Page 15 of Brutal Union (Ruthless Mafia Kings #8)

But she’s not. I can see it in her eyes—wide, wild, rimmed in red. She’s riding the knife’s edge between consciousness and collapse. Her pupils twitch. Her throat works like she wants to cry but refuses. My Nadia doesn’t cry. She bleeds. She fights. She survives.

But she won't if I don't act.

My eyes dart around the alley. Smoke curls down the brick walls like oil slicks. The sounds of boots echo closer—louder, clearer. They’re almost on us.

My eyes land on a jagged strip of metal half-buried beneath the rubble. Twisted, scorched. Sharp. Still glowing faintly on one end. Part of the exterior signage of the Italian restaurant next door , warped by the blast and ripped free like a blade waiting to be used.

I press a kiss to her forehead—fast, desperate. Her eyes flutter. My heart cracks.

“Hime,” I let go of the pressure and grab the strip of metal. “Keep your eyes open and locked on me. ”

It’s blistering in my grip. The heat surges instantly through my skin, branding my palm, but I don’t let go.

Nadia’s body jerks as blood rushes from the wound again, soaking my lap, pooling beneath her hips.

I glance back—shadows flicker across the broken alley door. They're here. Seconds.

I brace the metal against the lip of a dumpster, force it flat, and press it into the trash fire at its base. Flames lap around it, dancing, crackling with glee.

I take my knotted shirt and stuff it into her mouth, ignoring the bright white of her eyes questioning my every move.

Once the shirt is inside I press my palm over her mouth, my fingertips pressing into the soft flesh of her cheeks.

Her eyes dart to the metal burning in my hands and she starts to shake

“Breathe in deep, baby,” I whisper against her ear, my voice cracking. “Then bite down.”

Her eyes lock onto mine. Wide. Drenched in pain but defiant. The whites are bloodshot from smoke and tears she refuses to shed, and still—she holds my gaze like it’s the only thing tethering her to this moment.

But her bravery trembles. I feel it in the way her chest quivers as it rises against my arm, in the slight hitch of her inhale, in the tremor that rolls through her thighs.

I swallow hard.

She’s terrified. But she’s trusting me to do this.

I want to scream. I want to stall. I want to kiss her until the world stops burning—and kill everyone in sight for the sin of seeing her like this. Vulnerable. Exposed. Mine .

Her screams, her blood, the raw, flickering panic in her eyes—all of it belongs to me. The way her body shakes. The way life growls back up her throat like she’s fighting death itself.

She is mine. And I will burn down everything that forgets that.

With my free hand, I grip the twisted metal—its tip glowing like a dying star, pulsing orange and angry. It radiates heat in waves, and the burn already eating into my palm tells me I’ve got seconds before it brands me too.

I lower it. And press the glowing edge directly to her wound.

The muffled sound is immediate and vile —a sickening, wet sizzle that drowns out everything else.

It echoes off the alley walls like a monster hissing in agony.

The scent hits next: acrid, putrid, the stench of burning flesh mingling with blood and smoke.

It curls into my throat and turns my stomach.

Nadia’s body explodes beneath me—arching, convulsing, bucking like an animal caught in a trap. Her scream rips through her throat and into my palm, muffled but still feral, still pure pain . Her eyes blow wide for half a second before they roll back, lashes fluttering like wings crushed in a storm.

Her fingers dig into my arms, nails scraping skin. Her entire body seizes as the fire cauterizes her from the inside out.

And I hold her there, because I have to.

Even as her body thrashes like it’s trying to escape her own skin. Even as her breath breaks apart in my palm. Even as tears, real and uncontrollable, slip from the corners of her eyes and cut clean lines through the ash smeared across her cheeks.

The flashing lights start to break through the smoke—sickly strobes of blue and red painting the walls, stuttering across her skin in bursts. The alley flickers like a war zone, like reality can’t decide if we’ve survived or not.

