Page 41 of Crystal Wrath
I reach for the vodka and down it in a single motion, welcoming the burn as it slides down my throat. The alcohol does nothing to numb the chaos in my head, but it gives me something to focus on besides the way Elena's skin feels under my hands.
My phone buzzes against the desk, the vibration breaking the silence with a jolt of urgency. I glance down at the screen, expecting another routine update from one of my lieutenants. Instead, I see a message from Artur, one of my oldest and most trusted vors.
We have a problem. There's a mole.
My spine stiffens. The empty glass in my hand nearly slips, but I catch it before it falls. I reread the message twice to make sure I didn't misinterpret it, the words burning themselves into my retinas.
A mole. Inside my organization. The rage is immediate, white-hot, and blinding. I slam the glass down on the desk, the sound cracking through the silence. The crystal doesn't shatter, but hairline fractures spread across its surface like a spider web. Whoever this traitor is, they've just signed their death sentence.
I've built this empire on loyalty and fear in equal measures. Every man who works for me knows the price of betrayal. I've made examples of those who thought they could play both sides and left their bodies where my enemies would find them. The message was always clear: you're either with the Rostov Bratva, or you're dead. But now, someone has chosen to test that rule.
My mind races through possibilities. Who has access to sensitive information? Who knows about shipments, territory disputes, and financial arrangements? The list is shorter than I'd prefer but longer than I'd hoped. Too many people know too much about my operations. Including Elena's presence here.
The thought barrels into me, leaving me reeling. If there's a mole in my organization, they know about her. They know she's here, under my protection, sharing my bed.
I pick up my phone again and dial Sergey's number. He answers on the second ring, his voice rough with sleep.
“Pakhan?”
“Get to the estate. Now." The words come out blunt, but I don't soften them. There's no time for pleasantries when everything I've built might be crumbling around me.
“What's happened?”
“Just get here. We'll discuss it when you arrive.”
He doesn't ask questions, just mutters that he's on his way and hangs up. I appreciate that about Sergey. He's never been one to waste time with unnecessary words or explanations. When I give an order, he follows it without question.
I stand and pace to the window, watching the sun climb higher over the bay. Miami is waking up, yawning as another day begins. It looks peaceful. Innocent. Nothing like the snake pit of betrayal and violence I know it really is.
Twenty minutes later, Sergey strides into my office without knocking. His dark hair is slightly disheveled, and there are still creases on his cheek from his pillow, but his green eyes are alert and focused. He's dressed in black jeans and a tactical shirt, armed and ready for whatever storm I'm about to unleash.
“Artur says we have a mole,” I begin, keeping my voice low and sharp. I don't bother with greetings or small talk. We've worked together long enough that he knows when I'm in crisis mode.
Sergey's brow furrows, the scar over his left eye pulling tight. “Did Artur give details?”
“No. Just the warning.” I hand him my phone so he can read the message himself. “He wouldn't have reached out unless he had solid reason to believe it's true.”
Sergey studies the screen, his expression growing darker. “Could be nothing. Rumors. Someone making a power grab.”
“If it were nothing, Artur would have handled it himself. But he didn't.” I take the phone back and slide it into my pocket. “He came to me because he thinks this goes deep enough to threaten the entire operation.”
Sergey crosses his arms over his chest, the muscles in his shoulders tensing. “What do you want me to do?”
“First, I want you to think. Has anyone been asking questions they shouldn't? Acting strangely? Showing up places they don't belong?”
He's quiet for a long moment, his gaze distant as he sifts through recent memories. “Eduard's been nervous lately. Jumpy. But his wife just had a baby, so that could explain it.”
“What about Peter?”
“Same as always. Focused on the port operations. No complaints from his crew.”
“Anatoly?”
“Security's been tight. No breaches, no unusual activity.” Sergey pauses. “Though he did ask about the journalist.”
My blood turns to ice. “What did he ask?”
“Just wondered if she was still here. Whether she posed any ongoing threat to the organization.”
