Page 61 of Brutal Monster
"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?"
