Page 4 of Brutal Monster
I scan the room methodically, cataloging exits, security positions, and faces I recognize.
And then I see Vanya Zhukov standing across the room, taller than I expected. Broader. The photographs didn't capturethe sheer presence of the man. He's dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, his dark hair cut short, emphasizing the sharp angles of his face and that infamous scar along his jaw.
He's watching me, and has been since I entered. I feel the weight of his gaze like a physical touch.
For a moment, neither of us moves. Two predators, assessing. Then he lifts his glass slightly in acknowledgment.
My heart pounds traitorously hard. This is business, I remind myself. Strategy. An alliance that will keep me alive and in control when Papá dies.
But as I make my way toward him, I can't deny the electricity humming through my veins. There's something about the way he holds himself, the intelligence behind those steel-gray eyes.
"Ms. Bravo," he says when I reach him, his voice a low rumble with just a trace of his Russian heritage. "I've been looking forward to meeting you properly."
"Mr. Zhukov." I extend my hand. "I believe we have some business to discuss."
His fingers close around mine, warm and calloused. A working man's hands, despite the expensive suit. "Business," he repeats, something like amusement flickering in his eyes. "Is that what we're calling it?"
"What would you prefer to call it?”
"Destiny, perhaps." He hasn't released my hand. "Or mutual survival."
A server passes with champagne. Vanya takes two glasses, offers me one. I accept, using the moment to reclaim my hand and my composure.
"To new partnerships," he says, raising his glass.
I meet his eyes over the rim of my flute. "I haven't agreed to anything yet."
His smile deepens, revealing a dangerous charm I hadn't anticipated. "Neither have I, Ms. Bravo. That's what makes tonight so interesting.
And despite everything—the stakes, the danger, the fact that this man could either save my empire or destroy it—I find myself smiling back.
Before I can respond, a man in a tailored suit materializes at Vanya's elbow. His lawyer, based on the briefcase and perpetual frown. A moment later, my own attorney, Sofia Martinez, appears at my side, her expression all business.
"Ms. Bravo, Mr. Zhukov," Sofia says with practiced neutrality. "Perhaps we should move this conversation somewhere more private. The terms of the arrangement require discussion."
Vanya's lawyer nods emphatically. "The conference room has been secured. We can review the contractual obligations and?—"
"Later." Vanya cuts him off with a single word that leaves no room for argument. His eyes never leave mine. "Ms. Bravo and I should get acquainted first, wouldn't you agree?"
The lawyers exchange glances, clearly displeased. Sofia leans closer to me. "Inez, your father was particular about the timeline. The paperwork?—"
"Will still be there in an hour," Vanya finishes for her. A string quartet begins playing across the room. Without warning, he extends his hand to me. "Dance with me."
It's not a request. It's a challenge.
I take his hand. "One dance."
The lawyers retreat, hovering at the edges of the ballroom like anxious sentinels. Vanya leads me onto the floor with surprising grace for a man his size. His hand settles at the small of my back, arm through the thin fabric of my dress.
"They're very eager to make this official," he observes as we begin to move.
"Yes. They're paid to be eager."
His laugh is unexpected—low and genuine. "You don't trust lawyers?"
"I don't trust anyone." The words slip out before I can stop them.
"Smart woman." His fingers tighten slightly against my back, guiding me through a turn. "That's what I've heard about you. Smart. Ruthless when necessary. Loyal to your people."
