Page 36 of Crystal Veil

“You already have.”

They both pale.

I watch their faces transform from apprehension to genuine fear. These men have killed for me. They've bled for me. They've followed orders without question for years. But they've never witnessed the brand of fury that comes when someone threatens what belongs to me.

Elena belongs to me. The child she carries belongs to me. And anyone who dares to touch them will learn exactly what that means.

I leave the mailroom with the envelope in hand and fire burning through my veins. The doctor confirmed that it was a micro-dose of a botanical toxin, laced along the paper, which was absorbed through the skin. Fast acting, short half-life, metabolized before it could kill her. Which means it wasn't meant to kill. It was meant to warn. Or provoke.

The hallway outside the mailroom stretches before me, lined with portraits of men who built this empire with blood and bullets. My father's face stares down from the largest frame, his eyes as cold and calculating as they were in life. He would have handled this differently. More directly. More violently. But then again, he never had to protect a pregnant woman who meant more to him than his own life.

I pass the library, the formal dining room, the sitting rooms where Elena and I have shared quiet moments that feel like stolen time. Each space holds memories now, fragments of a life I never thought I'd want to have. The estate isn't just a fortress anymore. It's a home. And someone has violated it.

My phone vibrates against my chest. A text from Dr. Petrov confirms Elena's vital signs remain stable. Her fever has brokencompletely. The baby's heartbeat is strong and steady. But I know the numbers don't tell the whole story. Trauma lives in places that medical equipment can't reach.

I send the envelope to Moscow via encrypted courier. I don't trust any of the labs here. Too many ties to agencies. Too many mouths that can be bribed. My contact in Moscow's chemical black market owes me a favor. A large one.

The courier is a ghost. No name, no face, no records. Just a shadow who moves between worlds without leaving traces. He'll deliver the envelope to the right hands, collect the analysis, and disappear again. Some favors are worth more than money, and some debts run deeper than gold.

I retreat to my office and try to focus on other business. Supply chain reports from the docks. Revenue projections from the legitimate holdings. Investment opportunities that will clean more money and expand our influence. But every number on every page blurs together. Every document feels meaningless.

My mind keeps returning to Elena. I've seen death before. I've caused it. But watching Elena struggle to breathe, watching her skin turn pale and clammy, watching her eyes lose focus... That was different. That was my own mortality staring back at me through her suffering.

Twenty-four hours later, the results come back.

Belladone blanche. A rare botanical neurotoxin historically used in Northern France. Derived from a ghost lily variant that blooms once every seven years. Its use is archaic. Obscure.Almost ritualistic. Only a handful of families are even aware of the process to extract it.

French families.

My pulse spikes.

I read the report three times, committing every detail to memory. The compound's molecular structure. Its historical applications. The specific regions where the ghost lily grows. The traditional methods of extraction were passed down through generations of French nobility who used them to eliminate rivals without detection.

This isn't something you learn from a textbook. It isn't knowledge you acquire through casual research. This is heritage and legacy. The kind of deadly education that flows through bloodlines like an inherited disease.

The doctor's supplementary notes confirm my suspicions. The toxin's purity suggests that it was produced by someone with extensive experience. French-made, expensive, the kind used for correspondence between old-money families who still observe customs from another century.

I sit back in my chair, my jaw tightening as the image forms in my mind.

Celine Boucher.

French, sophisticated, and always composed. A woman who speaks in silk and walks like she's balancing secrets in her heels. The scent clinging to the envelope matches her perfume almost perfectly. Elena noticed it immediately, her journalist's instincts picking up details that others might miss.

I've watched Celine at Bennato's events. She moves through crowds like water, graceful and fluid, never seeming to touch anything but somehow leaving her mark everywhere. She speaks three languages fluently, appreciates art that most people couldn't begin to understand, and wears her intelligence like expensive jewelry.

She's exactly the kind of woman who would know about ghost lilies and ancient poisons. Who would have access to family recipes for dealing with inconvenient problems and consider poisoning an elegant solution rather than a crude crime.

And Elena's right about one thing. Celine doesn't strike as the type to get her hands dirty. But she is close to Bennato. His current obsession, his trophy. A woman who understands art, poisons, and how to whisper in the dark.

I've seen them together. The way Bennato looks at her like she's a masterpiece he's planning to steal. The way she tolerates his attention with the polished ease of someone who's learned to survive by being useful to dangerous men. She's not in love with him. But she's smart enough to let him think she might be. And smart enough to be dangerous.

I hit the intercom. “Artur. My office. Now.”

Seconds later, the door opens. Artur steps inside, his posture rigid and eyes sharp.

“I want everything we have on Celine Boucher. Every file, every photo, every time she so much as breathed near a known associate. I want to know who she speaks to, who she sleeps with, and who she buys her perfume from.”

He doesn't ask why. He just nods and vanishes.