Page 18 of Beautiful Monster (Zhukov Bratva #1)

The honesty in her voice, the way she says 'us' as if we're truly a unit, does something to the walls I've built around what's left of my heart. I spin her gently, bringing her back against my chest, and for a moment, we're just a man and woman dancing while the world burns around us.

"Yes," I admit finally. "He does."

She nods as if she expected nothing less. "Then we make sure he can't."

The simplicity of her statement, the quiet acceptance of violence as a necessity, tells me more about Anton Malakhov's daughter than weeks of careful observation. She's been raised in this world, even if kept from its darkest corners. She knows the price of survival.

"You don't understand what that means," I warn her, my thumb tracing small circles against her spine.

"Then teach me."

Those two words ignite something in my blood—something I've kept carefully banked since the day she stepped into my home. The orchestra crescendos around us, and I draw her closer, my hand splaying possessively across her lower back.

"Be careful what you ask for," I murmur against her temple, where I can feel her pulse fluttering like a trapped bird. "Some lessons can't be unlearned."

Her eyes meet mine, defiant blue flame against ice. "I didn't marry you to remain a sheltered little girl, Mikhail."

No, she married me because she had no choice. Yet there's something else in her gaze now, something that wasn't there when she first walked into my life, with hatred burning behind her eyes.

"No," I agree, guiding her through a turn that brings her back against my chest. "You married me for survival. There's a difference."

The dance floor has become a chessboard, and I'm acutely aware of every player circling us.

Vladimir and the Novikovs have positioned themselves near the east exit.

My father's men have naturally formed a perimeter. Anton watches us with the haunted eyes of a man who knows his daughter’s life is in danger.

"Tell me what he threatened," Kira insists, her fingers tightening on my shoulder. "I need to know what we're facing."

The music slows, and I lower my lips to her ear, using the intimacy of the moment as cover. "Vlad mentioned Alina."

I feel her stiffen almost imperceptibly.

She knows the name—of course, she does. The whispers about my first wife's murder have followed me for years, each retelling more gruesome than the last. Most get the details wrong, but the ending is always the same: a young woman's body is found in pieces, and a husband paints the city red with blood in response.

"He's suggesting history could repeat itself."

"Yes."

Her throat works as she swallows, but her steps never falter. "Then we make sure it doesn't."

I study her face, searching for cracks in her composure. Instead, I find only determination mingled with fury.

"You should be terrified," I tell her, my voice rougher than intended.

A ghost of a smile touches her lips. "Who says I'm not?" She leans closer, her breath warm against my neck. "But fear doesn't help us survive, does it?"

The song ends, and we separate with practiced courtesy, but her hand remains in mine as we move toward the edge of the dance floor. I feel eyes tracking our every move—Vladimir's calculating gaze, Kazimir's hunger, my father's assessment.

"I need to speak with my father," I tell her, scanning the crowd for potential threats. "Stay where I can see you."

Her chin lifts slightly. "I'm going to get some air. The terrace is right there, and your men are at every door."

Before I can object, she adds, "If I cower in a corner all night, we show weakness. Is that what you want?"

She's learning too quickly, adapting to this life with an instinct that both impresses and alarms me. I nod once, reluctantly. "Five minutes. Don't speak to anyone."

"Yes, husband," she replies, the formality undercut by the subtle challenge in her eyes.

I watch her glide through the crowd, midnight silk flowing around her like water.

Men turn to look—they always do—but she moves past them with practiced indifference.

Only when she reaches the glass doors to the terrace, do I turn toward my father, who stands in conversation with an aging senator whose loyalty we purchased years ago?

"A moment," I say in Russian, and my father excuses himself with the smooth charm that has disarmed countless enemies.

We move to a quieter corner, where the string quartet's music provides cover for our voices. "Vladimir's made his move," I tell him, accepting a glass of vodka from a passing waiter.

My father's weathered face remains impassive, but his eyes—the same ice blue as mine—harden to steel. "The Novikovs are an insult. Their presence here means someone is backing them."

"Vladimir Petrov has already confessed he’s in league with them. He's building a coalition."

"Against us specifically, or the agreement with Malakhov?"

I consider this, remembering the way Vladimir looked at Kira. "He wants to punish me for guessing his involvement in Alina’s death and holding his men responsible.”

My father's hand tightens around his glass, the only outward sign of his anger. "Then we respond accordingly."

The words are simple, but their meaning is clear: blood will answer blood.

"Not yet," I say, surprising myself with the restraint. "We need to know who else stands with Vladimir. One wrong move and we could trigger something bigger than we can handle.”

