Page 2 of Brutal Monster (Zhukov Bratva #2)

CHAPTER TWO

INEZ

" T en more minutes, Ms. Bravo."

"Make it five." I don't look up as the makeup artist hovers with her brush. She knows better than to argue.

The suite smells of hairspray and expensive perfume. Too many people, too close. Three stylists, my personal assistant, and two security men by the door. All this for a charity gala, I could have dismissed it with a check and a form letter.

But tonight isn't about charity. It's about Vanya Zhukov.

I study my reflection as the makeup artist adds the final touches. The emerald dress hugs my body like a second skin, strategic cutouts revealing just enough skin to be interesting without crossing into vulnerability. The color matches my eyes—a detail I insisted upon. Power is in the details.

"The jewelry, Ms. Bravo." My assistant, Carla, approaches with a velvet case.

I nod and she opens it, revealing the diamond and emerald necklace that once belonged to my mother. One of the many pieces she left behind. Wearing them makes me feel close to her.

"You look stunning," she says, fastening it around my neck.

"I look prepared," I correct her.

That’s a lie. How can anyone truly prepare to meet the man your dying father has selected as your husband? A man whose reputation rivals my own in both respect and fear. A man whose photograph I've spent too many nights studying.

The stylists step back, admiring their work. I rise from the vanity chair, and test the stability of my heels. Everything must be perfect. In my world, appearance isn't vanity—it's armor.

"The car is ready downstairs," my head of security announces. "The route's been secured. We have four men already at the venue."

"And the brothers?" I ask, reaching for my clutch.

His expression tightens. "Emilio was seen at The Peninsula two hours ago. Adan is still in Colombia, as far as we know."

I nod, absorbing this information. Emilio's proximity isn't a coincidence. He knows about tonight, about what my father has arranged. And about what it would mean for my position when he dies.

"Double the security at the house," I say. “Papá shouldn't be alone."

"Already done."

My phone vibrates with a message. I check it—a text from my father.

Remember who you are tonight. A Bravo never shows weakness.

As if I could forget. As if I haven't spent my entire life proving I'm worthy of the name, of the empire he built. That I can be ruthless without being reckless, unlike my stepbrothers.

"It's time," I say, sliding the phone into my clutch.

In the elevator, I mentally review what I know about Vanya Zhukov. He’s the son of Russian immigrants. He rose through the ranks of the Bratva through intelligence rather than just brutality. Controls the West Coast with an iron fist. Unmarried. No children. And he’s fiercely loyal to his people.

A man who could be an asset—or my greatest mistake.

The elevator doors open into the private garage, where my car is waiting. As I slide into the backseat, I allow myself one moment of doubt.

"Is this really necessary?" I ask Carla as she settles beside me. "This... arrangement."

She looks surprised. I rarely question Father's decisions aloud.

"Your father believes it's the best way to secure your position," she says carefully. "The Zhukov connection would make Emilio and Adan think twice before moving against you."

"I don't need a man to protect me."

"No," she agrees. "But you might need an army. Which is what Zhukov brings to the table."

I stare out the window as Los Angeles slides by, lights blurring into streaks of gold and white. Papá is dying. My stepbrothers are circling. And I'm heading to meet a man who could either be my salvation or my downfall.

The car pulls up to the Getty, its modernist architecture gleaming against the night sky. Red carpet, photographers, the glittering elite of Los Angeles pretending they don't know where the money comes from for their charities.

My security opens the door. I take a deep breath and step out.

Cameras flash. I ignore them, moving with ease, my face a mask of polite indifference. Inside, the museum has been transformed into a wonderland of light and sound. Art worth millions surrounds partygoers worth billions.

I scan the room methodically, cataloging exits, security positions, and faces I recognize.

And then I see Vanya Zhukov standing across the room, taller than I expected.

Broader. The photographs didn't capture the sheer presence of the man.

He's dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, his dark hair cut short, emphasizing the sharp angles of his face and that infamous scar along his jaw.

He's watching me, and has been since I entered. I feel the weight of his gaze like a physical touch.

For a moment, neither of us moves. Two predators, assessing. Then he lifts his glass slightly in acknowledgment.

My heart pounds traitorously hard. This is business, I remind myself. Strategy. An alliance that will keep me alive and in control when Papá dies.

But as I make my way toward him, I can't deny the electricity humming through my veins. There's something about the way he holds himself, the intelligence behind those steel-gray eyes.

"Ms. Bravo," he says when I reach him, his voice a low rumble with just a trace of his Russian heritage. "I've been looking forward to meeting you properly."

"Mr. Zhukov." I extend my hand. "I believe we have some business to discuss."

His fingers close around mine, warm and calloused. A working man's hands, despite the expensive suit. "Business," he repeats, something like amusement flickering in his eyes. "Is that what we're calling it?"

"What would you prefer to call it?”

"Destiny, perhaps." He hasn't released my hand. "Or mutual survival."

A server passes with champagne. Vanya takes two glasses, offers me one. I accept, using the moment to reclaim my hand and my composure.

"To new partnerships," he says, raising his glass.

I meet his eyes over the rim of my flute. "I haven't agreed to anything yet."

