Page 26 of Brutal Monster (Zhukov Bratva #2)

Father's eyes narrow. "They are not Bravo blood. They serve a purpose, but never forget—you are my heir. You decide."

The weight of his words settles across my shoulders. I think of the ambush, of Vanya fighting while I fled. How many more attacks will come when word spreads that Juan Bravo is dead?

"There's something else," Father whispers, his voice growing fainter. "Your husband."

My spine stiffens. "What about Vanya?"

"Guard your marriage." His gaze holds mine, intense despite his failing strength. "You and Vanya... rule together. Equal partners. Trust him completely."

I can't hide my surprise. My father has always taught me to trust no one and to keep my own counsel.

"But you said?—"

"I was wrong." The admission seems to pain him more than his illness. "Divided leadership invites challenge. United front... unbreakable."

The door opens behind me. The doctor enters, followed by Miguel. Their faces tell me what they don't say aloud—time is running out.

Father sees them too. His fingers clutch mine with renewed urgency.

"Promise me," he rasps. "The Castros. Vanya. Promise."

I swallow hard, pushing down the storm of emotions threatening to overwhelm me. "I promise."

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "My daughter. Stronger than I ever was."

His eyes drift past me to some point beyond, growing distant. "Your mother would be proud."

The mention of my mother—who died when I was three, whose face I know only from photographs—breaks something inside me. A single tear escapes, sliding down my cheek before I can stop it.

Father's thumb brushes it away. "No tears for me, mija . I die as I lived. On my terms."

His breathing grows more labored. The machines register the change, beeping more insistently.

"Should I call the priest?" Miguel asks from the doorway.

Father's laugh is barely a wheeze. "Too late for that."

I grip his hand tighter, as if I could physically anchor him to this world. "Papá?—"

"Let me go," he whispers. "My fight is finished. Yours is just beginning."

His eyes fix on mine one last time, clear and sharp despite everything. "Remember who you are. Inez Bravo. My daughter. The queen ."

His hand goes slack in mine. The machines wail their electronic grief as his chest stills, his eyes glazing over.

I sit motionless, still holding his hand as the doctor rushes forward, checking vitals, making official what I already know. Juan Bravo, the most powerful man in Mexico for three decades, is gone.

The room fills with people—security personnel, household staff, and my father's many lieutenants. Their voices wash over me like distant waves. Miguel touches my shoulder, saying something I don't hear.

I rise slowly, gently placing my father's hand on his chest. The cut on my arm throbs, blood still seeping through my sleeve. It seems appropriate somehow—blood for blood, pain for pain.

"Senora," Cristian approaches, his face grim. "We've recovered Senor Vanya. He's wounded but alive, being treated downstairs."

Relief floods through me so intensely I nearly stagger. "How bad?"

"Gunshot to the shoulder, some cuts. Nothing critical."

I nod, composing myself. "And the Romeros?"

"Six dead, the rest scattered. We have men hunting them now."

"Good." I look around the room at the faces watching me, waiting for direction. My father's men—my men now.

"My father is dead," I announce, my voice steady and clear. "I am in command. And your first job is to kill Adan. Make it quick and send his ashes to his mother in Brazil. Ensure she remains under house arrest."

No one challenges this. They've known this day was coming.

"Cristian, double security on all properties and businesses. Miguel, arrange for the body to be prepared according to my father's wishes. Everyone else out."

They obey without question, filing from the room until only I remain with my father's body. In the silence, I allow myself ten seconds—ten heartbeats of raw, private grief.

Then I straighten my shoulders and turn away from the bed. There will be time for mourning later. Now, I have promises to keep.

I find Vanya in one of the downstairs guest rooms, shirtless, a doctor finishing the bandage on his shoulder. His face is bruised, a cut above his eye freshly stitched. He looks up when I enter, reading the answer in my face before I speak.

"He's gone," I say simply.

Vanya dismisses the doctor with a nod. When we're alone, he holds out his good arm to me. I go to him, allowing myself to be pulled against his chest, careful of his injuries.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs into my hair.

I breathe in his scent—gunpowder, antiseptic, blood. Alive. "He told me something unexpected."

Vanya waits, giving me space to continue.

"He wants us to ally with the Castros."

I feel his body tense against mine. "The Castros? Are you certain?"

"He said they have connections to the Serpicos in New York, leaders of the five families. He believes that together we'd be unstoppable." I pull back to look at his face. "And he said something else. About us."

"What?"

"That we should rule together. As equals." I search his eyes, looking for his reaction. "That a united front is unbreakable."

Something shifts in Vanya's expression—surprise, then a deeper emotion I can't quite name.

"Your father was a wise man," he says quietly.

"Even in death, he surprises me." I touch the bandage on his shoulder gently. "You could have died today."

"So could you." His hand cups my face. "Yet here we are."

The reality of our situation crashes back over me. "The Romeros will regroup and will soon make their move to unseat me. And now I need to somehow approach the Castros without starting another war."

"We," Vanya corrects. "We need to approach the Castros."

The emphasis on the word catches me. Equal partners. My father's last command.

"We," I agree, testing how it feels. Less lonely, perhaps. But more complicated.

Vanya's thumb traces my jawline. "Your arm needs attention."

I glance down at my bloodied sleeve. "It's just a graze."

"Still." He calls for the doctor, who returns to clean and bandage my wound.

As the doctor works, I stare out the window at the Mexico City skyline. My city now. My empire. My responsibility.

"We have work to do." Vanya's voice is steady, calming. "First, we secure the immediate family. Then we deal with the Romeros. Then we consider how to approach the Castros."

The doctor finishes with my arm and leaves us alone again. I move to the window, watching as the sun begins to set over the city. My father died as darkness approached. Fitting, somehow.

"The Castros," I murmur. "Three generations of blood between our families, and he wants an alliance."

Vanya comes to stand beside me, his reflection appearing in the Glass next to mine. "Your father built his empire by making bold moves when everyone expected tradition."

"And now he expects me to do the same." I turn to face him. "Are you with me? Truly with me?"

His eyes hold mine, unwavering. "Until death, Inez. And perhaps beyond."

I take his hand, feeling the calluses from years of holding weapons, fighting battles—some of them mine.

"Then let's begin," I say. "We have a funeral to plan, an empire to secure, and apparently, some very surprising new allies to court."

Outside, the city lights begin to twinkle in the gathering dusk. Juan Bravo is dead. Long live the Bravos.