My father studies me, his gaze penetrating. "The girl has changed you."

It's not a question, and I don't bother denying it. "Kira's observant. Resilient."

"And beautiful," he adds with unexpected gentleness. “I knew you couldn’t resist her for long.”

Vladimir Petrov stands too close to my wife, his hand on her bare arm, his mouth curved in what appears to be a pleasant smile. But I can read the tension in Kira's posture even from across the room, seeing the way she's angled her body to maintain distance without creating a scene.

I move without thinking, cutting through the crowd with the focused intent of a predator. Conversations falter as I pass, the instinctive recognition of danger causing people to step back. My father follows at a more measured pace, but I feel his presence behind me like a gathering storm.

Vladimir sees me coming and smiles wider, his fingers still wrapped around Kira's arm. "Ah, the protective husband arrives. We were just discussing your honeymoon plans. Did you know I considered asking for her hand before you? Unfortunately, Anton was not receptive to my proposal.”

Kira's eyes meet mine, a silent warning not to react too strongly, too publicly. She's right, of course—this is precisely what he wants, to provoke me into showing my hand here, surrounded by witnesses who move in both our worlds.

I place my hand over his, where it grips Kira's arm, applying just enough pressure to make him wince. "Remove your hand from my wife, or I will cut it off and shove it up your ass.”

My voice is conversational, almost friendly, but Vladimir knows me well enough to hear the promise beneath. He releases her, raising both palms in mock surrender.

"Just being neighborly," he says, his eyes glittering with malice. "After all, Kira and I will soon get to know one another much better.”

I slide my arm around Kira's waist, drawing her against my side. She comes willingly, her body fitting against mine with a rightness that momentarily distracts me.

"Your memory is selective, Vladimir," I reply evenly. "You seem to have forgotten how things ended the last time someone threatened what's mine."

He leans closer, his voice dropping to ensure only we can hear. "No, Misha. I remember perfectly. That's why I'm going to enjoy watching you suffer the same loss twice. Only this time, you'll know it was coming." His gaze slides to Kira. “We’ll see each other again soon.”

Kira goes rigid against me, but her voice remains steady when she speaks. "Threats against a woman? How cowardly." She tilts her head, studying him with the cool assessment of someone cataloging weaknesses. "I expected more creativity from someone who believes he can take down Mikhail Zhukov.""

Vladimir blinks, clearly not expecting this response. For a brief moment, I see uncertainty flicker across his face before his mask of confidence returns.

"The kitten has claws," he murmurs. "Good. It's always more satisfying when they fight back."

My father steps forward then, his presence commanding immediate respect even from Vladimir. "This conversation is finished," he says with quiet authority. "You've made your position clear, as have we. What follows will be decided elsewhere."

It's a dismissal but also a warning—the real battle will take place away from these glittering lights, in the shadows where we all truly live.

Vladimir inclines his head slightly, acknowledging the shift from words to action. "Always a pleasure, Dmitri Alexandrovich." His eyes return to me, then Kira. "Enjoy the remainder of your evening. The auction items are particularly... revealing this year."

When he’s far enough away to speak freely, Kira turns to me and says, "We should check the auction items. That didn’t sound like an idle threat."

Her intuition continues to surprise me. I nod, scanning the room for Anton. He stands near the bar, deep in conversation with the chief of police, maybe hoping to curry favor for his daughter’s sake.

"Stay with her," I tell my father, then cut through the crowd toward the auction tables. The items are displayed on black velvet—jewelry, vacation packages, rare wines, artwork—each with a minimum bid that would feed a family for years.

I move systematically down the line, looking for anything out of place, anything that might carry Vladimir's promised message. At first, nothing seems amiss. Then I reach the final table, where a leather-bound book sits innocuously among crystal decanters and a vintage Patek Philippe watch.

The auction card reads simply: "Rare first edition, family history of notable Russian-American figures. Opening bid: $50,000."

I flip open the cover, and my blood freezes in my veins.

It's not a book at all, but a cleverly disguised portfolio containing photographs—surveillance images of Kira leaving the penthouse, shopping in Manhattan with her mother, and having lunch with her parents, her bodyguards never far behind.

Each image is marked with a date and time, some of which are as recent as two days ago.

But it's the final page that makes my hand shake with barely contained rage. A photograph of Alina, taken the day before she was murdered, side by side with one of Kira in the same pose, same angle, taken just yesterday outside our home.

Across both images, someone has written in red ink: "History always repeats itself. Tick tock."