Page 6 of Brutal Monster (Zhukov Bratva #2)

CHAPTER FIVE

VANYA

T he weight of my gun against my ribs is the only familiar thing in this city of strangers.

The restaurant sits like a fortress of luxury in the heart of Polanco's manicured district.

My security team cleared it an hour ago—every table, every corner, every employee.

Now the place is half-empty, the remaining patrons carefully vetted.

Still, I scan the room as we enter, noting exits, sight lines, potential threats. Old habits die hard.

Inez notices. "You never stop working, do you?"

"Neither do you." I pull out her chair, catching the faint scent of rosewater as she sits. "Your security detail is positioned at three points outside. Professional work."

She smiles, tight-lipped. "We're both careful people. It's why we're still alive."

The waiter approaches, hovering at a respectful distance until I nod. He recites specials in flawless Spanish, then retreats. I order in Russian, just to see if he understands. He doesn't flinch.

"Showing off?" Inez asks, arching one perfect eyebrow.

"Testing boundaries." I switch to English. "This arrangement between us—I need to understand its limits."

She sips her water, eyes never leaving mine. "You mean our marriage."

"I mean our alliance."

Silence stretches between us, taut as piano wire. The candlelight catches the small scar along her jaw—a mirror to my own, though hers is more elegant. Everything about her is.

"My father taught me chess when I was six," she says suddenly. "Not because he wanted to play with his daughter, but because he needed me to understand strategy."

I lean back. "My father taught me to shoot at five. For similar reasons."

Her lips curl slightly. "We were never children, were we?"

"I was. Once." The admission surprises me. "Before my eldest uncle died and my father moved up from third to second son."

The waiter returns with the wine, a ritual of uncorking and pouring that gives me time to consider how much truth to share with this woman. My future wife. My potential executioner.

"What happened to your uncle?" she asks when we're alone again.

"Car bomb. Meant for my grandfather." I rotate the wine glass, watching the liquid catch the light. "I was fourteen. The next day, my training intensified."

Inez nods. Understanding without pity—this is why she's dangerous. This is why she might be the perfect choice.

"One of my father’s men tried to poison me when I was sixteen," she offers. "To this day, I still think the man was framed by my stepmother, but I have no proof.”

“Has she tried again?"

"I think she fears my father too much. No doubt she’s waiting for him to die to finish the job." Her green eyes flick up to mine. "Family is complicated."

I laugh, a sharp sound that turns heads. "That's one word for it."

Our first course arrives—something delicate and expertly arranged. I wait for Inez to take the first bite.

"I won't poison you, Vanya."

"Not tonight, certainly. Too obvious."

She actually smiles at that. "What kind of marriage can we have, do you think? With this foundation of mutual suspicion?"

I consider the question seriously. "Honest, at least. No pretense of love."

"And fidelity?"

"Necessary." I cut into my food with surgical precision. "For appearances. For security. For heirs, eventually."

She tilts her head. "You want children?"

"I want a legacy." I meet her gaze. "Don't you?"

"Yes." She doesn't hesitate. "But I don’t want my husband to use them to control me."

"I don't want a subordinate, Inez. I want a partner."

"Partners have equal power."

"Yes."

She studies me, searching for the lie. Finding none, she nods once. "Separate bedrooms within a shared residence. Joint decisions on business matters that affect both families. I keep control of my operation, you keep yours."

"And when those operations conflict?"

"We discuss. We compromise. Or we don't, and deal with the consequences." She leans forward. "But we never move against each other. That's the one unbreakable rule."

I consider this woman across from me—brilliant, dangerous, as lonely in her power as I am in mine. Perhaps this is what compatibility looks like for people like us.

"Agreed." I raise my glass. "To a marriage of equals."

Her glass meets mine with a crystalline sound. "To mutual survival."

We drink, eyes locked. The wine tastes like possibility—bitter and sweet at once.

The server clears our plates, and I signal for another bottle of wine. The first has loosened something between us—not trust, exactly, but a willingness to speak without calculating every word.

"When you first heard about me," I ask, "what did they tell you?"

Inez traces the rim of her glass with one finger. "That you were cold. Ruthless. Methodical." Her lips curve slightly. "That you once had a man dismembered for stealing from your underground casino."

"And yet you agreed to meet me."

"I admire efficiency." She shrugs one elegant shoulder. "Besides, the dismemberment story is exaggerated. I checked."

I can't help the laugh that escapes me. "Only partially exaggerated."

"I know." Her eyes meet mine, unflinching. "What did they tell you about me?"

"That you're brilliant. Dangerous." I pause. "That you killed your own cousin."

"He was my second cousin, and the bastard tried to have me kidnapped and murdered, hoping he would take my place as heir.” Her voice remains steady, but her fingers tighten around the stem of her glass. "He made a grave miscalculation."

"Yes, he did."

The new bottle arrives. I sample it, nod approval, and watch as our glasses are filled. In the silence that follows, I study Inez's face—the sharp intelligence in her eyes, the careful composure that never quite reaches relaxation.

"Have you ever been in love, Inez?" The question surprises even me.

She blinks, the only sign my words have caught her off guard. "No."

"Never?"

"Love is a weakness." She says it like a mathematical formula, proven and irrefutable. "In our world, I can't afford to be weak."

I swirl the wine in my glass, considering. "I disagree."