The crimson glow of the cauterizing metal has dimmed now, dulled by blood and soot. I toss it away without looking—somewhere into the shadows. It clatters against the brick with a finality that makes my chest seize.

Her nostrils stop their panicked flare. Her breath evens—just barely. Shallow. Shaky. But no longer desperate. Her body still trembles, the aftershocks of agony rolling through her in waves, but she’s no longer fighting me. She’s just breathing. Barely.

Alive.

I slowly lift my hand from her mouth.

Her lips are parted, red and swollen from the force of the scream she tried to swallow. Blood has smeared across her bottom lip from where she bit down. Her mouth is slack, gasping in short bursts of air like she’s learning how to breathe again.

Her chest rises and falls—uneven, frantic, but steady.

I cup her face with both hands, my palms shaking. One slick with blood. The other burned raw from holding the metal.

“I am so proud of you, Hime.” My voice cracked open, barely more than a whisper. I press my forehead to hers again, trembling against the heat still radiating off her skin.

Her lashes flutter. Slow. Her eyes roll upward, dazed and unfocused, but they find mine again—stormy blue flickering in the chaos.

“They were right,” a lazy, mocking drawl echoes down the alley, smooth as oil and just as slick. “You are a tough girl to kill.”

I whip around instantly, my hand already reaching for the grip of the gun buried in the waistband of my jeans. But my hand freezes on my waist the second I see him.

Because he’s already aiming a pistol at my head.

He leans one shoulder against the alley wall like he’s been watching us for longer than I want to imagine.

The barrel of the pistol in his hand gleams beneath the stuttering flashes of emergency lights.

His finger rests light and loose against the trigger, but his eyes—dark, sharp, predator-calm—never leave me.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, sweetie,” he says with a lazy smirk, voice lined with that smooth, unbothered malice reserved for people who’ve killed too often to remember how it felt the first time. “Hands up.”

My teeth grind together as I raise my hands above my head. Every muscle in my body coils like wire, every instinct screaming to snap his neck clean in two.

I study him through narrowed eyes.

His face looks vaguely familiar like we frequent the same dark alleys.

The man is tall, lean, his movements fluid with a kind of grace that speaks of decades of training.

Not a single wasted breath. His black hair is cropped close to his skull, a sharp undercut running into a mess of longer strands swept back.

His clothes are all matte black—form-fitting tactical gear, no excess, no nonsense.

His gaze flicks over me once before landing on Nadia. A flash of amusement crosses his face.

“You are one lucky ???,” he drawls to her, cocking his head as if inspecting a rare specimen through a glass case. “This is my third time trying to kill you, and just when I know you’re dead this asshole shows up.”

“Watch your fucking mouth.” My voice snaps out like a gunshot. ??? means crazy bitch in Korean, one of the few I’ve picked up over the years, along with my fan favorite ???, which means do you want to die. “If you like your life, speak to her with respect.”

Bhon raises an eyebrow slowly, his lips twitching with a smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Protective, and he speaks Korean.” He keeps the gun trained on me, utterly unshaken. “If you were both not about to die, I would say he’s a keeper.”

“I thought you just said she’s hard to kill. I promise you with me around it’ll be fucking impossible.” I snarl.

“You always this territorial? Or is it just her that makes you stupid?” The man snorts.

“Try me,” I growl, stepping slightly in front of Nadia’s body. “And you’ll find out exactly how stupid I am.”

The smile fades just a little from his face. His eyes sharpen, as he cocks the gun to the side like he is seconds from blowing my head off, but he’d have to chop me up into pieces and spread me across all seven continents for me not to hurt him if he hurts my Nadia.

Behind me, I feel Nadia shift—just the smallest movement, her fingers tightening faintly in the fabric of my jeans. Her presence, even now, is gravity.

“Sho…” she croaks, voice shredded .

“I’ve got you,” I whisper back. Then louder, never breaking eye contact with Bhon, “Who sent you? I can make it worth your while not to kill us.”

