Page 18 of Brutal Union (Ruthless Mafia Kings #8)

NADIA

Fourteen hours later and every inch of my body hurts more than before—because the adrenaline’s gone, and all that’s left is pain. The ache is deep, marrow-deep. The kind of pain that doesn't just sit in your skin, it becomes your skin.

The scar from the cauterization on my right side is an angry, bright pink—raised and swollen like something alien is trying to claw its way out of me. I should be horrified. But I’ve got too many scars to count. This one just happens to be the biggest.

And it came from Sho.

From him trying to save my life.

He leans against the edge of the bed now, watching me dress with that unreadable expression he gets when he's trying not to argue but can’t help himself.

“I still don’t think you’re ready,” he murmurs .

I’m standing there in boy shorts and a thin white tank top—no bra. I tried putting on my sports bra and nearly passed out from the fire that lit up beneath my ribs. Now I move slowly as I inspect the wound on my waist.

“You said twenty-four hours,” I say quietly, adjusting my hips to test the stretch. “And I gave you thirty.”

“I was hoping you’d realize you needed more.”

I don’t answer. Instead, I cross the room slowly, as I push down my shirt and walk to the little desk in the corner, grabbing a pair of stretchy skinny jeans that lay over the chair.

“I need to talk to Nikolai before he spins this into a story where I ran, disappeared, or worse—died. If he convinces enough people of that, I am looking at a coup, which means they will kill me dead, and instead of one random guy, the entire Bratva will be looking to kill me.” I glance at him as I pull the jeans over my hips, swallowing the wince.

“I can’t afford to look weak in front of my men. ”

Sho’s voice is low. “I don’t like when you say that.”

“What?”

“ My men.”

I pause, fingers resting at the waistband. “Sho, they are my men.”

His jaw ticks. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

I look at him then—really look. His green eyes flick to the scar again, then to my face. “At least let me come with you.”

“No.” I huff the word like smoke as I suck in a sharp breath, pain winding up my side again while I struggle to button my jeans. Each movement feels like pulling a stitch through raw flesh.

Sho doesn’t flinch, but his jaw clenches. “You can’t walk into the Bratva looking for a fight when your body’s still screaming in Morse code.”

I glance at him—he’s sitting there, cool as ever, but his fingers are tight around my leather jacket. Like he already knows I’ll ask for it and he’s debating whether he’ll let go.

“I can’t show up with backup either,” I snap, limping toward the closet. “Especially not you. I can’t have a man fighting my battles for me.”

“You think I’m worried about fighting for you?” he scoffs.

I ignore him and crouch down with a hiss, grabbing the one pair of black Doc Martens tucked behind a stack of half-burned files and an unopened box of ammo.

The leather’s scuffed and worn—gifted by Nikolai on my twenty-first birthday.

The same day he named me his right hand and told me never to let anyone think I was less than him.

I lace them up slowly, my body barking in protest, but my fingers move fast. I stand up and move around the room, grabbing my two Glock 43s and a couple of knives, placing a holster around my thigh and hiding the other weapons in discrete parts all over my body.

Sho watches me, my leather jacket firmly in his lap. I cross the room and hold out my hand, palm up, expectant. He looks down at the jacket, then back up at me.

“I’ll give it to you,” he says slowly, “on one condition.”

I tilt my head, suspicious. “Sho. ”

“If you want your jacket, let me come as backup,” he says, voice calm but loaded. “I’ll stay in the shadows. No one even has to know I’m there. You just give me a signal if things go sideways.”

I eye him hard, chewing the inside of my cheek. I hate that he’s right. I hate that I know I might need him. And I really hate how much of me wants him close.

“Fine,” I say, voice clipped. “But under conditions.”

He lifts a brow. “Hit me.”

“One: you don’t get to kill anyone unless I say so. That includes my brother.”

“Easy,” he says, handing me my jacket, already standing to grab his bomber jacket from the edge of the bed.

“Two: you don’t move unless I tell you to.”

Sho snorts, shrugging on the jacket. “You do love telling me what to do.”

I ignore it. “And three…”

He leans forward slightly, that smug glint returning. “Yeah?”

“You don’t talk.” I shrug into the jacket, tossing my hair over the collar.

His lips part in disbelief. “What?”

“No commentary. No smug little jabs. No smart-ass flirting. No interruptions while I’m trying to keep my brother from trying to kill me. I want silence.”

