Page 10 of Brutal Union (Ruthless Mafia Kings #8)

NADIA

“You could’ve let me know you didn’t need clothes,” Aleksandr grumbles, tossing the bag of freshly bought outfits into a trash can as we walk.

Normally, I’d donate them or hand them off to someone unhoused, but we’ve got fifteen minutes to make it to a meeting with the Yakuza—not exactly prime time for charity.

“I didn’t know the clothes were going to be delivered to me,” I counter, brushing a wrinkle from my jacket as we step off the curb onto polished stone.

“He got your size right,” Aleksandr mutters.

“Don’t mention it,” I growl.

We arrive at a sleek glass tower rising from the heart of Marunouchi, Tokyo’s financial district.

Aleksandr steps ahead of me and opens the door, smoothing the front of his suit with practiced precision.

Always immaculate—jet-black hair slicked back without a strand out of place, posture sharp as a blade.

He looks like our father, down to the hard jaw and the broad, built frame. Massive. Imposing. But never messy.

Where I’m chaos, Aleksandr is order. He thrives on control—numbers, structure, the kind of quiet legitimacy that keeps the Mafia breathing on paper.

Violence doesn’t thrill him the way it does me.

He doesn’t chase blood. He weighs it, calculates it, and only acts when every other option is exhausted.

For him, killing is a line item—not a craving.

He adjusts his cufflinks before following me inside. Not because they’re crooked, but because he always needs to be doing something. A nervous tick he swears isn’t nervousness.

Nikolai—our older brother—used to be the one I was closest to. But after he betrayed me, everything shifted. Aleksandr and I bonded in the aftermath. He doesn’t try to control me like Nik did. He balances me. Calms me without trying to tame me.

Together, Aleksandr and I are two sides of the same empire.

The air in Marunouchi smells like money and ambition—crisp, calculated, and layered with the quiet tension of men who carry secrets in custom suits. This isn’t the Tokyo tourists see. No street vendors. No neon. Just mirrored towers, luxury sedans, and the heavy hush of real power.

Marunouchi is the empire’s mask.

All clean lines and corporate elegance on the surface. But beneath? Unwritten deals. Threats passed quietly between elevator rides. Money funneled through offshore accounts, security firms that don’t ask questions, and boardrooms where silence is currency.

For the Yakuza, this place isn’t just neutral ground—it’s theater. The illusion of legitimacy in the most orderly city in the world.

We walk up to the doorman. He is a lean man, with no tattoos, a sleek expensive black suit and bleached blonde hair. What screams Yakuza about him is the fact that he is wearing sunglasses inside like a fucking Bond villian.

“Omae wa akai yoru o mite iru ka?” Are you seeing the red night? He questions, tilting his head to the side, and resting both hands on top of each other in front of his belt, close enough to any weapon he may draw.

I place both of my hands in the pockets of my leather jacket, feeling the hilt of my knife in the secret compartment of my jacket that I discovered on my way here.

Aleksandr smiles in that way that makes him look boyish even with his massive size. “Aka wa tada hajimari da.” Red is just the beginning.

“Ah,” The man appraises, before bending into a deep bow, allowing us to walk to the elevator behind him, and I release my grip on the knife in my pocket.

The elevator is seamless—black glass on three sides, with a mirrored ceiling that catches the gleam of city light and the sharp line of our silhouettes.

There's only one button, unlabeled, backlit in red. No floor numbers, no emergency call, not even a keycard swipe. You either belong here or you don’t.

Aleksandr presses the button with a knuckle, and the doors close in silence. No music. No movement. Just a slow vertical slide that feels like sinking into something inevitable.

“You know they’re going to ask if I’m really in charge,” I say, crossing my arms as the elevator glides up .

“They’ll ask,” Aleksandr agrees, eyes locked on our reflection in the mirrored ceiling, “and then they’ll test you.”

I let out a humorless laugh. “Good. I hope they do. I’ve been itching to remind someone what I’m capable of.”

“They don’t care about capability, Nadia. They care about control. If they’re going to keep up the alliance, they want to know someone predictable is running the Bratva.”

“They’d rather deal with you.”

“They would,” he says plainly. “But I’m not the rightful heir.”

I scoff. “If you wanted it, it wouldn’t take much for you to have it.”

Aleksandr looks me dead in the eye, and shakes his head twice. “I do not want it.”

I nod, pursing my lips to the side. “Right. Do we know what they want in exchange for the alliance and Boris?”

