Page 2 of Brutal Union (Ruthless Mafia Kings #8)

SHO

Two years later

This bar is filthy . And not in the fun, seedy, neon-lit, Tokyo-underbelly kind of way.

No, this place is the kind of dirty that makes you question every single life decision that led you through its door.

The air is thick with the stench of stale beer, cheap cigarettes, and the faintest hint of despair—probably coming from the half-conscious salaryman slumped over the counter, his tie dunking into a puddle of something I really hope is just spilled whiskey, but smells like more of the vomit variety. Fucking super.

The walls, from what I remember, used to be a deep brick red and are now stained with years of bad choices, ash and nicotine.

There’s graffiti carved into the wooden bar, half in kanji, half in English, all of it either threats or declarations of love—same thing, really.

The flickering overhead light casts just enough of a glow to highlight the sticky film coating every available surface .

This place is a breeding ground for bad decisions. Lucky for me, I excel at those.

In the back corner of the bar there are two foreigners filled with sake and laughing hideously loud, and a part of me wants to throw my glass at them to make them shut up, but I know Roki, the owner of the bar. charged them about three times the amount he charged me for a glass.

So, I let them be. If they want to guzzle overpriced booze and cackle like hyenas, that’s their business. Roki’s probably thrilled—those two idiots are single-handedly covering his rent tonight.

Instead, I turn my attention to the lone figure in the shadows. He hasn’t moved since I walked in, just sits there, swirling his drink, gaze fixed on nothing. The kind of guy who either has a hit out on someone or is the hit. Either way, not my problem. Not yet, anyway.

The couple near the jukebox escalates—she throws her cigarette at him, he gestures wildly, knocking over his beer.

It splashes onto the floor, mingling with a suspiciously dark stain that’s probably been there longer than I’ve been alive.

Roki doesn’t even blink. He’s seen worse.

I don’t blink. I’ve done worse. Roki slides me a cup of saki and I catch it effortlessly.

“Ee, nani shiten da yo? Ore no bā ni yūrei mitai ni samayotte sa.” Roki groans, hey, what are you doing? You're wandering around my bar like a ghost, rubbing a tall beer with a graying cotton rag.

“Eh, who else am I supposed to haunt if it is not you Ro?” I lift my shot glass of sake to him before dumping the rest of it down my throat, and sighing at the burn.

Roki Ishikawa is not only the owner of my favorite bar but is one of the deadliest swordsmen in the world, and the only man to survive leaving the Yakuza apart from myself.

The difference between us is that Roki is a free man, and I am a dead man walking.

“Shadow, are you trying to cause problems in my establishment?”

“Oyaji, Master. I would never.” I clutch my chest in mock surprise but Roki just rolls his eyes at me. “Besides, no one worth knowing knows that I am here, let alone in Japan.”

For the past two years, I have been a ghost.

Not just in the poetic sense—I mean that literally. No paper trail, no digital footprint, no place to call home. I’ve spent every minute erasing myself, slipping through the cracks of the underworld like smoke through a broken window.

The Yakuza want my head mounted on a wall. The Russians—well, Nadia, specifically—would probably prefer something more creative. And considering how much she enjoyed holding a knife to my skin the last time we were face to face, I can only imagine the fun she’d have if she caught me now.

But she won’t. Neither will the Yakuza.

Because I’ve perfected the art of not being found , unless I want to, and if it comes down to a fight, well let’s just say I am one hard fucker to kill.

I change names like most people change clothes. Travel under passports that don’t belong to me. Never stay in one place longer than a few nights, never use the same contact twice. I know every blind spot in every security system worth a damn, every border that can be crossed without a record.

And yet, here I am. Back in Japan. Back in Roki’s bar, like some suicidal idiot begging for fate to finally catch up with him.

Roki watches me carefully, polishing a glass like he’s considering whether it’s worth the trouble to throw me out. He won’t, though. Beneath that gruff, seen-it-all exterior, he has a soft spot for strays. And I am the strayed of strays.

“You always were a cockroach, Sho,” he mutters. “Survive anything.”

I smirk. “And yet, here I am, waiting for someone to step on me.”

