Page 14 of Brutal Union (Ruthless Mafia Kings #8)

SHO

“Nadia…” I groan, the sound dragging itself from somewhere raw and buried deep in my chest. My voice is hoarse—grated by smoke, by pain, by the scream I didn’t have time to release.

I press the heel of my palm to my forehead, grinding it against the throb blooming sharp and white behind my eyes.

It’s not just pain—it’s pressure, like something trying to crack my skull open from the inside.

The world wavers. Heat distorts the air. Everything around me is vibrating, trembling at the edge of collapse.

I pull my hand away and stare at it—blood. Beaming, bright red smeared across my palm, streaked with ash and shards of blackened debris. It’s sticky, warm, already drying at the edges, painting me with proof that I was too fucking late.

I feel it now—trickling down my temple, sliding into the corner of my jaw in a slow, lazy river. Thick as oil. Hot like breath. The scent is metallic and dense, already mingling with the stench of smoke and scorched fabric.

I try to sit up .

The world immediately tilts, hard and punishing, like a building just shifted beneath me. My stomach lurches, and I’m forced to brace myself with blood-slick fingers against the crumbling pavement. The sky swims above me in a haze of gray and orange, a canvas of chaos.

“Fuck,” I cough, and the act rips through my chest like broken glass. Smoke stings my throat, clinging to my tongue. The taste of ash is thick and heavy, like breathing in dirt and regret.

I blink hard, clearing my vision just enough to see?—

Flames.

Pouring from the windows in curling tendrils of gold and rage. Her balcony—our balcony—is gone. Devoured. Black smoke rolls over the ledge like a tidal wave, and I watch helplessly as glass shatters from the heat and falls in burning, glittering shards. Like stars breaking apart mid-air.

“Nadia!” Her name tears out of me like a command, like a prayer I don’t believe will be answered.

I force myself to my feet, every muscle screaming. My knees wobble, ribs grinding against each other, but I don’t stop. Can’t. Each step feels like dragging a corpse—the weight of failure hitching to every tendon.

But I keep moving.

Because the sirens are still too far.

Because the building is still collapsing.

Because no one will get to her faster than me.

Because she’s mine.

I reach the blown-out entrance just as part of the second floor gives way, the floor above collapsing inward in a guttural moan.

It hits the ground with a thunderous crack that reverberates through the soles of my boots.

The shock rattles the bones in my legs, and for a split second, the whole fucking world seems to hold its breath.

Then the lobby coughs up smoke and fire and ruin, and I’m in it—throwing myself headfirst into the chaos.

My arm shields my face as the heat claws at me. My eyes sting, watering, but I force them open. The smoke burns. My lungs seize. But I charge through the mouth of the inferno like the devil’s on my heels—because she’s somewhere inside. Buried. Trapped.

“NADIA!” My voice shreds, but I scream anyway. If she can hear me, if she’s still alive, I need her to hold on. Just a little longer.

Flames bite up my calves, igniting the edges of my pants. I don’t care. I leap over a fallen beam, the charred wood snapping beneath me, and duck beneath the twisted remains of a support beam that groans with the weight of the floor above it.

Everything smells like death.

Burnt wood, melting wires, cooked leather. And blood.

I can smell her blood.

My hands are shredded, cut to hell as I dig through fallen beams, drywall, ash.

My knuckles are raw, split open, and I don’t stop.

The couch where she’d been lying—gone. Reduced to blackened steel and foam skeletons.

Nothing is left. Not the velvet cushions.

Not the silk throw she always refused to wash.

Nothing but ash .

And then I see her.

My heart punches through my chest as I spot the curve of her hip beneath a slab of splintered wall.

She’s half-buried in wood, plaster, and rubble.

Her body is slack. Blonde hair tangled and soaked with soot and blood.

Her shirt is ripped down the middle, hanging in tatters, exposing pale skin marred with soot and grime.

Cuts lace her torso, some shallow, others gaping.

And that gash—above her eyebrow—bleeding slow, crimson tears down her cheek.

Time stops.

“Nadia…” I collapse to my knees beside her, breath catching as I reach for her. I’m trembling. I don’t even realize it until my hands are beneath her, lifting her gently, terrified she might break apart in my arms.

Her skin is ice. Her pulse is faint.

“I’ve got you, Hime. I’ve got you. I’ve got you—don’t go.”

She stirs. A flutter of lashes. Her lips part.

“Sho…” Her voice is barely air. Frayed. Fragile. But alive.

