Page 4 of Crystal Veil

“There was an attempt on Elena's life today at Jackson Memorial Hospital,” I announce, my voice cutting through the silence like a knife through silk.

Viktor straightens as if someone just put voltage through his spine. Roman's eyes narrow to slits, his massive hands curling into fists that could crush a man's skull without effort.

“She's alive,” I add before either can voice the question I see forming on their lips. “Bruised. Concussed. But breathing. The doctors expect a full recovery.”

“How?” Roman finally speaks, his voice a low rumble that seems to come from somewhere deep in his chest. “Who got that close to her? We had security on every approach.”

“A woman posing as a nurse. Armed with both poison and a pistol. Professional grade equipment, professional execution. She knew exactly where to go, which routes to take, and who to avoid. She knew precisely which camera angles would give her the cleanest approach and what time the security rotations would create the biggest gap in coverage.”

I let that information settle like dust on glass, watching their faces as the implications sink in. These are not stupid men. They understand what those details mean.

“She had help,” Viktor states flatly, his accent thickening the way it always does when he's angry. “From the inside. Someone gave her a roadmap.”

“Exactly,” I hiss.

I press my thumb against the biometric scanner hidden in what appears to be a decorative carving on the desk. The lock clicks open with a soft mechanical whisper. Inside the hidden compartment, I retrieve a slim silver USB drive and cross to the wall-mounted display screen concealed behind what looks like an oil painting of the Russian countryside.

The screen flickers to life as I insert the drive, flooding the room with harsh blue light. Surveillance maps cascade across the display in layers. Floor plans of Jackson Memorial Hospital. Badge access logs show every authorized entry and exit. Camera feeds with timestamps marking exactly when and where our mysterious nurse appeared and disappeared.

“Only two people knew the complete security profile for Nick Anderson's wing,” I continue, pointing to specific areas on the map. “Only two people had access to Elena's exact location and the timing of her visit. Me. And Sergey.”

Roman's breath hisses out between his teeth like steam from a boiling kettle. Viktor mutters a string of Russian curses that would make a sailor blush.

“I'm not making accusations without proof,” I clarify, though every instinct I possess screams that Sergey is guilty. “But I'm not ignoring the obvious either. The evidence points in one direction, and that direction leads straight to my second-in-command.”

“What do you need us to do?” Viktor asks, pushing himself away from the doorframe. His hand automatically drifts toward the gun concealed beneath his jacket. It's an unconscious gesture that shows how seriously he's taking this threat.

I turn away from the screen, facing both men directly. “We're setting a trap. Something elegant. Something that will give us definitive proof one way or another.”

Their eyes gleam with understanding. Roman cracks his knuckles, the sound like breaking bones. Viktor's smile turns predatory.

“We leak information about a shipment. Illegal arms arriving at dock forty-two Tuesday night. High-value cargo that would be irresistible to someone like Bennato. Only two people will know about this fictional shipment: me and Sergey. If that dock gets hit, if Bennato's men show up looking for weapons that don't exist, we'll know exactly who fed him the intelligence.”

Roman nods slowly, his strategic mind already working through the possibilities. “And if he doesn't take the bait? If nothing happens Tuesday night?”

“Then we keep digging. But I don't think it will come to that. Sergey isn't subtle when he's angry, and he's been angry for months. Jealous. Resentful. He thinks I don't notice the way he looks at me sometimes, like he's measuring me for a coffin.”

“Bianca,” Viktor mutters, understanding flooding his expression.

My jaw tightens at the mention of her name. The beautiful Italian who used to warm my bed, thinking that gave her ownership rights to my heart. “She warned me a week ago. I thought she was just trying to drive a wedge between me and Sergey and create chaos she could exploit. But maybe she was telling the truth for once in her manipulative life.”

Roman stands, his movements controlled despite his size. “We'll keep our eyes on him. Track his communications, hismovements, his contacts. You just focus on getting Elena somewhere safe. Somewhere even Bennato can't reach.”

They file out of the library, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the sting of betrayal coiling around my shoulders like barbed wire. I pour another vodka and stare at the surveillance maps still glowing on the wall screen. Red dots mark camera positions. Blue lines trace security patrol routes. Green areas indicate safe zones. But none of it means anything if the threat comes from within.

I drain the glass and head for the upper wing of the estate. My bedroom smells faintly of the lavender oil the housekeeping staff uses to scent the linens. But beneath that pleasant fragrance lurks something sharper, more acrid. My own fury. My guilt over letting Elena get so close to death.

She doesn't belong in this world of violence and betrayal. She's a journalist, for Christ's sake. Her weapons are words and principles, not bullets and blood. But she's in my world now, pulled into the darkness by proximity to me.

And because I failed to see the enemy standing right beside me, she nearly didn't walk out of that hospital alive.

I move into my office, a smaller room adjacent to the bedroom that serves as my private command center. The walls are lined with monitors showing feeds from security cameras throughout the estate. A bank of encrypted phones sits on the desk, each one a direct line to different aspects of my empire.

I select the phone with the red handset and dial a number that doesn't exist in any directory, connecting to no traceable location. After three rings, a woman answers with a crisp Russian accent.

“Magdalena.”

“Clean the villa,” I instruct without preamble. “Full deep clean. Medical staff on standby, complete emergency suite. Stock the kitchen, check all security systems, test the communication arrays. No questions asked, no records kept. We arrive tomorrow evening.”