Page 17 of Crystal Veil

When I close the laptop, it's late. The stars outside the window mirror the ones above the crib, twinkling in the darkness like distant promises. My muscles ache from the stress I didn'trealize I was holding, the physical manifestation of hours spent hunched over research and writing.

Amelia tucks a soft throw blanket around me as I lean back in the rocking chair, the motion soothing after the intensity of our work. The nursery feels different now, less like a beautiful prison and more like a sanctuary. The sage walls seem to embrace me, offering the peace they promised when Renat first chose the color.

“Do you think Renat will be angry?” Amelia asks, voicing the worry that’s been nagging me since we started the investigation.

I close my eyes, feeling exhaustion settling over me. “Maybe. But I hope he sees it for what it is. I'm not trying to stop him from doing what he thinks he has to. I just want him to come back to me.”

The admission is raw and honest. I'm not trying to interfere with his plans or undermine his authority. I'm simply fighting the only way I know how using the skills that define me as much as his violence defines him. We're different people, shaped by different worlds, but we both understand the importance of protecting what matters most to us.

I open my eyes and whisper to the nursery walls, to the life growing inside me, to the man I love more than I ever thought possible. The words feel like a prayer, a vow, and a battle cry all at once.

“Come back to me, Renat. Come back whole.”

And then I place my hand over my belly, over the tiny heartbeat I carry, and promise that whatever happens next, I will not let fear dictate the end of our story. This child deserves a father whocomes home each night, a mother who isn't afraid to fight for love, and a world where truth matters more than power.

The mobile continues to spin above the crib, its gilded stars reflecting the light from the hallway. But now, their movement seems less chaotic and more purposeful. Like they're dancing to music only they can hear, celebrating the possibility of tomorrow and of a future worth fighting for.

8

RENAT

The moment I see Elena's name in the preliminary headline mockups Nick emailed to her, something inside me snaps. The screen of my laptop burns the words into my retinas like a brand.

Bianca Rossi Named in International Money Laundering Scheme Tied to Italian Crime Lord.

My jaw clenches so hard I hear my teeth grind together. The leather chair beneath me creaks as I surge to my feet, blood roaring in my ears. This cannot happen. Not now. Not when everything hangs in the balance.

I pace the length of my study, yet my mind spins like tires on black ice, desperate for traction and finding none. The mahogany walls of my study seem to close in around me. Photos of my father stare down from their gilded frames, his cold eyes judging every choice I've made since inheriting his empire.

Elena is carrying my child. My heir. The thought should fill me with pride and a sense of purpose. Instead, it fills me with a terror I've never experienced before. I've faced down rivalpakhans, stared into the barrel of loaded guns, and walkedthrough neighborhoods where my name alone could get me killed. None of that compares to the fear of losing her.

I slam the door behind me before I go looking for her, the sound echoing through the marble corridors. The staff knows better than to approach me when I'm in this mood. They scatter like shadows, disappearing into alcoves and side rooms until the storm passes.

She's in the nursery. Of course she is. The room we've spent weeks preparing, choosing every detail with the meticulous care of two people who never expected to find themselves here.

Amelia must've just left. The faint scent of vanilla lotion still lingers in the air, mingling with the smell of fresh paint and new furniture. A coffee cup sits abandoned on the dresser, lipstick staining the rim in a shade that's definitely not Elena's. There's a magazine spread open to a page about babyproofing, Amelia's careful notes scrawled in the margins in her precise handwriting.

Elena stands near the window, one hand resting on the delicate railing of the crib. The other hand is pressed protectively to her belly, a gesture that's become second nature to her over the past few months.

She's wearing one of my shirts over her jeans, the navy cotton hanging loose on her frame. It should appear casual, even a bit sloppy. Instead, she looks beautiful in a way that makes my chest ache. The shirt is rolled up at the sleeves, and I can see the faint tan line on her wrist from her watch. Her feet are bare, and her toenails are painted a soft pink color.

Her eyes meet mine in the reflection of the glass, dark and knowing. She doesn't turn around immediately, and I can see her shoulders tense. She knows why I'm here.

“I saw the email,” I state, my voice dangerously low, controlled only by a thread that threatens to snap at any moment.

She doesn't flinch. Doesn't look away. That alone raises my fury another notch, because Elena has never been one to back down from a fight. It's one of the things I love most about her, and one of the things that terrifies me.

“And?” The single word carries a challenge, daring me to try to control her.

The casualness of her response sparks something primal within me. How can she be so calm when everything hangs in the balance? When every instinct I have screams at me to lock her away somewhere safe until this war is over?

“You promised me you were done chasing ghosts.” Each word comes out clipped and precise.

Her head turns slowly, and I withstand the full force of her gaze. Those warm brown eyes that drew me in from the moment I first saw her now burn with determination. “This isn't a ghost, Renat. This is Bianca. This is Bennato. This is still very real.”

I step forward, unable to contain the fury clawing its way up my spine. My focus narrows to Elena, to the stubborn set of her jaw, and the way her chin lifts in defiance.

“You're pregnant. With my child. And you still think it's your responsibility to throw yourself into the middle of a fucking war?Blyat!”