“I’m here.” I press my forehead to hers. I squeeze her tighter. “You’re okay. You’re going to be okay.”

A sharp sound cuts through the roaring fire— boots. The rhythmic sound echoes throughout the room in such a controlled tempo, I know it is too precise for emergency response of the police, not these are trained soldiers.

My body stiffens.

I hear them— grinding through ash and glass, methodical, unfazed. And then, cutting through the smoke like a blade:

“Pick her up. Now. ”

The voice is deep, calm. Korean accent. Precise like a scalpel.

I twist my head. Movement through the smoke. A tall figure. Black tactical coat, gloves slick with soot and blood. He moves like a ghost through the inferno, eyes sweeping the room.

He hasn’t seen us.

Not yet.

He’s close— too close.

I shift my hold on Nadia, lowering her behind a half-collapsed beam. She groans softly, her body trembling from the movement.

“Shh,” I whisper, my lips brushing the shell of her ear. “We’ve got company. Stay quiet.”

Her lashes flutter. Her fingers twitch against my chest.

She’s still with me.

“We’re getting out of here,” I promise her as I lift her again. My ribs feel like shattered glass, but I grit through the pain. My arms lock around her, holding her like something precious I refuse to lose.

The voices are louder now. Commanding. Sharp. Barking in Korean just beyond the hallway. I hear boots slam debris aside.

I press forward, hunched low, shielding her with my body as I move through the charred remains of the kitchen.

“Where can I go, Nadia?” I whisper into her blood-matted hair, voice nearly broken. “Tell me where to go.”

“Back… way…” she rasps.

I don’t hesitate .

The stairwell door is warped and half-melted, but intact. I slam into it with my shoulder. It creaks, groans, and gives.

We descend—fast, silent, one stair at a time. Her body clings to me, unconscious again, blood soaking my chest.

At the bottom, I slam through the alley door, stumbling into cold night air.

Sirens howl. Firelight dances along the alley walls in strobes. But it’s not over. Not yet.

I crouch beside her, press her back to the wall gently. She lets out a low moan, one arm clutching her stomach.

That’s when I see the gash.

“Fuck.”

Her abdomen is torn wide open. A deep wound—red and glistening, leaking in heavy pulses down her thighs. Her shirt is saturated, sticking to her skin like wet paper.

I lean back and yank my shirt over my head in one swift motion, the fabric sticking to the blood already drying on my ribs. The alley air hits my bare skin, sharp with smoke and ash, but I barely feel it. All I can feel is the waning heat coming off of Nadia’s shaking body.

Her gaze lifts to me, slow and unsteady. She blinks once, twice—eyes glazed but locked on me.

“Are you picking now to strip for me?” she slurs as I rip my shirt into makeshift bandages.

I smirk despite the adrenaline crashing through my veins. “What can I say? Thought I’d give you something pretty to look at in case I die. ”

Her eyes drift down my torso, slow and shameless despite the blood in her mouth. “I’ve seen you more naked than this, Sho.”

“Yeah, but not while heroically wrapping your wounds. That has to be worth a few points.”

I twist the shirt into a knot and hold it between my teeth.

The flames are close enough to lick up my backside, but I ignore the burn and try to make eye contact with Nadia as her head droops off to the side.

My hand cups underneath her chin, while my other hand pinches her chin. “Come on, Nadia. Stay up for me.”

The wound is gushing like some divine wine—dark and relentless—coating my thighs, drenching the shredded remains of her white t-shirt, and staining my bare chest with each trembling breath she takes.

Blood pulses between my fingers, warm and slick, running through the cracks in my hands like she’s spilling out faster than I can hold her in.

Around us, the building groans like a dying beast. The fire roars louder.

But it's the sound behind it all that tightens like a wire around my throat—the voices.

Sharp, clipped commands in Korean, thrown out in a rhythm that suggests impatience, irritation, certainty . Debris crashes to the floor inside the apartment we just fled. Walls buckle under the force of bodies tearing through them. They’re getting closer. Fast.

Too fucking fast.

“Shit—fuck—” My voice is nothing more than a whisper choked by smoke. I glance down. The blood is still coming. Not slowing. My hand presses harder into her stomach .

Nadia arches violently at the pressure, a strangled, wordless scream ripping up her throat. Her back bows off the brick wall, her head snapping backward as her entire body convulses under my grip.

And then she exhales.

Fast. Sharp. Like her lungs are trying to claw the air out of her chest instead of take it in.

I slap a hand over her mouth.

“Quiet, baby. Quiet. You’re okay. You’re okay.” I whisper.