Chain Me (Beautiful Monsters #3)

1. Katarina

KATARINA

T he blue glow of multiple monitors bathes my office in an ethereal light as I scan through lines of code. My cybersecurity startup's latest project demands attention. Still, my mind drifts to the text from my father sitting unanswered on my phone.

A knock at my door breaks my concentration. “Ms. Lebedev, your three o'clock is here.”

“Thanks, Sarah. Send them in.” I minimize the code and straighten my blazer, pushing thoughts of my father aside.

Two men in crisp suits enter, their polished shoes clicking against the hardwood floor. The older one extends his hand. “Ms. Lebedev, I'm David Chen from VentureTech.”

I shake his hand, noting his firm grip. “Please, have a seat.”

“Your proposal for blockchain-based security solutions is impressive.” He opens his laptop. “Though some of our investors expressed concerns about... certain family connections.”

My jaw tightens. Of course they did. “My company operates independently, Mr. Chen. The Lebedev name might open doors, but I've walked through them on my own merit.”

“Your father's reputation?—”

“Has nothing to do with my work.” I pull up our latest security framework on the conference room screen. “This is what should interest your investors. We've developed a quantum-resistant encryption protocol that's years ahead of the competition.”

David leans forward, his earlier hesitation forgotten as I walk him through the technical specifications. This is my world—ones and zeros, clean code, transparent transactions. No blood money, no favors owed, no bodies buried in concrete.

My phone buzzes again. Father's number. I silence it without looking.

“Your commitment to legitimate business is admirable,” David says, closing his laptop. “But you understand our need for due diligence.”

“Absolutely.” I stand, smoothing my skirt. “And you'll find that everything about LebedevTech is above board. I've made sure of it.”

After they leave, I finally read Father's message: “Family dinner. Tonight. Non-negotiable.”

I delete it and turn back to my code. He can't force me to be what he wants anymore. I've built something real here, something clean. And I'm not letting anyone drag me back into that darkness.

I rest my forehead against the cool glass of my office window, watching Boston's skyline fade into dusk.

The city lights remind me of the strings of code I've been staring at—each one a point of light in a vast network.

However, unlike my clean algorithms, the web of connections in this city is tangled with my father's influence.

My Louboutins click against the marble as I head to the elevator. The security guard nods, and I catch his quick glance at the gun holster under his jacket. Father's men, always watching. Protection, he calls it. A cage, I know it to be.

The drive home in my Tesla feels too short.

My penthouse offers a different view of the same city—higher, more removed.

Like I try to be. The invitation to tonight's charity gala sits on my kitchen counter, embossed letters catching the light.

“Supporting Victims of Organized Crime.” The irony doesn't escape me.

I step into my walk-in closet, fingers trailing over designer dresses. Each one was purchased with my own money that I worked hard to make, anything I had from my father has been returned. The black Valentino I select costs enough to feed a family for months.

In my bathroom, I start my makeup routine, the familiar motions automatic.

“You can't save everyone,” Father always says when I mention my charitable work.

“The world runs on power, not kindness.” But I've seen the aftermath of his power—in police reports I shouldn't have access to, in newspaper articles about missing persons, and in the hollow eyes of wives who've lost husbands to gang warfare.

The diamond necklace I fasten around my throat feels heavy.

A birthday gift from my mother, probably bought with Father’s blood money.

However, it is one thing I have that she gave to me before she died, and I could never bring myself to return it.

Mother's death left my father with only me, and some days, I think that's the only thing keeping him human.

I smooth my dress, checking my reflection. The woman staring back looks polished, successful, and legitimate. Everything I've worked to become, but Father's shadow still darkens the edges.

I slide into my Tesla's leather seat, its familiar scent washing over me. Boston's streets gleam with recent rain, traffic lights painting wet asphalt in shifting colors. My fingers tap the steering wheel at each red light, Father's dinner demand still gnawing at my thoughts.

The charity gala venue appears ahead—all glass and modern architecture, valets in red jackets rushing to open car doors. I hand over my keys and straighten my shoulders before walking inside.

The ballroom buzzes with Boston's elite.

Crystal chandeliers cast rainbow prisms across champagne flutes and designer gowns.

I drift between clusters of people, nodding at familiar faces, accepting air kisses from society wives.

My smile feels plastered on. This is not my scene at all, but if I want to be successful, then this kind of networking is expected.

“Did you hear about the new development project?” A real estate mogul's wife clutches my arm.

I make appropriate listening noises while scanning for the nearest escape route. These conversations drain me—all surface chatter hiding darker dealings underneath. Give me a quiet night with my laptop any day.

I smile politely at the chattering woman. “Excuse me, I need to say hello to someone.” The lie slips off my tongue with practiced ease as I extract myself from her grip.

Weaving through Boston's elite, I snag a flute of champagne from a passing server and make my tactical retreat.

The far corner of the ballroom, partially hidden behind a large floral arrangement, offers sanctuary from the suffocating small talk.

I exhale deeply, feeling my shoulders finally relax for the first time since I arrived.

From this vantage point, I observe the room—tech entrepreneurs laughing with politicians, lawyers clinking glasses with doctors, and scattered throughout, my father's associates pretending to be legitimate businessmen.

