Page 41 of Beautiful Monster

"Borscht with fresh dill," I murmur, closing my eyes to focus on his voice rather than the claustrophobic darkness. "Pelmeni that I spent all afternoon folding. Honey cake for dessert."

"My favorites," he says softly. "You were cooking my favorites."

The raw surprise in his voice makes my chest ache. Six weeks of marriage, and this is the first time I've tried to please him with something that didn’t involve sex. The realization sits between us, unacknowledged but heavy with meaning.

"I wanted—" I start, but the words die as movement on the screen catches my attention. "They're moving. The second man joined them in the office. They're looking at your desk drawers now."

"One minute out," Mikhail responds, and I hear car doors slamming. "Stay where you are until I come for you. No matter what you hear."

My throat tightens. "What are you going to do?"

"What is necessary." His voice has transformed—the brief moment of warmth calcified into something cold and lethal. "This is still Bratva business, Kira. Even with you involved."

The line goes silent except for his measured breathing. The front door opens without a sound. On my screen, the men in Mikhail's office continue their search, unaware of what is to come. Bogdan glances at his watch, nodding to himself as if on schedule.

I should look away. I should close the app and cover my ears. Instead, I watch with terrifying clarity as my husband—tall andlethal in his tailored suit—appears in the doorway of his office, flanked by men whose faces betray nothing.

The stranger in Mikhail's chair looks up, startled but not afraid. His lips move, forming words I cannot hear. Bogdan steps forward, hands raised in explanation or defense, but Mikhail's expression doesn't change—a beautiful marble sculpture of controlled rage.

I press my palm against the cool concrete wall, anchoring myself as the feed cuts to static. The security system has been overridden. Whatever happens next, Mikhail doesn't want it recorded.

The silence stretches out like an elastic band pulled too tight, wrapping around me and making the air feel thick and suffocating. It's so quiet that I can almost hear the dust settling around me, broken only by the faint, rhythmic sound of my own shallow breathing. I focus on counting the steady thud of my heartbeats, reaching three hundred before a sound finally cuts through the oppressive stillness—three sharp raps against the hidden door, each one echoing like a shout in the quiet, followed by two slower, more deliberate knocks.

Our signal.

"Kira." His voice reaches me through the reinforced panel, steady but strained. "It's over. You can come out now."

My legs tremble as I stand, fingers searching for the interior release. The door slides open, revealing Mikhail's broad silhouette against the hallway light. His face is composed, but a smear of crimson stains his white shirt cuff, and his knuckles are raw.

"Are you hurt?" he asks, eyes sweeping over me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.

I shake my head, stepping into his outstretched arms without hesitation. His embrace is crushing, desperate in a way I'venever felt from him before. His heart thunders against my cheek, belying his calm exterior.

"Who were they?" I whisper against his chest.

His fingers thread through my hair, cradling my head as if I might shatter. "Not tonight,kisa. Tonight, we clean up and eat whatever can be salvaged of your dinner. Tomorrow, we talk about Bogdan's betrayal."

I pull back enough to see his face, searching for answers in the glacial blue of his eyes. "He let them in deliberately. He was working against you."

Something flickers in Mikhail's gaze—a grudging respect for my perception, perhaps. "Yes. And now we know."

The implications sink into me slowly, like poison. If Bogdan could betray us, others could, too. The fortress of our home suddenly seems made of paper, vulnerable to fire and wind.

"Come," Mikhail says, leading me toward the kitchen with a hand pressed firmly against the small of my back. "Your soup is still warm. I want to have dinner with my wife."

Chapter 18

Mikhail

Iinhale deeply on my cigarette, the smoke curling lazily around me as I observe Vanya apply his unique form of persuasion to the mangled remnants of Bogdan's kneecaps. The once-gray concrete floor beneath the chair has become a sinister tapestry, darkened with blood and other unidentifiable fluids I prefer not to contemplate. We've been entrenched in this grim task for three relentless hours, and at last, the stubborn bastard's tongue has begun to unravel.

"Petrov family," Bogdan gasps, his voice a tortured, wet rasp that reverberates through the shadowy room. "They... they swore to give me my own territory in Brighton Beach."

I flick ash onto his quivering hands with deliberate disdain. "And what was the cost?"

"Information. About your wife."

The cigarette sears down to my knuckles, but the pain is nothing. Inside, I'm a storm of ice and steel, as biting and ruthless as the January wind slicing off the Hudson. Vanya locks eyes with me—he recognizes that expression. He's witnessed the wrath unleashed when someone dares to threaten what's mine.

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