"You've been in love, then?" Skepticism colors her tone.

"Once." I don't elaborate on who or when. Some ghosts are mine alone. "Real love isn't weakness. It's power."

"Power?" She scoffs. "Love makes people stupid and vulnerable.”

"That's infatuation." I lean forward. "Real love is different. It's knowing someone sees all your darkness and stands beside you anyway. It's having someone at your back who would die for you—not because they fear you, but because they choose you."

Her expression remains skeptical, but something flickers in her eyes. Curiosity, perhaps.

"And when that person is taken from you?" she challenges. "When your enemies use them against you?"

"Then you burn the world." The words come out soft, almost gentle. "But at least you had something worth burning it for."

Inez studies me as if seeing me for the first time. "You're not what I expected, Vanya Zhukov."

"Neither are you." I raise my glass. "To unexpected discoveries."

She hesitates, then touches her glass to mine. "To calculated risks."

As we drink, I wonder if this marriage might become more than a business arrangement. I don’t expect love—we're both too damaged for that fairy tale—but something rare and valuable nonetheless. Understanding. Respect. Perhaps even trust, eventually.

The thought should terrify me. Instead, I find myself intrigued by the possibility.

"Tell me about your first kill," I say, changing the subject. The night is young, and there are many layers yet to uncover.

"My first kill?" Inez's eyes flash with a dark and contemplative look. She takes another sip of wine, letting the question hang between us. "I was seventeen. One of my father's lieutenants thought I'd be easy to manipulate. He cornered me in my father's study, thinking no one would hear."

I nod, recognizing the familiar story pattern without needing details. "And?"

"I used my father's letter opener." She demonstrates a quick, efficient movement with her butter knife. "He underestimated me.”

"Smart," I say, genuinely impressed. "Mine was less... elegant. I was sixteen. A rival family's son publicly challenged me. My father handed me his gun in front of everyone."

"Did you hesitate?"

"No." I met her gaze steadily. "I couldn't afford to."

Inez nods, and I catch a flicker of respect in her eyes. We understand each other in these moments—the clarity of survival, and the weight of first blood. There's no judgment between predators.

"I saw my father yesterday," she says, her voice dropping lower as our entrées arrive. "He wants the wedding in two weeks. In Tulum."

I raise an eyebrow. "That's... expedient."

"He's dying." She states it plainly, no emotion coloring the words. "Pancreatic cancer. And he wants to see me married before he goes."

I knew he was dying, but I didn’t think it was so imminent. Unfortunately, a dying patriarch means power in flux, and the circling vultures will only grow more desperate.

"Tulum," I repeat, testing the word. "Why there?"

"We have a compound on the coast. Private beach access, easily secured." Inez shrugs, as if the information is of little consequence. "My father loves the water. Says it reminds him of his childhood in Veracruz before he became... what he is now."

"I've never been to the Yucatán."

"It's beautiful. Ancient ruins in the jungle. Cenotes that go so deep no one knows where they end." For a moment, something almost like passion animates her features. "The compound sits on a cliff overlooking the Caribbean. The water is so blue it hurts your eyes."

I watch her as she speaks, noting how her guard drops slightly when discussing this place. Interesting.

"My father has arranged everything. The ceremony will be small, with only family and allies in attendance. A necessary formality to solidify our alliance before he's gone." She takes another sip of wine. "There will be no time for a honeymoon, of course. We both have businesses to run."

"We should make time." The words surprise me as much as they seem to surprise her.

She pauses, fork halfway to her mouth. "What?"

"At least a week, somewhere close." I lean back in my chair, studying her reaction. "Not immediately after the wedding. But soon. It would be expected, and expectations matter in our world."

"Expected by whom? Our people know what this marriage is."

"Our enemies don't. They'll be looking for cracks, signs that this alliance is merely paper-thin." I take a slow sip of wine. "Besides, I'd like to see more of Mexico than just meeting rooms and safe houses."

Inez studies me, her expression unreadable. "You're serious."

"I rarely joke about strategy, Inez.

"And that's all this is? Strategy?"

I meet her gaze steadily. "Would you believe me if I said it wasn't?"

Something shifts in her eyes - not softening, exactly, but recalculation. She sets down her fork.

"Three days," she counters. "After the dust settles from the wedding. We can stay at the compound. My father will be back in Mexico City by then for his treatments."

"Five days," I counter. "And not at the compound. Somewhere neutral."

A small smile plays at the corner of her mouth. "Four days. There's a private villa further down the coast. Technically, it belongs to one of our shell corporations."

"Four days," I say. "I bring my security team and we travel somewhere close enough to easily return if necessary.”

"Four days," she agrees. "We both bring security, but they stay out of sight."

I extend my hand across the table. "Deal."

She takes it, her grip firm and dry. The contact lingers a moment longer than necessary, electricity arcing between our skin. When she withdraws, I find myself wanting to reach for her again - a dangerous impulse I immediately suppress.

"Tell me about the ruins," I say instead. "The ancient ones in the jungle."

As she speaks of temples and sacrifices, of stone carvings and bloody rituals, I watch the candlelight play across her features.

The night deepens around us, and the wine flows while we exchange secrets.

Each revelation is calculated and measured, yet somehow, in the space between words, something genuine emerges.

Not trust–we're both too damaged for that–but understanding.

And for people like us, that might be enough.