The charity might genuinely help victims of organized crime, but the irony of who funds these events isn't lost on me.

I drink down the rest of my champagne, the bubbles sharp against my tongue. My phone buzzes again in my clutch. Father, no doubt, wondering why I'm not at his dinner. Let him wonder. I've earned this independence, built this life brick by brick, code by code.

The florals beside me release their heavy perfume—lilies, and roses, too sweet, like the false pleasantries exchanged in this room. I close my eyes briefly, calculating how much longer I need to stay before making an exit that won't damage potential investor relationships.

“May I ask why a beautiful woman like you is hiding in corners at parties?”

The deep voice startles me. I turn to face the intruder in my quiet sanctuary. Striking chestnut brown eyes bore into mine. A tall, broad-shouldered man with dark hair and a perfectly tailored tuxedo stands behind me. His smile catches me off guard—genuine, reaching his eyes.

“I needed a moment,” I admit openly.

His smile is devastating. “May I offer you a drink?” He holds up two champagne flutes. “You look like you could use one.”

A laugh escapes before I can stop it. “That obvious?”

“Only to a fellow survivor.” He extends one glass. “I endured twenty minutes on proposed parking structure designs from Kevin Jenkins.”

I shouldn't accept drinks from strangers, especially not with my family's enemies list. But something about his easy manner makes me reach for the champagne anyway.

“I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name.” His voice carries a hint of an accent I can't quite place.

“Katarina Lebedev.”

The warmth in his eyes shifts to calculation as he takes a measured sip of champagne.

“And you are?” I keep my tone light, though my guard rises.

“Erik Ivanov.”

The champagne turns bitter on my tongue. Of course. The Ivanovs—my father's rivals in the Boston underworld. I've heard whispers about Erik, the ex-military brother, the one who handles their more physical business dealings.

“Interesting choice of event.” I gesture to the 'Supporting Victims of Organized Crime' banner hanging above the stage. “Rather ironic, wouldn't you say?”

His expression doesn't change, but his grip tightens on the champagne flute. “Perhaps we all have our reasons for being here.”

“Yes, I'm sure the Ivanovs are deeply concerned about the welfare of victims of organized crime.” The words slip out before I can stop them, sharper than intended.

“And the Lebedevs aren't?” His dark eyes lock onto mine, challenge clear in their depths.

We stand in silence, two wolves in designer clothing pretending to be sheep. Around us, Boston's elite continue their champagne-fueled chatter, oblivious to the predators in their midst.

“Unlike some, I actually mean it when I say I want nothing to do with organized crime or my father.” I take another sip of champagne, the bubbles sharp on my tongue. “My tech company operates completely separate from my father's interests. I made sure of that from day one.”

Erik's expression remains neutral, but something flickers in those dark eyes. “Noble intentions.”

“Not intentions. Facts.” I set my glass down on a passing waiter's tray. “Every transaction, every contract, every line of code is legitimate and transparent. Which is more than I can say for your family's operations.”

“You seem well-informed about our business.” His voice carries an edge now.

“I know exactly what the Ivanovs do.” I smooth my dress, a gesture that helps me maintain composure.

“I've spent years building something clean, something that helps people. My presence here tonight supports actual victims. But you?” I meet his gaze directly.

“We both know you're here for the show.”

His jaw tightens. The warrior beneath the designer suit shows through for just a moment—in his stance, in the way his fingers flex around the champagne flute, in how his eyes scan the room.

“You're making assumptions, Ms. Lebedev.”

“No, I'm stating facts. Last month's 'incident' at the docks had Ivanov written all over it.

Three dead, two missing. If you'll excuse me.” I turn away from Erik, not waiting for his response.

My heels click against the marble floor as I make my way through the crowd, but the weight of his gaze follows me like a physical touch.

I join a group discussing the latest tech innovations, forcing myself to focus on their conversation about quantum computing. The words wash over me while my skin prickles with awareness. He's still watching—I can feel it.

I accept a fresh glass of champagne from a passing waiter, careful not to glance in Erik's direction. But my traitorous mind keeps conjuring images of those dark eyes, the way his suit stretched across broad shoulders, how his large hands dwarfed the delicate champagne flute.

Stop it, I scold myself. This man is an Ivanov. His family has blood on their hands, just like mine does. I've worked too hard to distance myself from that world to let attraction cloud my judgment.

But when I shift position to better hear someone's comment about blockchain security, I catch a glimpse of him across the room. He stands apart from the crowd, a predator among sheep. His stance conveys a soldier’s awareness.

A shiver runs down my spine that has nothing to do with the ballroom's air conditioning.

I excuse myself from the group and head to the balcony for fresh air. The cool night breeze helps clear my head, but does nothing to slow my pulse. I've met plenty of dangerous men—grew up surrounded by them. Why does this one affect me so differently?

Perhaps because, unlike the others, who hide their violence behind smooth smiles and designer suits, Erik wears his darkness openly. There's something almost honest about it, about him.

I grip the balcony railing, forcing those thoughts away. It doesn't matter how attractive he is or how his accent sends heat coursing through my veins. Some lines shouldn't be crossed, and getting involved with an Ivanov tops that list.