Page 16 of Brutal Union (Ruthless Mafia Kings #8)

NADIA

“Nadia stop,” Sho snarls, as I move to get up for the tenth time since he brought me to my safe house in Mount Vernon, New York right on the cusp of the Bronx.

Is this the safest location for me? No, Nikolai and Aleksandr both know about this place, and I am unsure if I can trust either of them right now.

Surprisingly the only man in my life I can trust, I am actively trying to get killed by his own father.

I want to feel guilty about that. I do feel something close to regret, pretty similar to remorse, but I can’t afford that feeling right now.

The cauterized wound on my side pulls like it's being ripped open with every breath. It yawns wider every time I move, angry and raw beneath the skin. And as much as I know I owe Sho my life, the pain I’m in makes me want to pin him down and skin him alive just for touching me in the first place.

I limp across the room, heat radiating down my ribs, every step a silent curse. My body protests as I crouch by the closet on the far side, fingers trembling as I pull out a pair of black leggings and a worn sports bra. I can’t afford softness, not now. Not when I know what’s coming.

“Nadia,” Sho warns behind me, his voice tight. The high-pitched scream of the teapot cuts through the tension, but I ignore him.

I bend down despite the burning throb in my abdomen, my breathing ragged. I shove a stack of clothes aside, hand sweeping deeper.

Nikolai wants me dead. My brother. The man I would’ve died for without hesitation even after the betrayal of lying to me about him being the true heir to the Bratva when he knew I was.

The man who first put a blade in my hand, and then proceeded to teach me how to use it.

The man who believed in me—when everyone else silenced me just because I didn’t have a dick—paid someone to fucking kill me.

He’s about to make his three kids orphans.

Gwen, his wife, doesn’t deserve that. Gio and Mia don’t deserve that.

They’re innocent people who love a guilty man.

But what the fuck am I supposed to do—lie down and let him kill me out of some twisted loyalty?

Out of pity? If that man truly cared about his family this wouldn’t even be an option. I am his sister.

My hand brushes the hardwood, and I grab the pocketknife tucked behind a fallen shirt. I flick it open and lean forward on my knees, wincing as the motion stretches the healing burn across my side.

Sho’s voice carries from the kitchen. “What are you doing?” I hear the clink of a mug hitting the counter, followed by the slam of a cabinet door.

I wedge the knife between two floorboards near the back of the closet, angling it with precision. One sharp twist and the wood pops free with a low creak.

“My brother wants me dead,” I mutter, sweat rolling down my spine. I pry up the board and slide it aside, revealing the hidden compartment beneath.

“And you probably have internal bleeding,” Sho fires back, the scrape of a spoon on ceramic following him like punctuation.

“So?” I cough as I remove the black cloth covering the true treasures inside.

“I thought we were just stating facts,” he responds, the distinct sound of the cabinets slamming follows the extended huff that leaves his lips. “Where’s your sugar?”

“No sugar,” I snap. “I drink my coffee black.”

He grumbles something under his breath.

“Huh? I didn’t hear that.” I mock. My fingers—raw, bruised, and lined with dried blood—dig into the exposed space and pull out a sleek matte-black case.

“I said you're crazy for drinking black coffee,” Sho yells louder, still slamming cabinets. “I mean tea? Sure. But coffee? Absolute psychopathy. Lifetime in prison, no parole.”

“I bet you put shit in there like caramel drizzles, and cold foam,” I grumble as I flip open the hidden metal case with the kind of reverence most people reserve for relics or wedding rings, but this is my valhalla, my salvation. The dark abyss I only left to lead the Bratva.

Inside the case are two Glock 43s, compact and modified with extended mags. A silencer fitted snugly between them. Beneath that, a velvet-lined row of specialty blades—black steel, ceramic edges, razor-sharp. Blades that don’t just cut flesh. They separate bone from tendon without hesitation.

“If you wanted my Starbucks order, all you had to do was ask,” Sho calls out, humor in his tone.

I don’t look up. My hands are steady as I lift the weapons from the case—the weight of them grounding me, familiar, almost comforting. Like coming home. One by one, I begin assembling the pieces.

“I don’t want your Starbucks order,” I reply flatly.

He continues anyway, footsteps creaking closer. “It’s a cinnamon dolce hot coffee. Extra cinnamon. Light foam. Soy milk. And if it’s Christmas… I’ll add those red and green sprinkles.”

I slide the first pistol into the waistband of my underwear. The steel kisses the bruised skin along my hip—cold, sharp, and unforgiving. Just like me.

