Page 32 of Crystal Wrath
I step inside anyway, slamming the door just hard enough to betray the tension coiled in my spine. The click of the latch echoes in the small room, and I notice how she tenses at the sound. Good. She should be on edge. She should understand how close she came to dying tonight.
“You're alive,” I remark, my voice harsher than it should be. It bears the strain of relief and an undercurrent of gratitude to whatever deity watches over stubborn journalists who refuse to stop digging.
Her expression shifts slightly. I catch the way her shoulders drop, the tension that melts along the edge of her jaw as if some part of her is as relieved to see me as I am to see her. Then it's gone, replaced with that biting edge she uses like armor against the world.
“Wasn't for lack of trying,” she responds, and there's bitterness in her voice that makes my hands clench into fists.
“You think I did this?” My voice drops to a low, menacing growl, a warning. The idea that she could believe I would hurt her, that I would be capable of such betrayal, cuts deeper than I expected. “You think I would plant a bomb under your car?”
“No,” she replies, her gaze locked onto mine. There's something in her eyes that looks like trust, fragile and tentative but real. “But someone you know did. Someone from your world. Someone who doesn't like that I'm asking questions.”
I move closer to her bedside, my footsteps silent on the polished hospital floor. Not touching her. Not yet. I'm afraid if I do, I won't be able to let go. The need to reach out, to run my fingers along her cheek and confirm that she's real and whole, is almost overwhelming. But there's something in her posture that warns me away, a brittleness that suggests she might shatter if I push too hard, too fast.
“That someone,” I tell her, letting the words settle between us like stones dropping into still water, “is Francesco Bennato.”
Her gaze sharpens, and in that instant, I see recognition. She’s not surprised. She already knows.
“I figured,” she admits, and there's exhaustion in her voice now.
“You're in far more danger than you understand,” I inform her, and I mean it. Francesco isn't the type to make idle threats or settle for half-measures. If he's escalated to car bombs, it means he's decided she's too dangerous to live. And men like Francesco don't change their minds once they've made such decisions.
“Oh, I understand perfectly,” she responds, gesturing to her bandaged arms with bitter amusement. “I've got stitches in my side and glass in my hair. It’s a pretty clear message.”
I exhale through my nose, fighting the urge to punch something. The casual way she refers to her injuries as if nearly dying is just another occupational hazard makes me want to shake her until she understands the gravity of what's happened. She could have been killed. Blown to pieces. Reduced to nothing more than a memory and a crater in a parking lot.
“You need protection,” I state, the words coming out more like a command than a suggestion.
“You mean I need to stop digging,” she counters, that stubborn lift to her chin that I'm beginning to recognize as a warning sign.
“No,” I insist, shaking my head firmly. “I mean you need to stay with me. At my house. Where I can control who comes and goes. Where no one gets within five feet of you without permission.”
I watch her process the words. My house in Coral Gables is more of a fortress than a home, surrounded by walls and security systems that would make a military base envious. It's the one place in Miami where I can guarantee her safety, where Francesco's reach doesn't extend.
She lets out a laugh that's all disbelief and bitterness, the sound sharp enough to cut. “You want me to move into your mansion? What is that, a gilded cage with bulletproof windows?”
The accuracy of her description shouldn't surprise me, but it does. She sees through the offer to the reality beneath and understands that protection and imprisonment are sometimes indistinguishable.
“It's the only way you survive this,” I warn her, and the truth of it sits heavy in my chest. I've seen what Francesco is capable of, the lengths he'll go to eliminate threats. Elena has painted a target on her back that won't disappear just because she wants it to.
“You mean, the only way you control this,” she shoots back, and her words slice clean through me. Not because she's wrong but because she's too close to the truth.
Control is how I keep people alive. It's how I've managed to stay alive. In my world, the difference between protection and possession is often measured in degrees rather than absolutes. But hearing her express it, seeing the accusation in her eyes, makes me question the motivations I thought I understood.
She sits straighter, wincing from the pain but not stopping. The movement pulls at her injuries, and I can see her fighting not to show weakness. Everything about her posture screams defiance, from the set of her shoulders to the way she meets my gaze without blinking.
“Tell me the truth, Renat,” she demands. “No more games. Are you Russian mafia?”
The question hangs between us like a blade suspended by a thread. I could lie. I could deflect, make excuses, and find ways to avoid giving her the confirmation she's looking for. But looking at her now, bruised and bandaged because she was brave enough to dig for the truth, I find I can't insult her intelligence with deception.
I meet her eyes, not blinking, not flinching from what I'm about to reveal. “Yes.”
I see her flinch just a little, as if the confirmation lands with a force she’s been dreading but hoped wasn’t true. But she doesn't look away. Whatever else Elena Martinez might be, she's not a coward.
“And the real estate?” she continues, her voice steady despite everything. “The shell companies, the zoning bribes, the families you've pushed out of Little Havana?”
The questions come rapid-fire, each one a knife twist in a wound I didn't know I had. She's done her homework and connected dots that most people wouldn't even know existed. But her understanding is incomplete, colored by assumptions about how my world operates.
“I don't do bribes,” I declare coldly, the words clipped and precise. “I make investments. People move because they're paid to. Because they accept terms. Not because I force them.”