He exhales sharply through his nose, unimpressed. “You keep tempting death, one day death is gonna win.”

I shrug. Maybe one day death will win. But not tonight.

Not while I still have a game to play with Nadia.

I exhale, picking up my glass and swirling the sake inside. As I lift it to my lips, the door creaks open, and a gust of warm, humid air rolls in.

A sluggish man in denim jeans, biker boots and a leather jacket in the middle of the summer stomps his way through the bar. He leans over the bar and sighs, tapping twice which indicates that he is in need of attention and is not Japanese.

Roki sets down the glass and sighs, running a hand through his black hair revealing his red highlights. He flashes a painfully white smile in my direction as he speaks. “ Kono gaikokujin-tachi, yubi o naraseba ore ga sugu kuru to omotten no ka? ”

Which means do these foreigners think I’ll come running just because they snap their fingers?

“Eh,” I snort. “ Datte yo, temee wa ichi-en de tonde, ichi-doru de hashiru yasuppoi yarō da kara na .” I emphasize my dig by tapping the bar twice just as the foreign man did. I just said “ Well yeah, because you’re a cheap bastard who jumps for a yen and runs for a dollar.”

Roki flips me off, and I smirk, finishing my sake before pushing back from the bar. The stool creaks under my weight as I stand, rolling my shoulders back.

“See you next time Roki,” I wave, but the second I turn toward the door, a smooth, cocky voice cuts through the smoky air.

“Sho,” the foreigner drawls, swirling his drink like he owns the place. "Stay a while, won’t you?"

I glance at Roki, who’s already rubbing his temples like he has a headache coming on. I shoot him an apologetic look before grabbing my empty glass off the table.

And then I throw it at the bastard’s head.

The glass shatters against his temple, a spray of liquor and shards exploding through the dim light of the bar. The man barely has time to react before I’m moving.

“Roki, Gomen,” Sorry Roki. I say smoothly, already closing the distance between the foreign man and me.

The foreigner stumbles back with a grunt, but he’s fast. Too fast for some idiot tourist. He recovers, swiping the back of his hand across his bleeding temple, and his lip curls in amusement .

“The rumors were right, you really are a rude little shit, aren’t you?" he muses, cracking his neck.

I flash him a grin. "You came here looking for me, didn’t you? Be grateful I didn’t use the bottle."

He lunges. I duck. His fist sails over my head, smashing into the bar behind me, and Roki groans in frustration.

“Ttaku… Soto de yare, kono baka-domo!” Sheesh... Do it outside, you idiots! Roki yells, already tending to the broken glass on the bar and sighing as the other foreigners race out the bar and the regulars relax into their seats for a good show.

“Sorry cupcake,” I crack my neck side to side. I know Roki will beat my head in later about this but I can’t fight in the streets, not when his bar is my safe haven from the Yakuza. The Yakuza could be anywhere in the world, but this bar. “No can do.”

“For the love of-” Roki’s complaining fizzles out as I straighten just in time to drive my knee into the guy’s stomach.

He wheezes, but he’s tough—he catches my wrist before I can land another hit, twisting sharply. Pain lances up my arm, but I roll with it, using the momentum to drive my elbow into his ribs.

The foreigner stumbles back, gasping for breath, but he’s still on his feet. Tough bastard.

I roll my shoulders back as I smirk. “C’mon, buttercup. Show me what you got!”

His face twists with rage, and just like that, he charges again, swinging wide like an amateur.

I sidestep easily, bringing my elbow down on the back of his neck and sending him sprawling onto a nearby table.

The impact sends bottles and glasses crashing to the floor, and one of the regulars lets out a long, annoyed sigh.

“You're buying me a new drink, asshole?” the old man grumbles.

I flash him a grin. “Put it on his tab.”

The guy I dropped groans, pushing himself up with shaky arms, but before he can fully recover, I slam my boot into his ribs. He rolls over with a cough, wheezing like a punctured accordion. I am pretty sure I punctured his lung with his own ribs -- nice.

I crouch down beside him, tapping my fingers against the side of my head. “What was the plan here, huh? You come all the way to my favorite bar, interrupt my drink, and what? Kill me without a fight? Don’t you know who you’re dealing with?”

