Page 10 of Brutal Monster (Zhukov Bratva #2)

CHAPTER NINE

INEZ

THE FOLLOWING WEEK

T he scent of death clings to my father's bedroom. It lingers in the antiseptic sharpness, the medicinal tang, the whispered prayers of the men who once feared him.

I enter with my chin high, heels clicking against the hardwood floor—a sound that makes three bodyguards flinch.

Good. They should be nervous. The room feels too warm, too crowded with six of Papá's top lieutenants forming a half-circle around his four-poster bed.

Their faces are masks of practiced grief, but their eyes track my movements like hungry wolves.

My father looks smaller than yesterday. His once-powerful frame has collapsed in on itself, skin stretched thin over bones that seem too fragile to have carried the weight of our empire. The machines keeping him alive beep in steady rhythm—the only reliable thing left about him.

" Mija ." His voice cracks, a shadow of the thunderous commands that once made cartel leaders tremble. He lifts a skeletal hand, beckoning me closer.

I take it, feeling bones like twigs beneath paper-thin skin. "Papá."

His eyes—still sharp despite the morphine—flick to the men surrounding us. "You've all served me well," he says, each word a battle. "Some of you since before Inez was born."

Manuel—his oldest lieutenant—nods, hand resting casually near his concealed weapon. "And we'll continue to serve, jefe ."

"No." My father's words silences the room. "You will serve her now."

The temperature seems to drop ten degrees. I feel their resistance like a physical force against my skin.

"Inez is my blood. My heir." He squeezes my hand with surprising strength. "She has outsmarted each of you at some point. Has she not?"

Reluctant nods. Averted gazes. The memory of my victories still stings.

"Our business faces threats from within and without," my father continues. "Someone betrayed us in Veracruz. Someone feeds information to the Romero family."

I keep my face neutral, though my pulse quickens. I've suspected this for months but lacked proof.

"My daughter will find them. And when she does, you will execute her orders without question.

" His voice gains strength, one last surge of the power that built our empire.

"Any man who challenges her authority challenges mine.

Any dissension will be met with—" A coughing fit interrupts him and my heart sinks when blood speckles the white sheets.

The doctor moves forward, but my father waves him away.

"Is that understood?" he rasps, once recovered.

Six men murmur agreement, but I hear the hesitation. See the calculation in their eyes.

"Cristian," my father calls to his most loyal soldier. "You will be her shadow. Her word is my word."

Cristian—a mountain of a man who has guarded my father for twenty years—steps forward and kneels beside the bed. "With my life, Don Bravo."

My father turns to me, switching to English—our private language of secrets. "Trust no one completely. Not even him."

I nod once, sharply. "I never do."

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "That's why you'll survive." He addresses the room again. "Leave us. Cristian stays."

They file out, their faces unreadable. Only when the door closes do my father's shoulders slump.

"Three of them are already plotting against you," he whispers.

"I know which ones." I sit on the edge of his bed, finally allowing myself to look fully at what's left of the man who made me. "I've been preparing for this day since I was sixteen."

"Still too soon." His fingers trace the scar along my jawline. "You remember what I taught you about mercy?"

"That it's a luxury we cannot afford." The words taste like ash.

He shakes his head slightly. "That it must be deployed strategically, like any weapon." His breathing grows labored. "Your brothers will come for what they believe is theirs."

"Let them try."

His eyes—so like mine—search my face. "They'll underestimate you. Use that."

I stand, smoothing my skirt. "I always do."

As I turn to leave, his voice stops me. "Inez. There is a ledger in my study. The real one."

I freeze. "You told me it was destroyed."

"I lied." No apology in his voice. "Behind the Goya. The combination is your mother's birthday."

All this time, the key to our entire operation—every contact, every corrupt official, every hidden account—was within reach.

"Why now?" I ask.

"Because now you're ready to bear its weight." His eyes close. "And because I'm tired of secrets between us."

I don't tell him it's too late for that kind of sentiment. Instead, I lean down and press my lips to his forehead, inhaling the scent of the cologne he still insists on wearing.

