Page 16 of Crystal Veil

She doesn't answer right away. Her thumb rubs small circles on my leg. The gesture is so familiar that it takes me back to all thetimes she's comforted me over the years, through my mother's long work hours and my fears about fitting in. Through the rejection letters from newspapers and the nights I doubted my own abilities. She's been my constant, my safe harbor in every storm. “Then maybe it's time you fight for him too. In your way. Not with guns or traps, but with the truth.”

I blink, confusion clouding my thoughts. “What do you mean?”

Amelia rises, smoothing her pencil skirt. Even in crisis, she maintains that polished exterior, the professional composure that serves her so well in her PR work. “Bianca. You mentioned it yourself a few days ago. She's involved with Sergey and helping Bennato. You're a journalist, Elena. Maybe it's time you bring her down the way you know how.”

The idea takes root so quickly it almost hurts, like a flame in a dry brush, spreading and consuming everything in its path. I can feel my pulse quicken as possibilities unfold in my mind. Bianca Rossi, with her perfectly styled hair, designer clothes, and air of untouchable elegance. She has been operating in plain sight, using her legitimate business as a cover for something far more sinister.

I reach for my phone before I can talk myself out of it, my fingers trembling slightly as I scroll through my contacts. Nick's number is near the top, marked with the newspaper icon I assigned to all my work contacts. The familiar ritual of calling him centers me, reminding me who I am beneath all the fear and uncertainty.

Nick answers on the third ring, his voice gravelly with exhaustion. “Martinez. Shouldn't you be on maternity leave or something?”

His tone is gruff and familiar, and for the first time in days, I smile. The sound of his voice transports me back to the newsroom, to the rhythmic hustle of deadlines and breaking stories. To a world where I know exactly who I am and what I'm capable of. “You're back at the office?”

“You think a little hospital visit can keep me down?” He coughs, and I can picture him at his desk, probably surrounded by coffee cups and crumpled paper. “Doctor cleared me yesterday. Against his better judgment, according to my nurse.”

“Good. Because I need you.”

He falls silent, which means he's listening with the same focused attention he brings to every story that matters. I can almost see him leaning forward, pen poised over his notepad, ready to capture every detail. “I'm here. What's going on?”

“I need to dig into Bianca Rossi's design business. She's laundering money for Bennato through her clients.” The words come out steady and professional. This is familiar territory, the kind of investigation that once would have excited me beyond measure.

“That would explain the ridiculous markups on all those luxury penthouse makeovers,” he mutters, and I can hear papers rustling in the background. “I've been wondering how someone charges fifty thousand for a coffee table.”

“Exactly. I need financials, client lists, shipping invoices, anything that demonstrates dirty money passing through her hands.” My journalist instincts are firing on all cylinders now, the thrill of pursuit temporarily drowning out my fear.

“You sure about this? You already have a target on your back.” His concern is evident. The protective instinct of a mentorwho has watched me grow from an eager intern to a seasoned reporter.

I glance at the crib and the tiny socks folded neatly on the changing table. Each pair is so small they hardly seem real, reminders of the precious life I'm carrying. “I have more to protect now more than ever.”

That truth settles over me like armor. I'm not just fighting for Renat anymore, or even for myself. I'm fighting for our child and the future we're trying to build together. For the right to raise our baby in a world where love matters more than power and family means something beyond bloodlines and loyalty oaths.

He exhales sharply, and I can picture him running his hand through his graying hair. “Alright. Let's do it. But this time we do it smart. No anonymous sources that can't be verified. No vague claims that won't hold up in court. We build this airtight. We run it clean.”

“We run it like it's the last thing I’ll ever write.” The words sting, but they're true. This story feels like everything I've worked toward. The culmination of every skill I've developed and every instinct I've honed.

Nick doesn't argue. He knows me and knows when I've already made up my mind. The determination in my voice probably reminds him of his younger self, when he was willing to risk everything for the truth. “Give me an hour. I'll send everything we have so far.”

By the time I hang up, Amelia is already pulling out her laptop, her fingers moving quickly across the keyboard. She's transformed from a concerned friend to a determined partner,ready to dive into the kind of research that once consumed our college nights. “We need to find her shell companies.”

“On it,” she responds, fingers moving like a concert pianist chasing a crescendo. Her background in public relations has given her skills in research and investigation that complement my own. She knows how to trace connections and follow paper trails that others might miss.

For the next two hours, we dig. We cross-reference remodels in buildings Bennato owns, analyzing timestamps on design contracts that align too perfectly with spikes in his cash flow. The patterns emerge slowly, like a photograph developing in a darkroom. Each piece of evidence builds on the last, creating a picture of systematic corruption disguised as legitimate business.

We discover a shipment of imported marble from Italy, priced at five times the market value, and funneled through a warehouse known to the federal authorities. The invoices are pristine and professionally crafted, but the numbers don't add up. No marble, no matter how rare, costs that much. The shipping records show deliveries to properties that were never actually renovated, ghost projects that exist only on paper.

“She's not just laundering,” I murmur, scrolling through bank transfers that paint a clear picture of financial manipulation. “She's actively covering for him. She knows everything.”

Amelia leans back in her chair, pushing her blonde hair away from her face. Her blue eyes are bright with the satisfaction of a puzzle solved. “And she's about to be exposed.”

We write. The words flow like water, each sentence building on the foundation of evidence we've gathered. We pull quotes fromcontractors who quietly admit to never receiving payment or being paid in cash for work that was supposed to be legitimate. Sources whisper about Bianca's sudden wealth and her designer wardrobe that far exceeds what an interior designer should reasonably afford.

A former client confesses she found a listening device behind a faux gold mirror that Bianca insisted on installing in her bedroom. The woman's voice trembles with violation as she describes the discovery, how it made her question every conversation she'd had in her own home. The device was professionally installed and invisible to casual inspection. The work of someone with access to sophisticated surveillance equipment.

Each revelation adds another layer to the story, painting Bianca not as a peripheral figure but as a central player in Bennato's operations. She's been hiding in plain sight, using her beauty and charm to gain access to the homes and lives of Miami's elite. Her client list reads like a who's who of the city's power brokers, politicians, and business leaders who trusted her with their most private spaces.

I send it all to Nick, attaching documents and photos that support every claim. The evidence is overwhelming and incontrovertible. This isn't speculation or rumor but hard facts that will stand up to scrutiny.

“It goes to print in three days,” he confirms over the phone, his voice dripping with the satisfaction of a job well done. “Front page. We'll make sure it sticks.”