Page 65 of Crystal Wrath
I hang up and remain at the window for several minutes, watching the city transform as darkness creeps in. Miami spreads out below me like a glittering web, beautiful and dangerous, just like the woman who's been playing both sides of this war.
“Set up a meeting with Bianca,” I tell Sergey when he appears in the doorway.
Sergey gives a nod, but there’s a shadow behind his eyes that looks like caution. Or maybe guilt. His piercing green eyes meet mine for just a moment before he looks away, and that small gesture makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. Either way, I file it away for later examination.
“When?” he asks.
“Tonight. Make sure she comes alone.”
Sergey's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “You sure that's wise? If she's really working with Bennato?—”
“I can handle Bianca,” I reply sharply, cutting off whatever objection he might have raised. “Just make the call.”
He leaves without another word, but something about his reaction bothers me. The way he hesitated, the concern that seemed too practiced, too calculated. I shake off the feeling. Right now, I need to focus on the immediate threat.
I spend the next hour reviewing Elena's evidence, each document adding another layer to Bianca's deception. Bank transfers disguised as payments for high-end furnishings. Shell companies with addresses that trace back to properties owned by Bennato. Wire transfers that flow through her businessaccounts before disappearing into offshore holdings. The woman who once told me she'd never hide anything from me has built an entire shadow operation under my nose.
The elevator chime announces her arrival precisely at 9:00pm. She always was punctual when it mattered.
She’s wearing a blood-red silk dress, the color she always picks when control is the goal. It traces the lines of her body with unapologetic boldness. The silk reflects the light as she moves, and her blonde hair falls in perfect waves over one shoulder. She's dressed for seduction, for manipulation, for whatever game she thinks she's still playing.
But not tonight.
Tonight, I'm not the man who used to crave her touch or fall for the sweet poison of her kiss. I'm thepakhanof the Rostov Bratva, and someone I once trusted is in bed with my enemy. The realization has become a cold, unbreakable wall in my chest, defense against whatever charm she still believes she holds.
“You look tense,” she murmurs, gliding into the living room. Her heels click against the marble floor, each step calculated for maximum effect. Her perfume trails behind her like the ghost of a memory I no longer want. Expensive, intoxicating, and now forever tainted by her betrayal.
I remain standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, my back straight and my hands clasped behind me. The city lights glint on the surface of the glass, a backdrop of glittering stars that seem to mock the darkness of this conversation.
I don't offer her a drink. I don't sit. I don't play the gracious host she expects.
“You've been laundering money for Bennato.”
The words settle into the quiet like fragments of broken glass, sharp enough to leave a mark. Bianca's smile falters for just a fraction of a second, but she recovers quickly. Her training in manipulation runs deep, honed by years of navigating treacherous circles where a single misstep could mean death.
“That's absurd,” she laughs dryly, her voice steady and slightly offended as if I've accused her of something trivial instead of treason.
I step closer, my movements deliberate and predatory. She tries to hold my gaze, but I see the way her pupils dilate and her breathing becomes more shallow. Fear, no matter how well hidden, has a scent.
“Don't insult me, Bianca. The shell companies trace back to your firm. The wire transfers go through your accounts. I have the records.” Each word is delivered with surgical precision, cutting through her carefully constructed facade.
Her throat works as she swallows, and I watch the delicate movement with detached interest. She's always been good at hiding fear and projecting confidence, even when the walls are closing in. But she can't hide the slight tremor in her hands or the way her fingers curl slightly as if she wants to reach for something to steady herself.
“I didn't—” she starts, but the lie dies on her lips when she sees my expression.
“Don't lie to me,” I thunder. The warning echoes with the power of everything I’ve built and the fury I’ll unleash to defend it.
Her mask finally cracks, and I see the woman beneath the carefully constructed façade. Desperate, cornered, and far more frightened than she wants to admit.
“Fine.” Her voice hardens, taking on an edge I remember from our worst arguments. “Yes. I helped him. I didn't know the full extent at first, but by the time I did, I couldn't back out.”
The confession settles in the room like a held breath, and deep inside, something shifts and quietly locks into place. The last vestige of doubt, the small part of me that hoped Elena had made a mistake, finally dies.
“You mean you didn't want to.” My voice is flat and emotionless because feeling anything right now would be dangerous.
Bianca's eyes blaze with sudden fury, and I see the woman I once knew resurface. Proud, passionate, and utterly unrepentant.
“Don't pretend this is about morality, Renat. You think you're so righteous? I know what you've done. I know the blood on your hands, the bodies buried in unmarked graves, the families destroyed by your business.” Her voice rises with each accusation, months or maybe years of resentment finally spilling over.
