Page 3 of Brutal Monster
But tonight isn't about charity. It's about Vanya Zhukov.
I study my reflection as the makeup artist adds the final touches. The emerald dress hugs my body like a second skin, strategic cutouts revealing just enough skin to be interesting without crossing into vulnerability. The color matches my eyes—a detail I insisted upon. Power is in the details.
"The jewelry, Ms. Bravo." My assistant, Carla, approaches with a velvet case.
I nod and she opens it, revealing the diamond and emerald necklace that once belonged to my mother. One of the many pieces she left behind. Wearing them makes me feel close to her.
"You look stunning," she says, fastening it around my neck.
"I look prepared," I correct her.
That’s a lie. How can anyone truly prepare to meet the man your dying father has selected as your husband? A man whose reputation rivals my own in both respect and fear. A man whose photograph I've spent too many nights studying.
The stylists step back, admiring their work. I rise from the vanity chair, and test the stability of my heels. Everything must be perfect. In my world, appearance isn't vanity—it's armor.
"The car is ready downstairs," my head of security announces. "The route's been secured. We have four men already at the venue."
"And the brothers?" I ask, reaching for my clutch.
His expression tightens. "Emilio was seen at The Peninsula two hours ago. Adan is still in Colombia, as far as we know."
I nod, absorbing this information. Emilio's proximity isn't a coincidence. He knows about tonight, about what my father has arranged. And about what it would mean for my position when he dies.
"Double the security at the house," I say. “Papá shouldn't be alone."
"Already done."
My phone vibrates with a message. I check it—a text from my father.
Remember who you are tonight. A Bravo never shows weakness.
As if I could forget. As if I haven't spent my entire life proving I'm worthy of the name, of the empire he built. That I can be ruthless without being reckless, unlike my stepbrothers.
"It's time," I say, sliding the phone into my clutch.
In the elevator, I mentally review what I know about Vanya Zhukov. He’s the son of Russian immigrants. He rose through the ranks of the Bratva through intelligence rather than justbrutality. Controls the West Coast with an iron fist. Unmarried. No children. And he’s fiercely loyal to his people.
A man who could be an asset—or my greatest mistake.
The elevator doors open into the private garage, where my car is waiting. As I slide into the backseat, I allow myself one moment of doubt.
"Is this really necessary?" I ask Carla as she settles beside me. "This... arrangement."
She looks surprised. I rarely question Father's decisions aloud.
"Your father believes it's the best way to secure your position," she says carefully. "The Zhukov connection would make Emilio and Adan think twice before moving against you."
"I don't need a man to protect me."
"No," she agrees. "But you might need an army. Which is what Zhukov brings to the table."
I stare out the window as Los Angeles slides by, lights blurring into streaks of gold and white. Papá is dying. My stepbrothers are circling. And I'm heading to meet a man who could either be my salvation or my downfall.
The car pulls up to the Getty, its modernist architecture gleaming against the night sky. Red carpet, photographers, the glittering elite of Los Angeles pretending they don't know where the money comes from for their charities.
My security opens the door. I take a deep breath and step out.
Cameras flash. I ignore them, moving with ease, my face a mask of polite indifference. Inside, the museum has been transformed into a wonderland of light and sound. Art worth millions surrounds partygoers worth billions.
