Page 16 of Brutal Monster (Zhukov Bratva #2)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

INEZ

I step into the shower, letting hot water cascade down my body. Steam rises around me, enveloping everything in a hazy cloud as I close my eyes. The tension of the morning—the news about Emilio, the wedding preparations, the constant vigilance—begins to dissolve under the water's pressure.

I press my palms against the cool tile, head bowed, watching rivulets course down my skin.

My mind refuses to quiet, cycling through contingency plans, security weaknesses, and the guest list. Who among my inner circle could be feeding information to my stepbrother?

The question burns hotter than the water against my back.

Strong arms suddenly wrap around my waist from behind.

I don't startle. Don't reach for the knife embedded in the shower caddy. My body recognizes his touch before my mind processes his presence.

"Vanya," I breathe, not turning around.

His chest presses against my back, solid and warm. I feel him, hard against me, his breath hot on my neck despite the steam. Water runs down his arms where they cross my stomach, holding me against him.

"You seem lost in thought," he murmurs, lips grazing my ear.

"I had things to consider."

"You always do." His hand slides up to cup my breast, his thumb circling my nipple until it hardens. "What is it this time? Security protocols? Guest arrangements? Or the identity of your mole?"

I lean back into him, letting my head fall against his shoulder. "All of the above."

"And have you reached any conclusions?" His other hand drifts lower, fingertips tracing patterns across my abdomen.

"Several." My breath catches as his fingers find their target. "None I'm willing to share just yet."

He turns me to face him, water streaming down his face, those steel-gray eyes intense beneath wet lashes. "No secrets between us, remember? That was our agreement."

"Professional courtesy isn't secrecy." I reach between us, wrapping my fingers around him, satisfaction blooming as his eyes darken. "I'll tell you when I'm certain."

His mouth claims mine, hot and demanding. I match his intensity, biting his lower lip until I taste the metallic hint of blood. This is how we communicate best—through touch, through taking and giving control in equal measure.

He lifts me suddenly, pressing my back against the tile wall. The contrast of cold ceramic and his burning skin sends a shiver down my spine. I wrap my legs around his waist, digging my nails into his shoulders.

"You think too much," he growls against my throat.

"Maybe, you don't think enough." His words hang in the air, quickly swept away by the steam enveloping us. I gasp as he enters me in one powerful, deliberate thrust, causing a shiver to ripple through my body.

The warm water cascades down on us, mingling with our movements as we find that familiar rhythm.

I watch his face intently, mesmerized by the way concentration etches deep lines across his brow, the slight parting of his lips signaling his focus. Even here, even now, part of him remains calculating, strategic—just like me.

Moments later, the pressure builds inside me, a delicious tightening sensation that begins deep within and spreads outward like ripples in a pond.

Vanya's movements grow more urgent, each motion filled with a sense of barely contained intensity.

His fingers weave into my damp hair, gripping it tightly, and he pulls my head back, exposing the vulnerable curve of my throat to the cool air.

"Let go," he commands, voice rough.

I almost laugh. Letting go isn't in my nature. Control is survival.

But here, with him, I can surrender—just for moments, just at the edge.

My release crashes over me like a thunderclap, a powerful force that sends my vision into a blinding white haze, making my body shudder uncontrollably around him.

He is not far behind, reaching his own peak just moments after, his forehead resting gently against mine, our breaths intertwining with the warm steam that swirls around us.

For three eternal heartbeats, we remain intertwined, a fleeting moment where reality is held at bay, suspended in time.

Then the strategist in me returns.

"We need to move the security briefing earlier," I say, unwrapping my legs from his waist. "If Emilio's men are in Cancún, we can't afford to wait."

Vanya's laugh is sharp and genuine as he steps back. "Only you would follow orgasm with operational planning."

I reach for the shampoo, all business now. "You would do the same."

"Perhaps." He takes the bottle from me, pouring some into his palm before working it into my hair. His touch is surprisingly gentle. "But I might wait until we're out of the shower."

I close my eyes as his fingers massage my scalp. "Time is a luxury we don't have."

"Five minutes," he counters, turning me to rinse my hair. "Five minutes where we're just Vanya and Inez, not the heads of rival organizations about to merge through matrimony."

I consider this as water sluices away the suds. "Two minutes," I counter.

His smile is predatory. "Three, and I'll tell you what else Mikhail discovered about Emilio's movements."

My eyes snap open. "You're withholding intelligence?"

"Strategic timing," he corrects, reaching for the conditioner. "I know how your mind works, Inez. Give you all the information at once, and you'll disappear into planning mode for hours."

He's not wrong. I allow him to work the conditioner through my hair, using the moment to study his face. The scar along his jaw seems more pronounced in the shower's harsh light. I trace it with my finger, feeling the ridge of damaged tissue.

"Three minutes," I concede. "Then full disclosure."