The man tilts his head like he’s watching a deer try to bargain with the hunter. The smirk that plays at the corner of his mouth is small—just a twitch—but it cuts deeper than a laugh ever could.

“Kill you?” he echoes, voice smooth as glass and twice as cold. “That’s a little dramatic, even for you, Shadow .”

“You know me?”

“Of course, I know the heir to the Yakuza,” He takes a lazy step forward. “Especially since he is wanted dead or alive for a billion yen.”

“You want a billion yen?” I snort. “I could have that in your account in the next hour.”

“You think I show up just to pull a trigger, and get a pay out?” he continues. “If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t be talking. And she—”his eyes flick to Nadia, still slumped and bleeding against the rumble, “—would’ve been a memory an hour ago.”

“Then talk,” I growl, jaw tight, every nerve in my body pulled taut like a loaded chamber. “Because I’m one second from deciding you’re lying.”

He snorts, steps just close enough for the steel toe of his boot to crunch glass between us.

“I’m not here to kill you,” he says again, slower this time. His eyes narrow slightly. “I’m here to clean up the fucking mess you two made.”

I stiffen. “ Meaning?”

The man’s lips curl into something resembling a smile—but there’s no warmth behind it. Just teeth. “The Yakuza is pissed, Miss Petrov.”

Behind me, Nadia stirs. I hear the way her breath hitches through her clenched teeth.

She grits out a sound between a gasp and a growl, and her fingers press into the wall behind her.

Slowly, agonizingly, she begins to rise.

Her legs tremble beneath her, the burn from her cauterized wound beats a bright red against her pale skin.

“Pissed about what?” she rasps, her voice rough but steel-lined, her body swaying slightly even as she forces her spine straight.

The man clicks his tongue against his teeth, tilting his head slightly, like he’s impressed despite himself.

“We got word that the true leader of the Bratva does not approve of the deal you made,” he says smoothly, like he’s reciting something already rehearsed. “And the Yakuza… they don’t like to be taken for fools.”

He lets the words hang there like a noose, watching her through narrowed eyes.

For a moment, the only sound is the wail of distant sirens and the hiss of still-burning fire.

Then—Nadia steps forward. She stumbles.

I move without hesitation, catching her around the waist as her knees start to give. Her skin is hot, damp with blood and sweat, her body unsteady in my grip—but she pushes me off with a sharp breath, determined to stand on her own.

“I am the leader of the Bratva,” she says, her voice rough but steady. “And anyone who says otherwise dies. ”

Bhon doesn’t flinch. He just shrugs.

“Then I guess you need to kill Nikolai Petrov.”

She freezes beside me. Her breathing slows. Her eyes widen slightly, then narrow. I see the tension hit her all at once.

Nikolai Petrov was the leader of the Bratva until it was revealed he wasn’t Boris Petrov’s biological son. He was the result of an affair between Nadia’s mother and another man—making him illegitimate in the eyes of the organization. He’s also Nadia’s half-brother.

For years, they were inseparable. She was his second-in-command, fiercely loyal, and by all accounts, completely devoted to him. But when Boris exposed Nikolai’s true parentage, it wasn’t to discredit him. It was to block Nadia.

Despite knowing Nikolai wasn’t his real son—and despite despising him—Boris still chose him as leader, simply to stop a woman from taking control.

His misogyny outweighed his pride, his bloodline, and even his hatred.

He would rather see the Bratva in the hands of a man he couldn’t stand than let Nadia take the throne she’d earned.

“No, you’re lying,” she gasps out, covering her mouth as if it escaped her lips before she realized she was going to say it.

The man lowers his pistol. “Nope, he’s the one who paid the Yakuza 1.5 million dollars in USD to kill you.”

Nadia coughs, her eyes narrowed on the man’s relaxed posture. “So kill me.”

A voice bellows over the rumble. “Can anyone hear me? Help is coming!”

“Not now, darling.” The man smirks. “I like to play with my kills first.”