Page 25 of Brutal Monster
I step out of my father's room to find Vanya waiting, a dark silhouette against the hallway's warm light. His presence is unexpected but not unwelcome. Steel-gray eyes assess me, missing nothing.
"How is he?" Vanya asks, his Russian accent barely detectable.
"Dying," I say. "But still playing chess."
Cristian tenses behind me, hand moving subtly toward his weapon. He doesn't trust the Russian––he is a wise man.
"Walk with me," I tell Vanya, then turn to Cristian. "Wait here. Guard my father's door. No one enters."
"Doña Inez—" Cristian begins, his disapproval evident.
"That wasn't a suggestion."
He nods once, reluctantly stepping back to his post. His eyes follow us down the hallway, boring into Vanya's back.
I lead Vanya through the labyrinth-like corridors of my childhood home, past watchful security cameras and guards who straighten as I pass. We don't speak. We don't need to. Our footsteps echo in perfect rhythm—predators moving in tandem.
The study door is heavy oak, reinforced with steel. I enter the security code, listening for the satisfying click of the lock disengaging.
"Close it," I instruct once we're inside.
Vanya does, then takes in the room with a single sweep of his gaze. His eyes linger on the Goya painting—a dark, haunting piece depicting Saturn devouring his son.How fitting.
"Your father has interesting taste in art," he observes.
"My father believes in reminders." I move toward the painting. "Of what happens to those who challenge the natural order."
The painting swings away from the wall on hidden hinges, revealing a sleek digital safe. I enter my mother's birthday—April 17, 1965—and hear the soft hiss of the vacuum seal releasing.
Inside lies a stack of leather-bound files, worn at the edges from handling. The history of our empire, written in my father's meticulous hand. I pull them out, feeling their weight—literal and metaphorical.
"Your father kept paper records?" Vanya asks, one eyebrow raised.
"Paper can't be hacked." I tuck the files into my oversized purse. "And these particular records never existed in the first place."
He steps closer, close enough that I can smell his cologne—something expensive, with notes of cedar and smoke. "What exactly am I looking at, Inez?"
"Power." I close my purse with a decisive snap. "Names of every judge, politician, and police commander on our payroll. Account numbers for money that even my brothers don't know about. Details of operations spanning three decades."
Understanding dawns in his eyes. "Your insurance policy."
"And yours, if we're to work together." I meet his gaze directly. "My father built an empire through blood and secrets. I intend to preserve it through knowledge and leverage."
Vanya's mouth curves into something almost like a smile. "And here I thought the Bratva had cornered the market on paranoia."
"Paranoia implies irrationality." I move back toward the door. "There's nothing irrational about preparing for inevitable betrayal."
His hand catches my arm, the touch firm but not aggressive. "You think I'll betray you?"
"Eventually, everyone does." I don't pull away. "The question is whether the cost will outweigh the benefit."
He studies me for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in those gray eyes. "And what's my benefit in this arrangement, Inez Bravo?"
"Survival." I step closer, until there's barely space between us. "The Romeros are moving against both our families. Your family's territory in Miami, and my operations in Veracruz. They've already infiltrated three of my father's lieutenants."
"You have proof?"
I pat my purse. "I do now."
