Page 15 of Crystal Veil

“Put him through,” I order.

There's a moment of silence, then Sergey's voice, clear and steady. No trace of the broken man from the pit. “Francesco? It's Sergey. I have what you've been waiting for.”

I can't hear Bennato's response, but I can imagine his excitement. The Italian believes he has finally achieved what he has been working toward for years. He thinks he's about to claim Miami as his personal kingdom.

“Tomorrow night. The construction site on Biscayne. Renat will be there alone, ready to discuss terms. Bring whatever backup you think you need but keep it small. He's proud. He won't negotiate if he feels outnumbered.”

More silence. Then Sergey continues, his voice carrying just the right note of urgency. “Bianca should come too. There are documents...financial records that could be useful. She'll know what to do with them.”

The call ends, and the trap is set.

I finish the vodka, feeling it settle warmly in my stomach. Tomorrow night, this ends. One way or another, the threats to my family disappear permanently. Bennato, Bianca, and anyone else who stands with them will learn what happens when you threaten what belongs to Renat Rostov.

The next time I see Bennato and Bianca, it will be the last. They'll arrive at that construction site expecting to dance on the grave of my empire. Instead, I’ll put a bullet between their eyes.

And Sergey, whether he dies beside them or crawls away from the fire, will know what it means to lose everything. Not just power, money, or territory. But legacy. The chance to be remembered as anything other than a traitor who sold his soul for a woman's smile.

And me? I'll be the one who watches the light fade from their eyes. The one who ensures that my child grows up in a world where these particular monsters can never reach them.

No hesitation. No regret. Just silence.

I think of Elena waiting for me at home, probably reading or writing, her hand absently resting on the small swell of her belly. She doesn't know that her future is being decided in blood and fire on a construction site across the city. She doesn't need to know. Some darkness is mine alone to embrace.

Tomorrow night, I’ll become the monster they always whispered I was. But I do it for love. For family. For the small, perfect life growing inside the woman who taught me that there was more to existence than power and fear.

The irony isn't lost on me. To protect the light, I must become the darkness. To preserve what's pure, I must embrace what's corrupt. To save my soul, I must damn it.

But that's tomorrow's burden. Tonight, I go home to Elena. Tonight, I hold her and pretend that tomorrow doesn't exist. Tonight, I remember what it feels like to be a human instead of a predator.

Tomorrow, I will hunt.

7

ELENA

The nursery is painted with the softest shade of sage, the color of calm and new beginnings. But as I stand in the doorway with a folded blanket in my hands, dread curls low in my belly. The walls seem to mock me with their serenity and their promise of peace in a world where violence lurks around every corner. I trace the wooden doorframe with my fingertips, remembering how Renat insisted on hand-selecting every piece of furniture himself. He'd spent hours poring over catalogs, his usually decisive nature wavering when it came to choosing between cream and ivory for the changing table.

Amelia moves beside me, humming under her breath as she assembles the mobile Renat ordered from some boutique in Paris. Her fingers work with flawless rhythm, connecting delicate pieces with the same care she brings to everything in her life. Gilded stars and porcelain moons twirl in lazy circles, their movement unhurried and unbothered, unlike me. The sight of them spinning endlessly makes my stomach turn. It mirrors how everything in my world feels caught in perpetual motion, never settling or finding a sense of stillness.

I smooth the edge of the crib sheets with shaking fingers and try to focus on the mundane. The soft cotton, wooden rails, and the sweet scent of lavender from the laundry detergent I insisted on using, the same one my mother used when I was small. Everything is in place, almost perfect. The receiving blankets are folded in neat stacks, and the tiny clothes are arranged by size in the dresser drawers. Even the rocking chair sits positioned at the perfect angle to bask in the morning light. Except none of it feels right. Because Renat is preparing for war.

I've seen how his shoulders tense when he thinks I'm not looking and how his phone buzzes with messages that make his teeth clench. He tries to shield me from the worst of it, but I can read the signs in the way he kisses my forehead before leaving each morning like he's memorizing the feeling. In how he holds me too tight at night, his body rigid with tension even in sleep.

“You okay?” Amelia asks, glancing over her shoulder. Her voice carries that gentle concern that's been my anchor since childhood. She knows me too well to be fooled by my silence. She can probably read the worry written across my face like headlines in a newspaper.

I press my hand to my belly, feeling the slight swell just beginning to show beneath my cotton shirt. The baby moves sometimes now, barely perceptible flutters that remind me of butterfly wings. Renat's child. Our child. The thought should fill me with joy, but instead, it amplifies every fear I have. “I'm trying to be.”

She walks over and leans against the antique dresser, arms crossed, her blue eyes warm but sharp. “Trying doesn't sound very convincing.”

I lower myself into the rocking chair, the one Renat surprised me with last week. He'd had it custom-made. The wood is stained to match the crib, and the cushions are covered in fabric that complements the sage walls. Every detail is chosen with care, love, and hope for a future that feels increasingly uncertain. I exhale slowly, trying to release some of the tension knotted in my shoulders. “He tells me it's just a trap. Just a clean way to finish things. But there's no such thing as clean in this world. Not when bullets and lies are involved.”

The words settle on my tongue like poison. I've spent months learning the language of his world, understanding the codes and unspoken rules that govern every interaction. But understanding doesn't make it easier to accept. Every morning, I wake up wondering if this will be the day he doesn't come home. Every phone call could be the one that changes everything.

She comes to kneel in front of me, her hands warm and steady on my knees. Physical contact has always been Amelia's way of offering comfort and grounding me when my thoughts threaten to spiral out of control. “You love him.”

I nod, unable to trust my voice. Love feels like such an inadequate word for what I feel for Renat. It's deeper than affection, more consuming than attraction. It's the way my heart recognizes his footsteps in the hallway, how my body relaxes when he walks into a room. It's the fierce protectiveness that rises in me when I see the shadows under his eyes and see the way he carries the crushing load of his empire on his shoulders.

“That's why I'm terrified,” I whisper, the admission barely making it past the lump in my throat.