Page 61 of Crystal Wrath
“Will you keep charging at me like a rabid dog if I blow a hole through her chest?”
Renat stops mid-step, his entire body going still in a way that's more frightening than his previous movement. The change in his posture is subtle, barely perceptible, but I see it clearly. The way his back teeth clench. The way his fingers flex almost imperceptibly, inching toward the weapon holstered beneath his jacket. The way his eyes burn as they settle on me, the gold flecks seeming to catch fire in the dim lighting.
“She means nothing to you, right?” Bennato continues, his grip tightening on my arm until I can't help but wince. He notices my reaction, and his smile widens, revealing teeth that are too whiteand too perfect. “Or is that just another lie you've been telling yourself, Rostov?”
Renat’s surname carries more than reputation. It’s steeped in bloodlines and a fierce tradition of family honor that eclipses mere business disputes. Bennato knows exactly which buttons to push and exactly how to make this personal in a way that goes beyond territory and profit margins. This is about pride and about proving who truly holds the power in Miami's underworld hierarchy.
Renat takes a step forward, slow and deliberate, like approaching a wounded animal that might lash out without warning. His voice is low and controlled, but I can hear the Russian accent thickening with each carefully chosen word. It's a sign of barely restrained emotion that anyone familiar with him would recognize as dangerous.
“Let her go, Francesco,” he orders the quiet authority in his tone more threatening than any shout could be. “This ends with you. Not her.”
Bennato's laugh grates against my nerves like nails on a chalkboard. It's the sound of someone who thinks he's already won and believes he holds all the cards in a game everyone else is still trying to understand.
“You don't get to decide how this ends,” he sneers, pressing the gun harder into my side until I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out. “I should have killed her weeks ago, but then I would have missed watching you unravel like this.”
The casual way he discusses my murder like it's a business decision he's reconsidering makes bile rise in my throat. But beneath the fear, anger and determination builds. The samestubborn streak that made me investigate the Bratva in the first place, despite every warning from Nick and every instinct screaming at me to stay away.
The urge to scream bubbles up from somewhere deep in my chest, but I clamp down on it hard. Panic won't help anyone, least of all me. Instead, I focus on breathing steadily and watching for any opportunity to break free or help tip the balance in our favor. That's when I notice the subtle tremor in Bennato's hand where it grips the gun. It's barely there, just a slight shake that betrays the nerves he's trying desperately to hide.
He's not as in control as he wants everyone to believe. He's holding a wild card he never expected to matter this much, and Renat's silence, his refusal to beg or negotiate, is clearly throwing off whatever script Bennato had prepared for this confrontation. The Italian crime boss expected panic, expected Renat to fold immediately when faced with the threat to my life. Instead, he's getting calculated stillness and focus that suggests this is far from over.
I look directly at Renat, meeting his burning gaze despite the danger pressing into my ribs. Despite every logical reason to stay quiet and invisible, I need him to see that I'm not giving up. I trust him to find a way out of this impossible situation. I nod once, just a small movement that can be mistaken for nerves by anyone else watching. But Renat understands the message I'm trying to send. Don't let him win. Don't let this bastard use me to break you.
He understands perfectly. In the space between one heartbeat and the next, everything erupts into violence.
There’s flash of steel as Renat moves faster than should be humanly possible. The deafening bang of gunfire fills the air, but Bennato jerks sideways, his shot going wide as Renat barrels into him with the full force of months of pent-up rage. The gun clatters across the marble floor, spinning away from both of them as they crash into a display case full of ancient pottery.
I hit the ground hard, my knees and palms scraping against the debris-covered floor as I roll away from the fighting. More shots explode around us from both sides, muzzle flashes lighting up the gallery like deadly fireworks. But all I can focus on is Renat and the way he's unleashing every ounce of his fury on the man who dared to threaten me.
His fists slam into Bennato's face with methodical precision, each blow delivered with violence that comes from years of surviving in a world where mercy is weakness. His movements are brutal and relentless, but there's control underneath the savagery. He's not lost to rage. He's channeling it into something focused and devastating.
