Page 48 of Crystal Wrath
“My place isn't beneath you,” I hiss, putting every ounce of conviction I possess into the words. “And you know it. That's why you're scared.”
For a split second I think he might hit me again. His jaw twitches, and his gray eyes flash with rage. But then something else crosses his face. Surprise, maybe even a grudging respect. The blow doesn't come. Instead, he smiles, but there is no warmth in it whatsoever.
“I will give you one more chance,” he states, his voice deadly quiet. “Tell me what you know. All of it. Every source, every document, every lead you've followed. Or I start carving answers out of your friend.”
The knife at Amelia's throat presses closer, and a small drop of blood appears on her pale skin. She whimpers, her whole body shaking with terror.
I grit my teeth, my mind racing. I could give him something, some small piece of information to buy us time. But I know men like Bennato. Give him an inch, and he'll take everything. And once he has what he wants, Amelia and I become liabilities that need to be eliminated.
I stay silent.
“So be it,” he murmurs after several long seconds.
He rises, straightens his shirt cuffs with meticulous care, and walks toward the door. His footsteps are calm as if he's leaving a boring business meeting rather than abandoning two women to torture and death.
Before he steps through the doorway, he turns back to look at us one final time. The late afternoon sun behind him creates a halo effect that makes him look like a fallen angel.
“You won't leave this island alive, Elena,” he announces with absolute certainty. “You should have chosen silence when you had the chance.”
The door closes behind him with a solid thud, and I hear the lock click into place. Heavy footsteps move away from the door, growing fainter until they disappear entirely. We're alone in the humid, salt-scented gloom.
My blood runs cold at his words, but I don't let the fear swallow me. Not yet. I've come too far and survived too much to give up now. The investigative journalist in me is already analyzing our situation, looking for weaknesses and opportunities.
I shift closer to Amelia, our bound shoulders bumping together. Her breathing is ragged and uneven, but she's still here. Still fighting. Her bright blue eyes meet mine, and I see the same determination that got us through childhood trials and college stress. My best friend since we were five years old, the girl who shared her family's wealth and stability when my mother was working three jobs just to keep us fed.
“We're going to get out of this,” I whisper, my voice shaking slightly.
She nods slightly, tears still streaming down her face, but her expression grows more focused. The initial shock is wearing off, and I can see her PR training kicking in. She's accustomed to handling crises and managing difficult situations under pressure.
I start working at the ropes around my wrists, testing their strength and looking for any give. The coarse fibers are rough against my skin, already raw and bleeding from my earlier struggles. But I can feel a slight looseness where the knots were tied hastily.
The room is small, maybe twelve feet square, with only one door and two shuttered windows. The floorboards are old and warped, with gaps between some of the planks that let in slivers of light and the sound of water below. The walls are rough-hewn wood, stained with decades of salt spray and humidity.
There's not much furniture, just a broken chair in one corner and a small table with water damage along one edge. No obvious weapons, nothing sharp enough to cut through the rope. But the floorboards might be useful. Some of them look loose enough to pry up, and a wooden plank could be a formidable weapon in the right hands.
I catalog every detail, every potential advantage. The door is made of heavy wood, but it's old. The hinges looked rusted. The lock looks simple, maybe just a basic deadbolt. The windows might offer another way out if we can get to them.
And somewhere out there, I know Renat is looking for us. He promised to protect me, and I believe him. Men like Renat Rostov don't make promises lightly. His hazel eyes, with their flecks of gold, the controlled power in his movements, and the quiet authority in his voice indicate a man who keeps his word.
I think about the way he looked at me in his marble foyer this morning, the internal battle playing out across his angular features. Authority wrestling with something softer that looked like genuine concern. He didn't want to let me go to thenewsroom, but he respected my choice. He compromised, sending Yavin to protect me.
Yavin.The thought of the burly Russian, with his graying temples and sharp, calculating eyes, sends a sick feeling through me. He must have been furious when he realized I’d slipped away from the newspaper building. I just hope Renat doesn’t make him pay for my disappearance.
Will Renat know where to look for us? Bennato chose this location carefully, as it is isolated, defensible, and far from prying eyes. We can be anywhere in the vast network of islands and waterways that surround Miami.
I continue working at the ropes, ignoring the burning pain in my wrists. The salt air makes everything sting worse, but I can feel the fibers starting to fray slightly. It's slow progress, but it's progress.
Amelia watches me with growing hope in her eyes. She starts working on her own bonds, following my example. Her manicured nails, usually pristine, are already chipped and broken from the rough treatment.
Time moves differently in this cramped, humid prison. The light filtering through the shutters shifts and changes, telling us that hours are passing. My stomach cramps with hunger, and my throat is parched with thirst. But I don't stop working at the ropes.
I think about my mother, about all the stories she told me of her escape from Cuba. How she hid in the cargo hold of a fishing boat for two days with nothing but a bottle of water and some crackers. How she worked cleaning office buildings at night and waited tables during the day just to afford a tiny apartment in arough neighborhood. She never complained, never gave up, and never let the hardships break her spirit.
“Mija,”she used to tell me,“we Martinez women are fighters. We bend, but we do not break.”
I won't break now. Not for Francesco Bennato. Not for anyone.
The sun is setting when I finally feel the first knot give way. The rope loosens just enough for me to work my thumb through, and from there, I can wiggle my hand free. The relief is immediate and overwhelming, blood rushing back into my numb fingers with painful intensity.
