Page 25 of Brutal Monster (Zhukov Bratva #2)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

INEZ

I snatch the phone, Vanya's warmth still enveloping me as I press it to my ear. It’s Miguel Esparza, my father’s hospice nurse.

"What?" My voice shifts instantly from lover to leader.

"It's your father." Miguel’s voice crackles through the connection. "The doctors say hours, not days."

The world freezes. I'm suddenly aware of every sensation—Vanya's heartbeat against my chest, salt drying on my skin, the distant cry of seabirds.

"We leave now." I hang up without waiting for a response.

Vanya reads my face, already moving. "What happened?"

"My father is dying." The words taste like ash. "We need to go."

Paradise evaporates like morning mist. Twenty minutes later, we're dressed, packed, and striding toward the waiting helicopter. No more beach. No more pretending. Reality crashes back with brutal efficiency.

On the jet, I sit rigid, staring at weather reports, flight paths—anything but the hollowness spreading through my chest. Vanya gives me space and handles logistics with quiet competence. Only once does he touch me, fingers brushing mine as he hands me a glass of water.

"He'll hold on," he says. "Juan Bravo wouldn't dare die before saying goodbye to his daughter."

I nod, throat too tight for words.

Mexico City materializes beneath us, sprawling and chaotic. Home. The place I've fought to protect, to rule. As the wheels touch down, my phone vibrates with updates, security reports, and business matters. I ignore them all except Miguel's latest message: *Still breathing.*

The airport staff scatter before us. No customs, no delays. Vanya's men appear with armored SUVs, weapons visible beneath tailored jackets. I slide into the back seat of the lead vehicle, Vanya beside me.

"Fastest route," I tell the driver. "No stops."

"Yes, Senora." He pulls away from the curb, tires squealing.

Mexico City traffic parts before our convoy like water around stones. My fingers tap against my thigh, counting seconds, minutes. Too slow. Every moment trapped in this car is another moment my father might slip away.

"The doctor says he's stabilized slightly," Vanya says, reading a message on his phone. "They've given him something for the pain."

I nod mechanically. "Good."

We turn onto Avenida Reforma, accelerating through a yellow light. I lean forward, willing the car to speed up. Six more blocks to the turn that leads to my family's compound.

The first bullet shatters our windshield.

"Down!" Vanya shoves me to the floor as our driver slumps, blood spraying across the dashboard.

More shots, the pop-pop-pop of automatic weapons. Our security detail returns fire—the sounds are deafening in the enclosed space. The car swerves wildly, then slams to a stop.

"Stay down," Vanya orders, gun already in hand. He reaches for the radio. "Situation?"

"Ambush," comes the crackling reply. "At least fifteen shooters. It’s the Romero cartel."

My blood runs cold. The Romero. They want Adan. They've come for the traitor and plan to use me or Vanya as collateral.

"We need to move," I say, drawing my own weapon from my holster. "We're sitting targets here."

Vanya assesses me with a single glance—not as his wife but as a fellow soldier. "On three."

The back door nearest me explodes outward as Vanya kicks it open. We emerge firing, using the armored door as cover. Three men drop immediately. The street has emptied of civilians, leaving only our convoy and the attackers, who've positioned vehicles to block us front and back.

I spot a flash of movement to my right and pivot, squeezing the trigger twice. Another man falls, clutching his throat. The copper scent of blood mixes with the smell of vehicle exhaust and gunpowder.

"There!" Vanya points to a narrow alley between buildings. "We can cut through to Calle Durango."

I nod, calculating angles, covering fire. "On my mark."

We move in perfect synchronicity, each covering the other's blind spots as we sprint toward the alley. Bullets ping off concrete around us. One grazes my arm, leaving a trail of fire across my skin. I ignore it.

A voice rings out, amplified through a megaphone. "Stop! We only want Adan!"

I recognize that voice. Hector Sanchez, a Romero lieutenant. Adan's contact.

"Keep moving," I hiss to Vanya, but he's already slowing, turning to face the street.

"What are you doing?" I grab his arm.

"Creating a diversion." His eyes meet mine, cold with calculation. "Get to your father. I'll handle this."

"No." The word tears from my throat. "We stay together."

"Your father is dying, Inez." His voice softens fractionally. "I'll be right behind you."

Before I can argue further, he shoves me toward the alley, then turns and fires three precise shots. Men scream. Glass shatters.

I hesitate for one agonizing second, torn between duty and—what? This is more than love. It’s equally powerful and dangerous.

"Go!" Vanya roars, dropping to one knee as he reloads.

