Page 13 of Crystal Veil

I reach out, my palm finding the solid warmth of his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart beneath the expensive fabric of his shirt. His heart beats fast with rage and adrenaline, but it beats. He's alive, and he's here, and for now, that has to be enough.

“Just promise me something,” I whisper, looking up into those hazel eyes that have become my anchor in this storm-tossed world.

“Anything,” he replies without hesitation.

“Don't lose yourself in the fire you're building. Don't let it burn away what we have.”

His hand covers mine, warm, solid, and real. The calluses on his palms bear the history of work and violence, but his touch is gentle as he presses my palm more firmly against his chest. “I won't.”

But I don't miss the way his eyes slide away when he responds, looking past me toward the rain-lashed windows. I don't miss the tension that remains in his shoulders and the way his free hand clenches and unclenches at his side.

Because some promises can't be kept. Not in this world. Not when blood stains everything we touch. Not when the people we trust most are the ones with the power to destroy us completely.

I feel the flutter of life inside me amid all this talk of death. I wonder what world we're bringing this child into. What legacy of violence and love we're creating. But as Renat's arms close around me, as his scent surrounds me, and his heartbeatsteadies under my palm, I know that whatever comes next, we'll face it together. Even if that means walking through fire to get to the other side.

6

RENAT

The room is cold. It doesn’t just cling to your skin but seeps beneath it, settling into your bones like a disease. Moisture beads along the stone walls in perfect droplets, gravity pulling them downward in slow, methodical patterns. The hum of fluorescent lighting above washes everything in a sterile, unforgiving glare, making shadows dance in the corners where darkness refuses to yield completely. This room has seen blood, screams, begging, and silence. It sits apart from the main estate, built impossibly low into the ground where Miami’s water table should make such things unlivable. But it isn’t meant for the living. Around here, we call it the pit.

Tonight, it gets confession.

Sergey sits chained to the lone metal chair, his head slumped forward, his breathing heavy and labored. Each exhale rasps through his throat like sandpaper. His shirt is soaked through with sweat despite the chill that penetrates every surface down here. One eye is swollen shut from the earlier interrogation, the flesh around it purple and tender. His lip is split in two places, dried blood crusting along the wounds. But he glares at mewith his good eye, projecting the hatred that fuels a man who's already lost everything and knows it.

I step forward. Each footfall is intentional and unhurried. The heaviness of my footsteps echoes on the concrete floor, bouncing off the walls and amplifying in the enclosed space. Roman and Artur remain just behind me, silent as stone monuments, weapons holstered but hands never far from them. Their presence is a promise written in flesh and steel. They know this isn't a negotiation. This is the reckoning.

The air tastes metallic. Fear has a smell, sharp and acidic, and it mingles with dampness until breathing becomes an exercise in endurance. I've been in the pit dozens of times before. Men have died here. Men have broken here. Some have walked out alive, but none have walked out unchanged.

“Talk,” I command. My voice slices through the tension like a blade fresh from the whetstone. No preamble. No patience. No mercy.

Sergey lifts his head slowly, the chains around his wrists rattling like wind chimes in a storm. Blood glistens along his jaw, snaring the harsh light and reflecting it back in tiny crimson stars. His breathing is ragged, each inhale a struggle, and each exhale a surrender.

“You already know,” he rasps.

“I want to hear it from your mouth. Every last piece. Every detail. Every lie.”

He lets out a bitter chuckle, the sound cracked and hollow like bones breaking underwater. His shoulders shake with effort, the chains clinking against the metal chair. “Always needed to control the narrative, didn't you, Renat? The golden boy withthe silver spoon, handed the empire while the rest of us bled for scraps.”

My jaw tightens. The muscle beneath my skin jumps, betraying the calm I'm projecting. Emotion is a weakness.

He spits blood onto the floor, the red droplet landing with a soft splat against the gray concrete. “You want to know why? Because I'm tired of being second. Always second. Always in your shadow, watching you make decisions I should have been making. When your father died, I thought... I thought maybe I'd finally get what I earned through blood and sacrifice. But no. He left it all to his bastard son. You.”

The words strike like thrown stones, each one aimed to bruise. Sergey knows exactly where to thrust his verbal daggers. He's studied me for years, learned my weaknesses, and cataloged my fears. Now, he's weaponizing that knowledge.

“You think loyalty is a currency you get to trade when it suits you?” I snap, stepping closer. The distance between us shrinks to mere inches. I can smell the fear on him and see the way his pupils dilate despite the harsh lighting. “You think because my father chose me, you had the right to sell us out? To Bennato?”

He doesn't flinch. There's something almost admirable about his defiance, even chained and broken. “Bennato promised what you never would. Power, recognition, and Bianca.”

Ah. There it is.The rot beneath the surface, the poison that's been eating away at him from the inside. I should have seen it coming. Should have recognized the signs. But I was too focused on external threats to notice the cancer growing within my own ranks.

“She never loved you,” I state flatly, the words dropping like rocks into still water.

His face twists into something ugly and desperate. “She loved you. Even when you treated her like trash and discarded her like yesterday's newspaper, she still clung to the idea of you. You threw her away, and I was the one left picking up the pieces. She needed someone who would see her, appreciate her, and treat her like the queen she deserved to be. I did.”

There's pain in his voice now, raw and bleeding. This isn't just about power, money, or territory. This is about a woman who never looked at him the way she looked at me. This is about years of unrequited devotion, of watching from the sidelines while someone else lived the life he wanted.

“And what did that get you, Sergey?” I gesture around us, taking in the damp walls, the harsh lighting, and the chains that bind him. “This? Shackled, broken, and forgotten.”