Page 59 of Brutal Monster
I lift my head to look at him, searching for signs he's joking. His expression is serious but his eyes are soft in a way few people ever see.
"We have empires to run," I remind him.
"Empires can wait." He tucks a strand of damp hair behind my ear. "This—us—can't."
Something tightens in my chest, unfamiliar and frightening. Is this what happiness feels like? This fragile, tenuous thing I'm afraid to examine too closely?
"Three more days," I find myself saying. "Just three more."
His smile is slow, satisfied. "I'll take it." He shifts, still inside me, sending aftershocks of pleasure through my oversensitivebody. "And I'll spend every minute convincing you to extend our stay."
I kiss him to hide my own smile, to conceal how easily I might be convinced. Three more days of paradise before we return to our world of shadows. Three more days to pretend we're just a man and woman in love, not rulers of criminal empires.
My phone buzzes from somewhere in the cabana—the emergency line, the only one I haven't silenced. Vanya's expression darkens.
"Ignore it," he says.
But we both know I can't. Not that line. Not when Adan's warnings still echo in my head.
Paradise, it seems, has found its snake.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
INEZ
Isnatch the phone, Vanya's warmth still enveloping me as I press it to my ear. It’s Miguel Esparza, my father’s hospice nurse.
"What?" My voice shifts instantly from lover to leader.
"It's your father." Miguel’s voice crackles through the connection. "The doctors say hours, not days."
The world freezes. I'm suddenly aware of every sensation—Vanya's heartbeat against my chest, salt drying on my skin, the distant cry of seabirds.
"We leave now." I hang up without waiting for a response.
Vanya reads my face, already moving. "What happened?"
"My father is dying." The words taste like ash. "We need to go."
Paradise evaporates like morning mist. Twenty minutes later, we're dressed, packed, and striding toward the waiting helicopter. No more beach. No more pretending. Reality crashes back with brutal efficiency.
On the jet, I sit rigid, staring at weather reports, flight paths—anything but the hollowness spreading through my chest. Vanya gives me space and handles logistics with quietcompetence. Only once does he touch me, fingers brushing mine as he hands me a glass of water.
"He'll hold on," he says. "Juan Bravo wouldn't dare die before saying goodbye to his daughter."
I nod, throat too tight for words.
Mexico City materializes beneath us, sprawling and chaotic. Home. The place I've fought to protect, to rule. As the wheels touch down, my phone vibrates with updates, security reports, and business matters. I ignore them all except Miguel's latest message: *Still breathing.*
The airport staff scatter before us. No customs, no delays. Vanya's men appear with armored SUVs, weapons visible beneath tailored jackets. I slide into the back seat of the lead vehicle, Vanya beside me.
"Fastest route," I tell the driver. "No stops."
"Yes, Señora." He pulls away from the curb, tires squealing.
Mexico City traffic parts before our convoy like water around stones. My fingers tap against my thigh, counting seconds, minutes. Too slow. Every moment trapped in this car is another moment my father might slip away.
"The doctor says he's stabilized slightly," Vanya says, reading a message on his phone. "They've given him something for the pain."