“That’s too many words to still qualify as coffee,” I mutter, finally turning to face him.

He’s holding out a chipped green mug, steam curling lazily into the air. The scent of cheap instant coffee coils around my senses, bitter and burnt. I take the mug and set it beside me on the floor.

“Thank you,” I mutter.

Sho lowers himself onto the edge of the bed with a hiss, sipping from his own cup like he’s got all the time in the world and there isn’t a man who is hunting me down.

“Want to tell me what you’re doing?” he asks, tone mild but tight .

I lift the second gun, check the chamber, flick the safety on. “What does it look like?”

“It looks like you’re trying to get yourself killed,” he says sharply. “You’re still bleeding. You smell like smoke. You haven’t slept since the explosion three hours ago, and now you’re assembling a small armory.”

“I’m not giving him the first shot,” I say, quieter now. My eyes meet his. “If he wants war, he’s going to bleed for it.”

“You can’t go to war right now,” Sho huffs, a bored look of annoyance on his face.

I slam the pistol onto the table with more force than necessary, pushing to my feet—too fast. Pain lances through my side, white-hot and immediate. I suck in a breath and wince.

“Would you rather I give them time to finish the job?” I snap, biting down on the pain.

“I’d rather you take one damn day to heal,” he fires back, eyes narrowing. “You flinch every time you move. You should be in a hospital?—”

“No hospital.”

The words come out sharp, final. His jaw tightens.

“Then sit down,” he says, his voice low, controlled. “For the next twenty-four hours. No guns. No plans. No vengeance. You lost blood. You need food and rest.”

“Sho—”

“I’ll handle it,” he says, cutting me off with a look that makes me pause. “No one’s going to touch you. I won’t let them.”

My fingers curl around the chipped mug on the floor. The heat seeps into my palms, grounding me, even as the words claw their way up my throat.

“You can’t kill my brother.” It feels wrong saying it aloud, like it’s not even mine.

Like it’s a request I know neither of us can follow, but I can’t just kill Nikolai because a stranger told me he wants me dead.

I want him to look me in the eye and tell me that he tried to kill his little sister with an assassin like a coward.

Sho swallows. “I won’t.”

The silence between us sharpens into something heavy. Then, softly—“Just let me take care of you. One day. Then you can go back to being the deadly, terrifying warrior princess I’m so madly obsessed with.”

I exhale, slowly lowering myself back to the floor. My body screams in protest, pain flaring like electricity along my ribs.

“One day,” I say, glaring at him. “And I’m only agreeing because it feels like I’m dying.”

He grins. “Good. Dying makes you reasonable.”

I lift the mug to my lips—and immediately recoil. “What the hell is this?”

“Powdered sugar,” he says, far too proud of himself.

He shrugs, sipping his own cup. “Yeah, and no sugar in your coffee is borderline sociopathic. Someone should really lock you up.”

___________

Hours later, I’m sprawled across the bed, propped up against the headboard with a pillow tucked behind my back and my side still aching. Sho sits cross-legged at the foot of the bed, eyes locked on the screen like it’s a high-stakes mission instead of Love Island UK.

“She’s obsessed with that guy,” he says, mouth half-full of dumpling, gesturing with his chopsticks, “but the second the new girls came in, he brought one of them to the hideaway.”

I narrow my eyes at the brunette on the screen—gorgeous, smug, and clearly a problem.

My beef lo mein sits forgotten on my lap as I watch her giggle like she didn’t just demolish another woman’s self-esteem in under five minutes.

The redheaded girl aka the original partner is currently pouting as the man they both want speaks to her in hush tones.

“What’s the hideaway again?” I ask, squinting at the screen.

Sho smirks. “Private suite away from everyone else. Basically, it’s where you go to ‘get to know each other better.’” He adds air quotes, like we both don’t know exactly what happens behind that door.

I snort. “So it’s the ‘screw palace.’ Got it.”

He chuckles, chewing slowly. “It’s Love Island , not a nun retreat. They need somewhere to get their love on.”

I glance sideways at him. “And this is what you do in your free time? Watch trash TV and eat your body weight in dumplings while you wait for your next target?”

“Hey,” he defends, holding up a hand. “You don’t get to judge me when you’re just as invested in this relationship as I am.”

“Well, it’s not the brunette’s fault,” I snap, pointing at the TV like I’m delivering a closing argument in court. “The redhead is pissed, sure—but she’s overreacting. No one owes anyone anything in this show. That’s the whole point. ”