Page 52 of Crystal Wrath
More gunfire follows us as we reach the stairwell that leads down to the water level. I can hear boots on the floorboards above, Bennato's men regrouping and trying to cut off our escape route.
Amelia takes the lead down the rickety steps, her hands gripping the salt-corroded railing for support. My men are already in position at the dock below, laying down cover fire from behind the concrete pylons. Smoke and muzzle flashes light up the darkness like a deadly fireworks display.
The boats are exactly where we left them, engines idling and ready for immediate departure. Sergey waves from the vessel docked under the eastern support beam, his team already aboard and weapons trained on the structure above us.
I pass Amelia to one of my men, making sure she's secure before giving the order. “Get her clear. Full speed back to shore.”
Sergey hesitates for just a moment, his green eyes flicking between me and the blood now visible on my shirt. “Pakhan...”
“Go.” The word comes out barked, but there's no time for discussion. “That's an order.”
He nods once and a few of our men throw flaming bottles of fury at the house. The boat pulls away from the dock with a roar of engines, Amelia's blonde hair whipping in the wind as they accelerate toward the distant lights of Miami. One hostage safe. One more to go.
I take Elena to my boat, settling her carefully in the passenger seat before taking the wheel. She immediately tries to examinemy wound, her hands gentle but insistent as she lifts the edge of my shirt.
“You need medical attention,” she whispers, her voice tight with concern. “This is serious.”
“I'll live,” I answer, though the pain is getting worse now that the adrenaline is starting to fade.
The boat lurches forward as I engage the throttle, salt spray washing over the windshield as we accelerate away from the burning structure behind us. Elena sits beside me, one hand gripping the safety rail and the other pressed against my wounded side, applying pressure to slow the bleeding.
The stilt house is now fully engulfed, flames licking at the night sky. Any evidence of what happened here tonight will be consumed by fire and salt water, leaving nothing but charred pilings and unanswered questions.
Francesco Bennato's men are either dead or scattered to the winds. Their carefully planned operation turned into a disaster that would cost him his reputation and resources he couldn't afford to lose. But the man himself wasn't there, probably sitting in some air-conditioned office while his subordinates did the dirty work.
He's still out there. Still dangerous. Still a threat to Elena and everything I care about.
But tonight, she's safe. Tonight, she's alive and breathing and pressed against my side as we race across the dark water toward home. The pain in my ribs is nothing compared to the relief flooding through my system, the bone-deep satisfaction of having her back where she belongs.
She leans into me, her forehead against my jaw, and I let the full impact of what almost happened settle over us both. The fear I couldn't afford to feel during the rescue. The rage that still burns in my chest like molten metal. The absolute certainty that losing her would have destroyed something fundamental inside me.
“You came,” she whispers, her breath warm against my neck.
“I always will,” I promise, meaning it more than any words I've ever spoken.
17
ELENA
The sky over Miami darkens by the time we return to Renat's estate, the world outside softening into deep shades of violet and ink. Streetlamps blink past the windows of the black SUV as we pull through the gated entrance, headlights washing over polished marble, statues, and hedges sculpted to perfection. My body aches with every breath I take, bruises forming beneath my skin like slow blooms, reminders of the hell we just survived.
The SUV comes to a stop beneath the grand portico, and a bone-deep exhaustion seeps into my bones. The adrenaline that carried me through Bennato's stilt house is fading now, leaving behind a hollow trembling in my hands and a persistent ringing in my ears. Every muscle in my body protests as I shift in the leather seat, my ribs tender where Francesco's men had dropped me onto the ground, and my wrists raw from the duct tape that had bound them.
Renat walks beside me as we enter through the front doors, his abdominal wound bleeding but ignored. His palm remains at the small of my back, steady and unyielding as if I'll collapse without the contact. The warmth of his touch anchors me and keeps megrounded when everything else feels like it might slip away. I can feel the tension radiating from him, the barely contained fury that still simmers beneath his controlled exterior.
The silence that follows us inside is deafening. The estate, so opulent and cold, feels like a palace of contradictions. Luxury draped over a life steeped in violence. Crystal chandeliers scatter prismatic light across marble floors that gleam like mirrors. Priceless artwork adorns the walls, each piece carefully curated to project power and wealth. Yet underneath it all, I sense the darkness that pervades this world, and the violence that lurks behind every beautiful facade.
My shoes echo on the tile floor as we approach the grand staircase, our pace slow and deliberate. The banister is smooth beneath my palm. I try not to focus on the sting along my ribs or the soreness in my wrists. Instead, I glance at him, studying the rigid line of his jaw, and the way his eyes scan our surroundings even here in his own home. He's still in protection mode, still ready for threats that might emerge from the shadows.
Blood has seeped through his shirt where the bullet entered his abdomen, a dark stain that underscores just how close we came to losing everything tonight. His normally immaculate appearance is disheveled, his jet-black hair falling across his forehead in waves that he hasn't bothered to smooth back into place. There's something vulnerable about seeing him this way, stripped of the polished perfection he usually maintains.
Renat doesn't speak as we climb the stairs, but I can see the storm that still swirls behind his eyes. Fury, relief, and guilt all wound together in the man who just risked everything to pull me from the depths of hell. His fingers flex against my back, a subtle reminder that he's still processing what happened and workingto contain the emotions that threaten to overwhelm his carefully constructed control.
When we reach the guest room, he opens the door without a word. The light flickers on, revealing plush bedding and elegant furniture that appears to belong in a five-star hotel rather than a home. I hesitate in the doorway, suddenly feeling like an intruder in this pristine sanctuary.
“Sit,” he urges gently, his Russian accent thickening with emotion.
I do, sinking onto the edge of the bed. The mattress is firm beneath me, and the soft cotton sheets cool against my palms. I watch as he moves with purpose despite his injury, his broad shoulders bearing the burden of responsibility even now. I can see the pain he's trying to hide in the slight stiffness of his posture.