"Agreed." He pulls me closer, wrapping his arms around me again, but differently now—less sexual, more... something I'm not ready to name.

We stand there under the spray, my cheek against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. I count the seconds in my head, already formulating questions about Mikhail's intelligence, already planning countermoves.

But for precisely three minutes, I allow myself this—the illusion of normalcy, of safety. The pretense that we're just a couple preparing for their wedding, not two killers joining empires.

The timer in my head hits one hundred eighty seconds.

"Time's up," I say, pulling back. "Tell me what Mikhail found."

Vanya steps out first, grabbing two plush towels from the rack. He hands one to me, then begins drying himself with efficient movements. I watch his scars appear as he wipes away water droplets—each mark a story, a victory, a near-miss.

"Mikhail called back a few minutes ago with additional information," he says, wrapping the towel around his waist. "Emilio has moved his timetable up. We know of the one probably on his way here, but he's bringing in a crew from Guadalajara—professional hitmen, not his usual street soldiers."

I freeze mid-motion, towel pressed against my stomach. "When?"

"Three days. Maybe four." Vanya leans against the counter, eyes tracking my movements as I resume drying off. "They're coming in separately, different flights, different hotels."

"How many?"

"At least eight that we know of." He reaches for a comb, running it through his wet hair. "Mikhail is sending six of our best. They'll arrive tomorrow."

I wrap my towel around my body, tucking the edge in securely. "Not enough."

"No," Vanya agrees. "But it gives us breathing room. Time to identify and neutralize the mole."

I move to the mirror, wiping away condensation with my palm. My reflection stares back, calculating, cold. "We can't wait for Emilio to make his move. He'll have the advantage."

"You want to hunt him." It's not a question.

"Him and Adan." I reach for my hairbrush. "Cut off the head, and the body dies. Basic strategy."

Vanya steps behind me, our eyes meeting in the mirror. "Risky. Going after them directly could trigger their contingency plans."

"Staying defensive is riskier." I brush through a tangle with more force than necessary. "I won't sit here like a target while Emilio assembles his kill squad."

His hands come to rest on my shoulders, thumbs pressing into the knots of tension at the base of my neck. "Then we move first. But carefully." His eyes harden. "We need to know who's feeding him information before we strike."

I lean into his touch for a moment, then straighten. "I have a theory about that."

"Your cousin, Mateo?"

I shake my head. "Too obvious. Mateo wants power, but he's not subtle enough for this. I'm thinking Claudio."

Vanya's eyebrows rise. "Your father's accountant? He's been with your family for twenty years."

"Exactly." I turn to face him directly. "He knows everything—security protocols, property holdings, shipping schedules. He’s close to Alicia, and she's been increasingly anxious these past few weeks."

"Could be wedding stress. Everyone's on edge."

"Or guilt." I step away from him, dropping my towel as I move toward the closet. "I've already put Marco on her. He's monitoring her communications, tracking her movements."

Vanya follows, watching as I select a sleek black pantsuit, a crimson blouse, and underwear. "If you're right about Claudio, we can feed him false information. Set a trap for Emilio."

"Already in motion." I slip into my clothes with practiced efficiency. "I've told him we're moving the shipment from Thursday to Saturday. If Emilio's men show up at the docks on Saturday..."

"We'll know." Vanya nods, reaching for his own clothes. "And if they don't?"

I button my blouse, fingers steady despite the stakes. "Then I'm wrong, and we're back to square one."

"Either way, we need to locate Emilio and Adan." Vanya pulls on his shirt, movements quick and precise. "I'll have Mikhail deploy reconnaissance teams to their known locations."

"Start with Emilio's mistress in Puerto Vallarta." I check my reflection, adjusting my collar. "He thinks I don't know about her, but my father kept tabs on all his hiding spots."

Vanya's mouth curves into something between a smile and a snarl. "And Adan?"

"He's more predictable. Check his mother's villa in Acapulco." I reach for my holster, strapping it across my shoulders before sliding my Beretta into place. "He always runs home when threatened."

"Like a good son." Vanya's voice carries a hint of mockery.

I give him a sharp look. "Family loyalty isn't a weakness."

He inclines his head, acknowledging the hit. "And what about our wedding guests? If we're hunting Emilio, we should postpone."

"No." The word comes out harder than intended. "Canceling would signal weakness. We continue as planned, just with additional security measures."

Vanya finishes dressing. "As you wish." His tone is neutral, but I catch the slight tightening around his eyes.

"This isn't about stubbornness," I say, softer now. "The wedding creates the perfect cover for moving our people into position. No one questions security details for a high-profile cartel marriage."

Understanding dawns in his expression. "Using our own ceremony as operational cover. Clever."

"Practical," I correct, reaching for my phone. "Now, let's go find my stepbrother before he finds us."