Page 22 of Brutal Union (Ruthless Mafia Kings #8)

NADIA

“Deep breath, Malen'kaya ,” Little one . Rebecca whispers, her latex-covered finger pressing lightly into my side.

I suck in sharply, the lightning pain from my wound dulled to a slow burn over the week. It still bites, but no longer cripples. That’s what I call progress.

“Not bad,” she mutters, eyes narrowing through her rainbow-colored glasses as she leans in to get a closer look. “No signs of infection. That’s more than I can say for some of the idiots you surround yourself with.”

“Don’t remind me,” I groan. “One of Aleksandr’s guys thought it was a good idea to pour vodka on a bullet wound and duct-tape it shut a couple of weeks ago.”

Rebecca barks out a laugh, as she pushes me onto my side to look at the back side of the wound. “And you’re the one with the reputation for sadism. That man should be on a watchlist. ”

“That man is not allowed to breathe without someone watching him. I am afraid he will die by accident,” I let out a chuckle.

The light squeeze of an ointment bottle is the only thing that alerts me before the cold jelly goes on my skin. Rebecca smiles. “That boy did a good job.”

I smile, biting back a wince as she gently wipes away the excess healing ointment. “Don’t tell him that. He’ll never let me live it down.”

“He shouldn’t. You could have died Nadia,” she whispers, her voice softer than I have ever heard it.

“Don’t get soft on me Rebecca,” I groan, moving to sit up on my coffee table.

“I can be as soft as I want to be,” she snaps, her voice dipping just slightly. “You are lucky that I was available to be flown in from Japan. With all this chaos, travel restrictions, and oh yeah— that amount of people who want you dead . I am surprised no one tried to kill me.”

I shrug, reaching for the thick envelope of cash on the table beside me. “I don’t trust anyone else, and if anyone killed you, they would have to answer to me.”

She eyes the envelope, unimpressed. “This again?”

I peel it open, letting her see the crisp stack of American hundreds nestled inside. “Stay. In the States. You know I don’t like strange hands near my body.”

Rebecca clicks her tongue, rolling her eyes. “You’re impossible.”

“But persuasive.” I grin .

“You think being rich means people will stay where you tell them. Listen to what you say?” She snorts, stuffing the envelope into her oversized canvas tote anyway. “You are a paranoid queen, you know that?”

“It’s not paranoia,” I reply, stretching carefully so I don’t reopen anything. “It’s survival. There’s a difference.”

She smirks. “Sure, Malen'kaya . Keep telling yourself that.”

I narrow my eyes. “You call me little one like I don’t have six confirmed kills with a hairpin.”

“I delivered the X-ray that confirmed them,” Rebecca shoots back with a wink. “Doesn’t mean I can’t still call you my little girl when you flinch at alcohol on an open wound.”

I let out a sharp laugh—genuine, for once.

Before she was a respected trauma nurse, she was a feared killer for the Bratva.

The kind of woman who could set a man’s bones or break his neck with the same hands.

There’s an old story—the kind whispered with vodka on breath and fear behind eyes—about how she once went toe to toe with a Bratva kingpin.

Fought him in a back alley under moonlight and neon, walked away with his left testicle as a reward.

Literal badass.

I’ll deny it if she ever asks, but she’s my number one inspiration in life.

She finishes stitching the last edge of the healing wound and strips off her gloves with surgical grace.

“I will stay,” she nods, tossing the gloves into the biohazard bin. “But only because you’re not allowed to die on me. ”

“I won’t,” I promise, lips twisting into a smirk. “Not until I kill Boris at least.”

“Nah,” a voice drawls from the doorway, a wicked smirk curving his lips. “You gotta live until you kill me , at least.”

I don’t flinch. Just slowly turn my head to face him.

Sho is leaning against the doorframe like he owns the air around him. Black shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal the ink curled around his forearms like serpents, his eyes glinting in a look of amusement.

“How did you get in here?” I murmur, brushing hair back from my face.

“Your back window is open,” he shrugs, already walking toward me. He doesn’t stop until he’s close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him. “You should really lock your windows and get a better security system.”

“I am the security system,” I groan, moving to the edge of the table.

Rebecca clears her throat, not even looking at him. “She needs to rest. Not fight.”

“I’ll have my guy come and install a full security system—here and at the safe house,” Sho smirks, brushing a featherlight kiss against my temple.

I let out a shaky exhale. My stomach flutters like I am a fucking teenager. Normally, I’d snark. Bite back with something vicious about personal space or assumed control. But I don’t. Because Sho kissing my temple feels so normal. So sweet. So domestic. I don’t know how to feel.

