14
ELENA
I stand in the marble foyer of Renat's estate, arms folded across my chest, a silent storm brewing inside me. Outside, the world still sleeps in darkness, untouched by the first hint of dawn.
“I need to go to the newsroom,” I insist, keeping my tone steady despite the frustration clawing at my throat. The words come out sharp, echoing off the high ceilings. “You can't keep me here like some?—”
“Prisoner?” Renat interrupts, his gaze cool as he stands a few feet away in a tailored charcoal suit that makes his broad shoulders appear even more imposing. I notice the way his jaw tightens at my accusation. “That isn't what this is.”
“It feels like it,” I counter, restlessness pouring out of me with every step I take. The echo of my flats bounces off the marble floor, the sound unnervingly loud in the stillness. My hands gesture wildly as I speak, unable to contain the energy building inside me. “I have work to do, Renat. Real work. Nick's been handling everything since I got pulled into this disaster, and I owe him more than radio silence.”
A crushing sense of responsibility envelops me, suffocating and impossible to shake off. Nick hired me fresh out of college when no other paper would give me a chance. He believed in me when I didn't believe in myself, pushed me to chase stories that mattered, and taught me that journalism isn't just about reporting facts but about seeking truth. The thought of him carrying my workload while I'm trapped in this gilded cage makes my stomach twist with guilt.
Renat exhales slowly, the movement making his broad shoulders rise and fall. His fingers drum against his thigh, a subtle tell that he's fighting his own internal battle. “You are in danger. The only reason you're still breathing is because I intervened.”
The reminder threatens to trigger a panic attack, but I refuse to let fear dictate my actions. I've spent my entire life fighting for what I believe in, watching my mother work multiple jobs to give me opportunities she never had. I won't dishonor her sacrifices by cowering now.
“Then let me do my job with protection if it makes you feel better.” I lift my chin, meeting his intense hazel gaze directly. The golden flecks in his eyes seem to burn brighter when he's agitated, and right now, they're practically glowing. “You admitted yourself that Bennato is trying to shut me up. That means I'm onto something important.”
Renat's eyes narrow slightly, studying my face as if he's trying to read my thoughts. His lips press together in a thin line, and I can see the internal war playing out across his features. Authority battles with something softer that resembles concern.
Several heartbeats pass in silence. The grandfather clock in the corner ticks steadily, marking time while we stare each otherdown. Finally, his shoulders drop almost imperceptibly, and he gives a terse nod.
“Fine. You can go.” His voice is thick with reluctant surrender. “But one of my men goes with you. This is nonnegotiable.”
Relief trickles through me like cool water on a hot day, though I don't let it show on my face. Victory tastes sweet, but I know better than to gloat. Instead, I nod once, grab my leather messenger bag from the side table, and head toward the door.
Minutes later, a black SUV with tinted windows pulls up to the circular drive. The vehicle screams money and power, exactly the opposite of subtle. A burly man with graying temples and intelligent eyes climbs into the driver’s seat while I slip into the back. The leather seats are buttery soft, and the interior has a scent reminiscent of expensive cologne and gun oil.
“Yavin,” he introduces himself with a thick Russian accent, glancing at me through the rearview mirror. His presence is quiet but imposing, like a sleeping bear that could spring into action at any moment.
We ride in silence as the first light of dawn brushes the horizon. Palm trees sway gently in the ocean breeze, and the early morning traffic drifts around us, light and unbothered, like the city hasn’t fully woken yet. Everything looks normal and peaceful, but I can't shake the feeling that we're being watched. Every car that follows us for more than a few blocks makes my pulse quicken.
When we reach theMiami Heraldbuilding, I step through the familiar glass doors, expecting to find at least one early riser in the bullpen. But the moment I enter, I’m met with a silence that feels all wrong, too still and hollow.
The scent of gunpowder and copper clings to the air like a malevolent ghost, sharp and metallic in my nostrils. My heart stutters then begins racing so fast I can hear it in my ears.
The office is a disaster zone. Chairs lie overturned, their wheels spinning slowly. Papers are scattered across the floor like confetti after a violent celebration. Computer monitors are shattered, their screens spider-webbed with cracks that glint beneath the fluorescent lights. Filing cabinets hang open, their contents spilled everywhere.
I step cautiously across the wreckage, glass crunching under my feet. Each step feels slower than the last as if I'm moving through thick honey. My breathing comes in shallow gasps, and my hands shake as I navigate around overturned desks and scattered office supplies.
That's when I see Nick.
“Nick!” The scream tears from my throat as I rush forward, dropping to my knees beside his still form. My messenger bag hits the floor with a thud, forgotten in my panic.
He's lying behind his desk, partially hidden by an overturned chair. His usually crisp white shirt is soaked in crimson, the color spreading like spilled wine across the fabric. The blood is still wet and spreading, which means this happened recently. Very recently.
There's a bullet wound in his abdomen. His face is ashen, glistening with sweat that beads along his forehead and upper lip. But his chest rises and falls in shallow, labored breaths. He's alive. Thank God he's still alive.
My hands shake as I fumble for my phone, nearly dropping it twice before managing to dial emergency services. The numbers blur through my tears, but muscle memory guides my fingers.
“911, what's your emergency?”
“I need an ambulance at theMiami Heraldbuilding,” I manage to get out, my voice cracking with emotion. “There's been a shooting. My boss has been shot in the abdomen, and he's unconscious but breathing.”
The dispatcher's calm voice walks me through basic first aid while we wait. Yavin appears beside me, moving with surprising grace for such a large man. Without a word, he kneels and presses his hands firmly against Nick's wound, applying pressure to slow the bleeding. His movements are quick and practiced, as if he's done this before.
“How do you know how to do that?” I whisper, cradling Nick's head in my lap. His gray hair is damp with sweat, and his skin feels clammy under my fingers.