Sho stares at me like I just asked him to chop off one of his fingers. “You’re asking the impossible. ”

“That’s the point.” I shrug, heading for the door as he mutters something under his breath.

“You coming?” I toss over my shoulder.

He nods, rolling his eyes as he slips on his all-black Nike Air Forces, then falls in step behind me without another word.

The elevator dings as we reach the top floor of Petrov Industries, our business headquarters and version of the financial district the Yakuza use in Japan.

The building is in the heart of Thirty-fourth Street, right next to the world’s largest Macy’s and from the outside looking in, we’re all business people.

No one knows what actually goes on and no one cares as long as it is not loud, bluntly obvious and we pay the monthly 1.

2 million dollars it takes to keep the lights on.

At the front desk, Lily is curled in her chair like a kitten, legs tucked beneath her and nose buried deep in The Shining .

A highlighter’s tucked behind her ear, and a half-empty cup of matcha balances dangerously close to her keyboard.

When my boots hit the floor her eyes dart up to me, and then flicker in confusion to Sho, who is just a step behind me.

Lily’s always been like that. She’s the closest thing the boys and I have to a childhood friend, given that her father worked for ours and we’ve always operated in the same circles because of that.

If I had friends, Lily would be my closest, because I would do anything to protect her. We all would. Especially Aleksandr.

She’s a certified genius and my favorite kind of weirdo—the kind who wore Converse with her prom dress and asked me to prom our senior year.

Lily loves everything frilly and girly— especially The Powerpuff Girls —but will turn around and quote James Baldwin or Thoreau mid-conversation without missing a beat. That duality? That’s why I adore her.

After her father died four years ago, we covered her tuition to Yale—double major, political science and British literature. And when she graduated we paid her an absurd amount of money to work as our personal secretary.

“Hey, Lil.” I stride up to the desk, trying not to limp. “Nik in there?”

Her smile brightens as she shuts the book and sets it down slowly, the cover landing with a thud that makes her wince. She’s in a yellow button up sweater and dark denim jeans. Her black wand curls bounce lightly as she flips a page, nose ring catching the light as she glances back at the office.

“No, he’s not,” she says carefully.

“Perfect.”

But before I can push the door open, her voice softens, catching at the edges. “Nadi?”

“Yeah Lil?” I call back, my hand resting on the doorknob.

“You good?” Her eyes flick to Sho, then back to me, like she’s silently asking me to blink twice if I’m in danger.

“Never better, Lil.” I try to smile, but I know it lands tight and brittle. “Get the knuckleheads in here, would ya?”

She nods slowly, still watching Sho like he might spontaneously combust. I push through the double doors into the office before either of them can say anything else.

The office looks the same way my father, Boris had it when he ran the Bratva.

All the deep reds and dark browns run into each other across the room, but in corners there are hints of gold giving the space a luxury feel it never needed.

The only difference is the massive mahogany desk that dominates the center, glossy and completely clashing with the rest of the room, but it is the desk Nikolai wanted when he ascended to power.

He fucking loves this desk. A part of my desire to break it. It’s my desk anyway now.

Sho steps in behind me, slowly closing the door behind him.

“Why was your front desk girl looking like she was one deep breath away from pressing a panic button?” he asks, moving deeper into the room.

I walk toward the desk, my fingers grazing the edge before I settle against it. “Because Lily’s my best friend.”

Sho flops down into the black leather seat across from the desk, a large smile spreading across his face like a disease. “Have you been talking about me?”

I don’t answer immediately. I reach for a file on the corner of the desk, flipping it open like I didn’t hear the question. But my ears are already burning.

Sho leans in closer, and I can feel the excitement ringing off of his body.

“You have been talking about me,” he says, delighted. “You told her about me. About us. ”

“I didn’t say us —” I start, defensive, flustered.

He laughs. Fully laughs, loud and smug. I want to gag him with the butt of my gun. “God, you like me.”

“I tolerate you,” I bite back .

“You like me,” he sing-songs, dragging a chair around and dropping into it with far too much satisfaction. “Lily knows. I know. Honestly, the only one still in denial is you.”

I glare at him. “Sho, I swear to God?—”

Before my brain can register a face, muscle memory kicks in. I pull the blade from my thigh holster and let it fly.

A sharp thunk follows, and a yelp pierces the air.

“What the fuck , Nadia?” Nik hisses, stumbling backward, his hand clamped around his shoulder.

The three-inch blade is buried deep, just shy of the collarbone.