Page 1 of Beautiful Monster

Chapter 1

Mikhail

Istill remember the exact shade of Alina's blood against our white marble floor.

Four years and the memory hasn't faded. Nothing about that day has. The faint scent of her perfume still lingers in our bedroom. The half-empty cup of tea on the kitchen counter that I refuse to clean. The silence that greets me when I call her name.

I take another sip of vodka, letting it burn a path down my throat. Outside my office window, Brooklyn sprawls beneath a gunmetal sky, the buildings sharp-edged against approaching dusk. It's the kind of evening Alina would have loved—cool enough for the cashmere sweater I bought her in Moscow but not so cold that her fingers would ache.

"You cannot live with ghosts forever, Mikhail." My father's voice cuts through my thoughts, rough as sandpaper. His reflection appears in the window glass behind me, his silhouette as unmovable as the empire he built. Dmitri Zhukov is the original monster––the Beast of Brighton Beach.

I turn to face him, keeping my expression blank. "I'm not discussing this again."

"The Malakhov girl is perfect. Young, beautiful, educated." He counts off her qualities like inventory. "And her father's fortune will strengthen our position against the Novikovs.”

The name makes my jaw clench.Novikov. The family who ordered the hit on my wife.

"She's a child," I say, setting my glass down with deliberate control.

"Twenty-two is hardly a child. And from what I hear, she has spirit." His lips curl into what passes for a smile. "Not like Alina. Your first wife was... rough around the edges. This one comes polished."

Something dangerous flares inside me. "Do not speak of Alina."

My father waves his hand dismissively. "The past is the past. The arrangement with Anton Malakhov is nearly complete. His daughter will be safer with us than with him. There are already whispers of kidnapping plots."

"So I'm to be her bodyguard as well as her husband?" The bitterness in my voice surprises even me.

"You are to be the man I raised you to be." His voice drops, becoming the one that made men tremble in the old country. "You’ll be the head of this family. And heads of families make sacrifices for the greater good."

I stare at the city lights blinking to life below. Another arrangement. Another woman traded like a commodity. I remember Alina's face the day we met—defiant, frightened, resigned. We eventually found love, but it took time––time that ended with her blood on our floor.

"I want to meet her first," I say finally.

My father's eyebrows rise slightly. "This is not a negotiation, Misha."

"I didn't say it was. But I will meet this girl before I agree." I turn back to the window, dismissing him. "Arrange it but sign nothing."

His footsteps retreat, the door closing with a soft click that somehow sounds like the chambering of a round. I close my eyes, seeing Alina's face, trying to remember if I ever truly chose anything in my life.

The Malakhov girl. Kira. Even her name feels foreign on my tongue. I wonder if she knows what she's being sold into. If she understands that in our world, marriage isn't about love—it's about survival.

And no one survives for long.

I pour another glass of vodka, the clear liquid catching the city lights like liquid fire. My phone buzzes against the mahogany desk—a text from Viktor, my lieutenant.

Meeting arranged. Sunday morning, 2 PM. Neutral ground - the Russian Tea Room.

The Russian Tea Room. How civilized.I wonder what Anton Malakhov told his precious daughter about me. Probably nothing. Men like him prefer to keep their children ignorant of the blood that pays for their silk dresses and private schools. Better that way—it's easier to sleep at night when you pretend the monster under the bed doesn't exist.

ButI amthe monster under the bed.

Since the age of sixteen, I etched my legacy with a bullet through a man's skull for daring to slight my father. The name Zhukov is a banner that commands respect, and in our unforgiving world, respect is carved from the marrow of fear itself.

My reflection gazes back at me from the shadowy window, and suddenly, I glimpse my father's face merged with mine. Hisice-blue eyes, that harsh mouth—so familiar yet unsettling. I see the same relentless drive for power, a drive that once seemed admirable. But now, I question whether it's worth the price. The willingness to sacrifice everything—even love. Especially love. Is it truly what I want, or just what I've been taught to pursue?

I drain the glass and feel the familiar numbness spread through my chest. It's better this way. Safer. Love makes you vulnerable and gives your enemies a target to aim for. Alina taught me that lesson in the most brutal way possible.

The intercom crackles to life, its static buzzing like a swarm of distant bees. "Boss? You want me to send the car around?" Lev’s voice filters through, muffled yet clear enough to convey his readiness.

---