He spits blood onto the floor and glares at me. “Go to hell.”

I chuckle, standing up. “Maybe, but you first.”

Another man moves behind me. I hear the shift of his weight, the scrape of his shoe against the wooden floor, and I twist just in time to catch his fist before it collides with my jaw. His eyes widen in surprise.

“You know I always thought it would be cool to be known as the devil,” I say, before driving my knee into his stomach. “What do you think Roki?”

“I think your father already beat you to it.”

I sigh dramatically. “You’re right. He takes the fun out of everything.”

He doubles over, and I use his own momentum against him, grabbing his collar and flipping him over my shoulder. He lands hard on his skull, effectively cracking it open.

“Damn it, Sho!” Roki barks, already pinching the bridge of his nose. “You trying to tear my bar apart?”

“Me? Never,” I say innocently, dodging another incoming punch and countering with a sharp jab to the guy’s throat. He staggers, gasping. “They started it.”

“You threw the first punch!”

I swipe a beer bottle off the bar and shrug. “Details, details, besides if you want to be accurate it was a glass.”

The last guy standing watches me warily, his hands raised in a loose defensive stance. Smarter than the rest. He knows I just took down three of his buddies with barely a scratch, and he’s thinking about whether it’s worth it.

I tilt my head. “What? You waiting for a written invitation?”

The man smirks. “Nah. Just figured I'd deliver a message before I have to beat your ass.”

That piques my interest. “Oh? Do tell.”

He licks his split lip, then straightens up. "The Russian queen is looking for you."

I suck my teeth, flipping the beer bottle between my fingers before setting it down. “That so?”

“And she’s not happy,” he adds with a knowing grin.

I shrug. “When is she ever happy?” Oh I know: when she is torturing, teasing, or on the verge of fucking me.

The guy chuckles like he knows something I don’t, which is impossible because I know exactly what kind of mood Nadia’s in. She’s either pissed off or turned on—sometimes both at the same time, which sucks for me because that's when I think she looks her sexiest.

“Alright, you delivered your message. Now what? You're gonna try and make me go back like a good little errand boy?”

His smirk widens. “Something like that.”

I don’t miss the way his muscles tense, the shift in his stance as he prepares to lunge. He’s waiting for me to make the first move. Smart, but not smart enough.

I grab my beer bottle and whip it at his head. “Whoops, my bad.”

It smashes against his temple, shattering into glass and beer foam, and he stumbles back with a curse. I don’t wait for him to recover. I’m already closing the distance, ramming my fist into his ribs hard enough to make him wheeze.

He swings wildly, but I duck, slipping behind him and driving my elbow into his back. He stumbles forward, nearly face-planting onto the bar floor, but he recovers fast. Gotta give him credit for that.

“Come on, don’t be like the other guys. Something tells me you’re special.” I taunt, bouncing on my feet.

He snarls and lunges, but I sidestep him, slamming my knee into his gut. He doubles over, coughing, and I grab him by the back of his head, bringing his face down onto my waiting knee. Blood splatters across the floor as his nose crunches under the impact.

He drops to his knees, panting hard, but I’m not done yet. Grabbing his wrist, I yank it back at an unnatural angle. The pop of his shoulder dislocating is music to my ears, followed by his sharp, agonized scream.

“Fucking hell! Stop! Fucking stop!”

I grin, patting his cheek mockingly, while keeping his arm twisted.. “There’s a good boy.”

He glares up at me, breathing hard through the pain, and I lean in, my voice dropping into a low purr. “Now, when you see Nadia, tell her this—if you want me, you need to get me yourself, princess.”

His nostrils flare, but he nods. I stand, dusting myself off, but then—crack. I snap his arm anyway.

He howls, collapsing onto the floor, cradling the useless limb.

I click my tongue. “And that? That’s for being too weak to protect my girl. Asking someone to stop hurting you in the middle of a fight? Come on man, be better than that.”

Roki groans from behind the bar, already reaching for the mop. “You’re cleaning this up, Matsumoto.”

I flash him a lazy salute, stepping over the shaking man. “Yeah, yeah. Put it on my tab.”