The Monster (Boston Belles 3)

Vasily was at his desk, surrounded by three of his high-ranked men. He had the pointy, fox-look of a comic book villain, which he highlighted with good suits and bad manners. But not even a fucking ball gown could hide the fact that his face was riddled with knife scars. My initials—S.A.B.—were carved into his forehead, jagged and white.

His bodyguards were on alert, two on each side, all of them possessing the peculiar look of semitrailers and similar IQs. The middle-aged man with silver hair and pale blue eyes looked up at me, putting his cigar down in an ashtray, sending smoke whirling to the ceiling.

“Brennan. You’re alive.”

“And you’re surprised.” I rearranged Masha on my shoulder. Even though I used my healthy shoulder to carry her and not the one his men put a bullet through, I still wasn’t my usual self. Normally, carrying a woman of Masha’s slight weight was akin to wearing a goddamn scarf.

“And I see you brought your daddy.” Vasily’s eyes slid from me to Troy, who stood beside me.

“Seemed fair,” Troy clipped dryly, “seeing as you have an entire army surrounding you. Not used to doing the dirty work anymore, are you, Vasily?”

“And it shows. Two bullets, and not one pierced my heart,” I tsked, shaking my head. “My toddler nephew has better aim in the toilet while potty training.”

Masha twisted in my arms, responding to her father’s words and tenor. I drugged her a little—enough to keep her silent and easy to manage—and I knew these animals were wondering if I used the opportunity to shove my dick in her, and maybe even arranged it so a Brennan bastard was inside her to ensure the Bratva could never touch me again.

“What do you want?” Vasily demanded, darting up from his leather seat. “You obviously came here for retaliation, so just spit it out. And no, my daughter cannot be a part of the deal. She is an innocent. We have a code,” he growled.

“You have a code,” I corrected. “I lack morals and fucks. So it is either my way or the highway, and considering you were very close to sending me to an early grave, you better take my terms, no stipulations and no negotiations.”

“Speak!” Vasily slapped a hand over his desk, seething. “And put her down, for God’s sake!”

“I’ll give you back Brookline, but you will hand me monthly protection money. A percentage of all your businesses,” I said flatly.

Vasily’s eyes narrowed.

“Protection from what? We are the Bratva! We protect ourselves.”

“Hey, I never promised to make sense.” I shrugged, and Masha moaned against my shoulder, weeping through the cloth covering her mouth. “But right now, I have soldiers everywhere in your territory. I am making more money than you ever did here. If you want me to retreat, you need to make it worth my while.”

Vasily stroked his chin, considering my proposition. His men were ready for battle—I could tell by the way their muscles bunched under their shirts.

“Have you touched her?” he asked, his Russian accent thickly coating each word with worry.

“No,” I said honestly. “I require my women to be willing and conscious.”

I also prefer them to be just one woman—Aisling. I still couldn’t believe she made me go through with this. Give up such a strategic part of Boston. Love was a bitch, but it was something I had to endure in order to keep Nix.

“Put her down,” Vasily repeated, his voice shaking slightly. In all the time I’d known him, Vasily Mikhailov’s voice had never wavered. He was scared.

“Concede,” I hissed.

He lowered his head, so close to defeat the despair was tangible in the air.

“What’s your protection rate?”

“Eight percent of all your businesses’ clean profit.”

“Six,” he clipped, jotting down something on a piece of paper resting on his desk, already making the calculation.

“Eight. Love is priceless, Mikhailov,” I reminded him.

He looked up. “Fine. Now put her down.”

I put Masha on the floor. She flailed, her eyes erratically looking for her father among the shadows of people in the room. Vasily ran to her, crouching down and removing a knife from his Italian loafers. He began tearing the ropes that tied her together, whispering Russian endearments in her ear, his face contorted with emotion.

Troy put a hand on my shoulder.

“Time to go, son.”

“All right, Dad.”

It was the first time I called him Dad, but I knew it was not going to be the last.

I turned around and followed him, feeling him smiling, even with his back to me.

For the first time since I was born, I felt something foreign and addictive.

I belonged.

“Just for the record, I will never forgive you.” My mother scooped her Hermes bag from the chapel’s floor, her heels clicking provocatively as she sashayed outside.

My father stood behind her, shrugging helplessly, a what-can-you-do expression on his face. Troy and Sparrow were behind them, gathering their belongings.