“Sho, I’m fine ,” I groan, jerking my head just enough to break the contact, like the weight of tenderness feels uncomfortable in my hands.

“She is not fine,” Rebecca calls from the hall, slinging her tote over her shoulder.

“Whose side are you on?” I snap, shooting daggers at her with my eyes.

“The one that keeps you alive,” she replies smoothly, heels tapping a steady rhythm across the floor.

“Thank you, Rebecca,” Sho calls sweetly, still hovering too close for comfort as his eyes dart across my face.

“I’ll see you in three days for a follow-up,” she says, waving a hand over her shoulder.

“Keep siding with him and you won’t have a job,” I shout.

“If you weren’t ill, I’d cut your tongue out for that,” she replies flatly, just as the door creaks open—then slams shut behind her.

Sho grins teasingly, winking at me as he finally gives me enough time to breathe. He turns and walks casually into my open-concept kitchen, his fingers already reaching for drawers he shouldn’t know the location of.

“I trust you have sugar in this castle,” he muses.

“Why are you even here , Sho?” I groan, forcing myself upright despite the pull in my side.

“Why don’t I see sugar?”

“Because you don’t live here.”

“That’s a hell of a way to treat your boyfriend.”

I glare. “You’re not my boyfriend. ”

He pauses mid-rummage, then glances over his shoulder with that infuriating, slow-burn smile. “Say that again.”

“Are you threatening me?” I growl, placing both hands on my hips as my eyes narrow on him.

“Never,” he hisses, voice low and simmering with something volatile. He steps forward with that signature lazy swagger, the kind that fools people into thinking he’s calm—until they catch the manic glaze creeping into his eyes. The heat behind them is unhinged, possessive, lethal.

“But I don’t think you should say that again,” he adds, each word soaked in a quiet warning.

I swallow, my throat dry, but I don’t step back. I hold my ground, spine stiff, chin tilted up to meet him head-on.

“I’m sorry,” I bite out, my voice cold and deliberate. “When exactly did you become my boyfriend ?”

He closes the space like a threat with legs, eating up the air between us in two slow, predatory steps. Close enough now that I can feel the rage humming off his skin like a fever.

“I told you, Nadia,” he growls, jaw tight. “I’m a one-woman guy.”

“So?” I snap, eyes narrowing. “What the fuck does that have to do with me?”

His nostrils flare. “It means I expect you to be the same.”

“I didn’t agree to that.”

His hand shoots out—fast, sudden—but he doesn’t touch me. Not yet. His fingers hover inches from my throat, twitching like he’s deciding between stroking it or squeezing it.

His voice drops even lower, guttural, razor-sharp .

“You don’t have a choice.”

My blood spikes. Anger floods my chest, white-hot and laced with a thrill I hate admitting I feel.

“Excuse me ?” I hiss, every syllable dipped in venom.

His gaze is molten. Hungry. Dangerous.

“You heard me, Hime,” he breathes, stepping in so close I have to tilt my head just to keep meeting his eyes. “I am your boyfriend. You are mine. ”

“I don’t think I am,” I mock, tilting my head from side to side with each word.

The laugh that leaves his chest is so dangerously low, I feel like I can’t breathe.

It slithers between my ribs like smoke and poison, dark and thick and heavy enough to make my lungs forget how to work. Sho steps closer, every step so sure of itself it feels like a storm that knows it’s inevitable.

“Oh, Hime” he murmurs, and the pet name sounds filthy on his tongue. “You think this is a negotiation?”

My spine straightens, chin lifting even as my heart punches against my ribs.

“I think you’ve forgotten who you’re talking to.”

His smile twists—beautiful and cruel.

“No,” he says softly. “I remember exactly who you are, Nadia.”

“What do you need to know that you’re mine?” he whispers against my collarbone, each word slicing through my composure.“Who do I need to kill? What do I need to do? ”

I suck in a breath through my nose, sharp and shaky, and I hate that he hears it. Hates it and loves it. His lips move to the side of my neck, pressing lightly against the rapid, erratic beat of my pulse

“What if there is nothing for you to do? What if I don’t want you?”

His mouth doesn’t move, but his teeth do—grazing against that pulse point like a threat wrapped in silk. He doesn't bite, not yet. He just lets the tension hum there, unbearable and exquisite.

“I don’t like liars, Hime,” he growls, his voice low and animal. “Be honest with me.”

His hand slides up my side at a crawling pace, until his palm is over the place my heart is pounding like it’s trying to break free. His thumb strokes just under my breast, barely touching skin, but it sends a lightning bolt through every nerve in my body.

He doesn’t kiss me, but his body presses against me until every inch of me is consumed with him, and I stop myself from breathing him in any deeper.