Someone grabs my arm and drags me toward safety behind a row of thick marble columns. The man's voice is urgent, shouting instructions I can barely make out over the continuous gunfire echoing through the space. But I keep looking back at the fight, unable to tear my attention away from the raw display of power and protection.
Renat's face has become a mask of controlled fury, every civilized pretense stripped away to reveal the dangerous man underneath the expensive suits and social manners. Bennato is bleeding from his nose and mouth, dazed but desperate as if he knows this might be his last chance. His designer clothes are torn and stained, and his perfectly styled hair is now disheveled and matted with blood.
Just when it looks like Renat might deliver the killing blow that will end this war permanently, Bennato's men converge on their position. They grab their boss under his arms, hauling him backward toward a service exit I hadn't noticed before. Smoke fills the air, whether from a grenade or an actual fire, I'm not sure. The sirens outside grow louder and closer, adding urgency to everyone's movements.
Bennato vanishes through the service door like a ghost, dragged to safety before Renat can chase him down and finish what they started tonight. The frustration on Renat's face is palpable as he stands in the middle of the destroyed gallery, his chest heaving with exertion, blood coating his knuckles, and his eyes locked on the exit as if he can burn it to ash through sheer force of will.
I stagger to my feet on unsteady legs, ignoring the sharp pain in my ankle and the sharp sting along my side where Bennato's grip will definitely leave bruises. Every step sends little shocks of pain up my leg, but I move toward Renat anyway. He needs to know I'm safe, that his sacrifice of the perfect opportunity for revenge wasn't wasted on saving someone who didn't appreciate it.
He turns before I reach him as if some sixth sense tells him I’m approaching. The way he looks at me steals the air from my lungs.
“Elena,” he breathes, and there's a fracture in his voice I haven’t heard before. The fire that had been consuming him moments ago has shifted into something entirely different. His eyes sweep over me with desperate intensity, cataloging every visible injury, every sign that I might be hurt worse than I'm letting on.
“I'm okay,” I manage report, though my voice comes out shakier than I want it to. “You stopped him.”
His hand rises to cup my cheek with surprising gentleness, considering the violence I just witnessed him unleash. For a suspended moment, the world contracts to just this. The two of us standing in the wreckage. No sirens wailing outside, no Bratva soldiers securing the scene, no blood staining the marble floors. Just the way his thumb brushes over my cheekbone like he's trying to memorize the fact that I'm still breathing and still here.
But even with his touch warming my skin, I feel the distance growing between us. The tension of what happened tonight. He didn't get what he came for. Bennato is still alive, still dangerous, and plotting his next move from wherever his men dragged him. This war is far from over, and we both know it.
Renat doesn't speak again. Words seem inadequate for everything that just happened, everything that almost happened, and everything that still hangs between us unresolved. Instead, he simply pulls me into his arms and holds me like he's afraid I might disappear if he loosens his grip.
I bury my face against his shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with gunpowder and dust. I close my eyes, not because I trust that this nightmare is over, but because, for right now, being held by him has to be enough.
By the time we reach the estate, I feel like I’ve been scraped hollow and stitched back together with barbed wire. The adrenaline that carried me through the crisis has long since abandoned me, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion that turns every step into a slog through wet cement. The events of the night cling to me like soot. Renat’s explosive rage as hefought to protect me, the cold bite of Bennato’s gun pressed into my ribs, and the chaos that exploded inside that elegant gallery was a nightmare dressed in silk and champagne.
Renat hasn’t said a word the entire ride home. He stares out the tinted window, his jaw locked, his expression blank. His knuckles are still bloodied. His suit is torn in places that no amount of tailoring will fix. But he doesn’t seem to notice. His mind is elsewhere. He’s not shutting me out. I can feel it in the air between us. He’s holding something back that needs to be leashed before it slips free.
