in my organization and delivering final messages to men who gave their lives for the Bratva. But this feels different. Personal in a way that makes my chest tight and my hands shake with the need for violence.
I stride through the sterile corridors with Sergey at my back, drawing glances from nurses, visitors, and even a security guard who wisely chooses not to speak. My presence here is a disruption, a predator moving through a place meant for healing. People instinctively step aside as I pass, some primal part of their brain recognizing danger even when they can't identify its source.
When I reach the hallway outside her room, I stop with my hand on the doorframe, willing myself to breathe. The rational part of my mind knows I need to be calm and controlled, the version of myself she's glimpsed, rather than the monster that lives beneath the surface. But the other part of me, the part that's been clawing at my ribs since Sergey delivered the news, wants to tear this hospital apart until I find whoever's responsible for hurting her.
Inside, I see her. She's sitting upright in the hospital bed, wrapped in sterile white blankets that do nothing to hide the bruises mottling her arms like shadows blooming beneath the surface. Her hair is pulled into a messy bun, dark strands escaping to frame her face. Her skin is pale, too pale, but her eyes, those warm brown eyes that have haunted my thoughts for weeks, are clear and furious.
I've never been so relieved to see someone look at me like they want to murder me.
The sight of her alive, breathing, and glaring at me with that fire I've come to associate with everything she represents loosens something in my chest that I didn't realize had been wound tight enough to snap. But alongside the relief comes a fresh wave of rage so pure and consuming that I have to grip the doorframe to keep from putting my fist through the wall.
“You shouldn't be here,” she declares before I even open my mouth. Her voice is hoarse, probably from smoke inhalation, but it carries the same stubborn defiance that both attracts and infuriates me.