His smile deepens, revealing a dangerous charm I hadn't anticipated. "Neither have I, Ms. Bravo. That's what makes tonight so interesting.

And despite everything—the stakes, the danger, the fact that this man could either save my empire or destroy it—I find myself smiling back.

Before I can respond, a man in a tailored suit materializes at Vanya's elbow. His lawyer, based on the briefcase and perpetual frown. A moment later, my own attorney, Sofia Martinez, appears at my side, her expression all business.

"Ms. Bravo, Mr. Zhukov," Sofia says with practiced neutrality. "Perhaps we should move this conversation somewhere more private. The terms of the arrangement require discussion."

Vanya's lawyer nods emphatically. "The conference room has been secured. We can review the contractual obligations and?—"

"Later." Vanya cuts him off with a single word that leaves no room for argument. His eyes never leave mine. "Ms. Bravo and I should get acquainted first, wouldn't you agree?"

The lawyers exchange glances, clearly displeased. Sofia leans closer to me. "Inez, your father was particular about the timeline. The paperwork?—"

"Will still be there in an hour," Vanya finishes for her. A string quartet begins playing across the room. Without warning, he extends his hand to me. "Dance with me."

It's not a request. It's a challenge.

I take his hand. "One dance."

The lawyers retreat, hovering at the edges of the ballroom like anxious sentinels. Vanya leads me onto the floor with surprising grace for a man his size. His hand settles at the small of my back, arm through the thin fabric of my dress.

"They're very eager to make this official," he observes as we begin to move.

"Yes. They're paid to be eager."

His laugh is unexpected—low and genuine. "You don't trust lawyers?"

"I don't trust anyone." The words slip out before I can stop them.

"Smart woman." His fingers tighten slightly against my back, guiding me through a turn. "That's what I've heard about you. Smart. Ruthless when necessary. Loyal to your people."

"You've been researching me."

"Of course." He moves us effortlessly through the crowd. "Just as you've researched me. Knowledge is survival."

I study his face—the hard angles, that scar, eyes that miss nothing. "And what have you concluded?"

"That your father chose better than he knows." Vanya's voice drops lower. "He thinks he's arranging a merger. I think he's creating something far more... interesting."

My pulse quickens traitorously. "This is business, Mr. Zhukov."

"Vanya," he corrects. "And yes, it is business. The continuation of your empire. The expansion of mine. Protection against your stepbrothers when your father passes."

"You're very direct."

"I don't see the point in pretending. We both know why we're here." His thumb traces a small circle against my back. "The question is whether we can make this arrangement work to our mutual benefit."

"And how do you propose we do that?"

He spins me out and pulls me back, closer than before. "Trust. Honesty. Respect for each other's territories and methods."

"Those aren't typically the foundation of arranged marriages in our world."

"I'm not typical." His eyes hold mine. "Neither are you."

The music shifts tempo. We adjust seamlessly, as if we've danced together for years. It's unsettling how naturally our bodies respond to each other.

"Your father wants to secure your position," Vanya continues. "My advisors want expanded influence in the south. But what do you want, Inez?"

No one asks me that question. Ever.

"I want to keep what's mine," I say finally. "I've worked too hard to let Emilio or Adan take it."

"And what would you give to keep it?"

"Not my independence."

He nods, as if I've confirmed something. "I wouldn't ask for it. A caged bird doesn't sing as sweetly."

"I'm not a bird."

"No." His eyes darken. "You're a queen looking for an ally, not a savior. I respect that."

Something shifts between us—a recognition. This man sees me. Not as Juan Bravo's daughter. Not as a woman to be controlled. But as an equal.

"And what do you want from this arrangement?" I ask.

"Besides the obvious business advantages?" His gaze drops briefly to my lips before returning to my eyes. "A partner. Someone who understands the weight of the crown."

The music builds toward its conclusion. Vanya pulls me closer, his cheek nearly touching mine as he speaks directly into my ear.

"We could be formidable together, Inez. In business and..." His breath warms my skin. "Other endeavors."

Heat coils low in my stomach. I force myself to step back as the music ends, breaking the spell.

"I think it's time we joined the lawyers," I say, my voice steadier than I feel.

He studies me for a moment, then nods. "As you wish."

As we walk off the dance floor, I feel his hand at the small of my back again—proprietary, confident. A silent claim.

"Mr. Zhukov," I say quietly. "I should make something clear."

"Yes?"

"If we proceed with this arrangement, it will be as equals. Partners in every sense. I won't be subordinate, not even in appearance."

He stops walking, turns to face me fully. The intensity in his eyes makes my breath catch.

"I wouldn't want you any other way." He takes my hand, raises it to his lips. "But partners share, Inez. Power. Responsibility. Pleasure."

His lips brush my knuckles, and electricity shoots up my arm.

"Professional boundaries, Mr. Zhukov," I manage to say.

"For now." He releases my hand. "But I should warn you—I'm very good at crossing boundaries when the time is right."

The lawyers descend upon us before I can respond, ushering us toward the conference room with their paperwork and agendas.

But as I walk, I'm acutely aware of Vanya beside me, the lingering warmth of his touch, and the dangerous possibility that this arrangement might become more than just business.

I can't allow that. Control is survival. And Vanya Zhukov threatens my control in ways I never anticipated.