" Descansa, Papá ," I whisper. "I'll handle everything."

As I walk out, Cristian falls into step behind me. I can feel the weight of my inheritance settling across my shoulders, heavy as a burial shroud.

But unlike my father, I won't carry it alone.

I step out of my father's room to find Vanya waiting, a dark silhouette against the hallway's warm light. His presence is unexpected but not unwelcome. Steel-gray eyes assess me, missing nothing.

"How is he?" Vanya asks, his Russian accent barely detectable.

"Dying," I say. "But still playing chess."

Cristian tenses behind me, hand moving subtly toward his weapon. He doesn't trust the Russian––he is a wise man.

"Walk with me," I tell Vanya, then turn to Cristian. "Wait here. Guard my father's door. No one enters."

"Dona Inez—" Cristian begins, his disapproval evident.

"That wasn't a suggestion."

He nods once, reluctantly stepping back to his post. His eyes follow us down the hallway, boring into Vanya's back.

I lead Vanya through the labyrinth-like corridors of my childhood home, past watchful security cameras and guards who straighten as I pass. We don't speak. We don't need to. Our footsteps echo in perfect rhythm—predators moving in tandem.

The study door is heavy oak, reinforced with steel. I enter the security code, listening for the satisfying click of the lock disengaging.

"Close it," I instruct once we're inside.

Vanya does, then takes in the room with a single sweep of his gaze. His eyes linger on the Goya painting—a dark, haunting piece depicting Saturn devouring his son. How fitting.

"Your father has interesting taste in art," he observes.

"My father believes in reminders." I move toward the painting. "Of what happens to those who challenge the natural order."

The painting swings away from the wall on hidden hinges, revealing a sleek digital safe. I enter my mother's birthday—April 17, 1965—and hear the soft hiss of the vacuum seal releasing.

Inside lies a stack of leather-bound files, worn at the edges from handling. The history of our empire, written in my father's meticulous hand. I pull them out, feeling their weight—literal and metaphorical.

"Your father kept paper records?" Vanya asks, one eyebrow raised.

"Paper can't be hacked." I tuck the files into my oversized purse. "And these particular records never existed in the first place."

He steps closer, close enough that I can smell his cologne—something expensive, with notes of cedar and smoke. "What exactly am I looking at, Inez?"

"Power." I close my purse with a decisive snap. "Names of every judge, politician, and police commander on our payroll. Account numbers for money that even my brothers don't know about. Details of operations spanning three decades."

Understanding dawns in his eyes. "Your insurance policy."

"And yours, if we're to work together." I meet his gaze directly. "My father built an empire through blood and secrets. I intend to preserve it through knowledge and leverage."

Vanya's mouth curves into something almost like a smile. "And here I thought the Bratva had cornered the market on paranoia."

"Paranoia implies irrationality." I move back toward the door. "There's nothing irrational about preparing for inevitable betrayal."

His hand catches my arm, the touch firm but not aggressive. "You think I'll betray you?"

"Eventually, everyone does." I don't pull away. "The question is whether the cost will outweigh the benefit."

He studies me for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in those gray eyes. "And what's my benefit in this arrangement, Inez Bravo?"

"Survival." I step closer, until there's barely space between us. "The Romeros are moving against both our families. Your family's territory in Miami, and my operations in Veracruz. They've already infiltrated three of my father's lieutenants."

"You have proof?"

I pat my purse. "I do now."

A soft knock at the door interrupts us. I step back, adjusting my expression to neutral efficiency.

"Dona Inez," Cristian's voice calls through the door. "Your father is asking for you."

Vanya releases my arm, though the ghost of his touch lingers. "It seems we have much to discuss."

"Tonight," I say. "After I handle my father's lieutenants."

"Handle them how?"

I move toward the door, pausing with my hand on the knob. "Depends on whether they choose to be assets or liabilities."

His low chuckle follows me into the hallway. "I'm beginning to see why your father chose you as his successor."

I don't tell him the truth—that my father didn't choose me. I chose myself, and made it impossible for him to choose otherwise.

Some inheritance isn't given. It's taken.