I run.

The alley is narrow, dark, and reeks of garbage and urine. I navigate it at full speed, listening to the gunfire behind me grow more distant. My arm throbs, blood soaking my sleeve. Irrelevant. Keep moving.

I emerge onto Calle Durango, startling a group of tourists who scatter like pigeons. Ignoring their stares, I flag down a taxi, flashing enough cash to silence any questions about my bloodied appearance.

"Lomas de Chapultepec," I tell the driver. "Fast."

He nods, wide-eyed, and pulls into traffic. I keep my gun hand hidden beneath my jacket, watching out the back window for pursuit. Nothing yet. My phone remains ominously silent.

"Faster," I urge the driver, who presses the accelerator in response.

We weave through side streets, cutting around the main roads where the Romeros might be watching. My mind races through scenarios, contingencies. Vanya is skilled and resourceful. He has backup. He'll be fine.

If I repeat it enough, perhaps I'll believe it.

The taxi turns onto the tree-lined avenue leading to my family's home. I spot our security at the gate, already alerted to my approach.

"Stop here," I tell the driver, thrusting cash through the partition. "Forget my face."

He nods frantically, not meeting my eyes. Smart man.

I exit the car, sprinting the last hundred yards to the gate. The guards wave me through without breaking stride, falling in beside me as I race toward the main house.

"Status?" I demand.

"Don Juan is in his bedroom," one replies. "The doctor is with him."

"And the prisoner?"

"Secure in the east wing, as you ordered."

I nod, taking the front steps two at a time. The massive oak doors swing open before me, revealing the cool marble interior of my childhood home. Servants scatter, avoiding my gaze. They know what's happening. The whole household holds its breath, waiting for the patriarch to draw his last.

I take the grand staircase at a run, gun still in hand. At the top, Miguel waits, his typically impassive face lined with concern.

"The Romeros ambushed us," I tell him without preamble. "Vanya stayed to fight. Send men to the intersection of Reforma and Insurgentes."

Cristian, one of my father’s lieutenants, nods, already speaking into his radio as I push past him toward my father's suite.

Outside the double doors, I pause, holstering my weapon. Blood still seeps from the graze on my arm, but there's no time to tend it. I straighten my jacket, smooth my hair, and wipe a smear of someone else's blood from my cheek.

Then I enter.

The room smells of medicine and the approach of death. Heavy curtains block the afternoon sun, leaving only the soft glow of bedside lamps. Medical equipment crowds one wall, beeping softly, as it monitors vital signs that grow weaker by the hour.

And there, in the center of it all, lies Juan Bravo—once the most feared man in Mexico, now a husk, skin stretched thin over bones, eyes sunken into his skull.

But those eyes—they're still his. Sharp. Knowing. They find me the moment I step through the door.

" Mija ." His voice is a rasp, barely audible over the machines. "You came."

I move to his bedside, taking his hand in mine. His skin feels like paper, veins blue beneath the surface.

"Of course I came." My voice doesn't waver. I won't give him the insult of tears, not now. "I told you I would."

A slight smile touches his lips. "Always... so sure of yourself." His gaze sharpens, taking in my bloodied sleeve, the tension in my shoulders. "Trouble?"

"Nothing I can't handle." I squeeze his hand gently. "Rest, Papá."

He shakes his head, a barely perceptible movement. "No time... for rest." His fingers tighten on mine with surprising strength. "Listen carefully, Inez. What I have to tell you... changes everything."

I lean closer, my heart pounding against my ribs. "Tell me."

Father's breath rattles in his chest as he draws me nearer. His lips barely move, each word a battle against the approaching darkness.

"The Castros," he whispers, and I can't hide my shock.

"The Castros?" I repeat. "Our enemies for three generations?"

His skeletal fingers tighten around mine with surprising strength. "Not enemies anymore. They have become necessary allies."

The machines beep steadily in the background as I process his words. The Castros have controlled the northern territories for decades. We've fought bloody wars over shipment routes, lost family members to their bullets.

"Listen carefully," Father continues, each word costing him precious energy. "They have what we need—connections to Sicily. Direct pipeline to Europe." His eyes burn with urgency. "Together... unstoppable."

I shake my head. "They killed Tío Rafael. They?—"

"Business," he cuts me off. "Just business. And now... business demands alliance."

A coughing fit seizes him. I reach for the water glass, helping him take a sip. Blood tinges the liquid pink. When he settles back against the pillows, his face is ashen.

"Some of our men will fight this," I say quietly.