Aleksandr exhales through his nose, slow and tight. “No, but I assume it is within reach and easily attainable.”

“Promise,” I smirk.

“No.”

I chuckle as the elevator dings open, revealing a breathtaking room that feels like a slice of nature in the middle of an office building.

The floor is black marble, polished so smooth it reflects every shadow we cast. The walls are trimmed with pale oak—clean, minimal, perfectly symmetrical.

Soft light glows from hidden slats in the ceiling, illuminating the space like a shrine, or a stage.

A small woman, no taller than five feet, greets us with a graceful bow. She’s dressed in a pale blue silk kimono embroidered with cranes, her dark hair twisted into a perfect chignon. Without looking up, she speaks, her voice too cheerful for this establishment.

“ Kutsu o nuguidasai. ” Please take off your shoes.

Aleksandr murmurs, “Take off your shoes,” and is already bending to slip off his loafers with the practiced ease of someone raised under our father’s rigid discipline. He steps aside and offers me a hand.

I roll my eyes, but take it.

Leaning into his balance, I unlatch the thick zippers of my heeled combat boots and step out of them, one foot at a time, my knife still sheathed in the lining of my jacket. The woman doesn’t blink at the visible weapon. That alone tells me she’s seen worse.

She bows once again and hands us a pair of soft, linen house sandals—black for Aleksandr, ivory for me. Then, she gestures with two fingers toward a set of massive double doors at the far end of the room, before turning to walk in that direction.

They’re jet black and windowless, paneled in lacquered wood, with no visible handle. Just the symbol of the Matsumoto family—an etched white chrysanthemum—carved into the center of each.

“Here we go,” Aleksandr mutters under his breath, already moving.

I adjust my jacket, slide the sandals on, and follow.

At the end of the hall, she stops in front of the towering black double doors, a serpent curls around a blade with white chrysanthemums gathered at the base, the emblem catching the overhead light .

She knocks in a precise pattern: two soft. Pause. Three hard. Followed by an open palm hand slap.

The doors open simultaneously from within, as if pulled back by ghosts. Behind them stands a wall of power—three men, still as statues, each exuding a different kind of threat.

The one on the left is Tanaka Ryoji, heavyset with a dense, brutal build. His graying buzz cut and thick neck only make the deep lines in his scarred knuckles more noticeable.

On the right stands Matsuda Kenji, snake-thin and sharp-edged in an immaculately tailored charcoal Armani suit. His small black eyes don’t blink, don’t move.

And standing dead center—larger than life and twice as dangerous—is Hiragi Daichi, the Executioner.

Built like a wall, tall and thick with muscle, his loose black clothing does nothing to hide the sheer size of him.

A jagged scar curves down from his cheek to his throat like a warning carved into flesh, and from the edges of his collar, the vibrant coils of a dragon tattoo peek out—irezumi ink (traditional Japanese tatoos) that marks him as death on legs.

He steps forward without a word, eyes unreadable as he motions for us to raise our arms.

Aleksandr obliges first, lifting his hands as Daichi steps into his space.

He pats him down swiftly and thoroughly, removing three guns from hidden holsters with the efficiency of a soldier—and zero ceremony.

One from the waistband, one from the ankle, one from beneath the back panel of his suit jacket.

Daichi holds them up for the others to see, then sets them aside in a tray just inside the door.

Then he turns to me .

I lift my arms, meeting his eyes. He doesn’t flinch.

Doesn’t leer. Just starts the process. The knife at my hip, the other at my ankle, the narrow one tucked into the lining in the sleeve of my jacket, and the spring-loaded one along the waist of my jeans.

His hands find the one tucked in the hidden shoulder pocket of my jacket, and I feel his pause—but just for a second—before he draws it out with clinical precision and a grunt.

When he finishes, I drop my arms and let out a short exhale.

I lift my chin. “You missed one.”

He freezes, eyes rolling over me with a lethal glare.

I smirk. “Kidding.”

One of the Daichi grumbles under his breath, “ Kuso onna...” Damn woman, while Tanka mutters, “Amerika no musume wa itsumo mendou da...” American women are always a pain...

Aleksandr snorts softly beside me, eyes flicking sideways. “They’re not wrong.”

I elbow him in the ribs, not hard enough to bruise—just enough to remind him I’m still armed with attitude, if nothing else.

Daichi steps back the tension in his shoulders not wavering despite our lack of weapons. He gestures us forward into the chamber beyond, revealing Takeda Matsumoto, the head of the Yakuza and Sho’s father.