Page 28 of Brutal Union (Ruthless Mafia Kings #8)

I stop at the torii gate—half-collapsed, (iconic Japanese gate) its once vibrant paint now peeled and lost to rain, its frame strangled by creeping vines.

There’s a sacredness here, but it’s long since curdled into something more sinister.

My fingers press into the rusted metal panel hidden behind a loose stone.

The keys are worn to the point of guessing, but I know the code by feel.

When the last button clicks into place, the trapdoor at the base of the gate shifts, ancient hinges groaning like something buried too long.

As I descend, the wooden stairs creak beneath my weight, damp with forest moisture and thick with the scent of soil and decay.

The temperature drops sharply, the kind of cold that seeps straight into your bones.

The basement is carved directly into the mountain’s rock, the walls wet with condensation that collects in slow drips from the ceiling.

Faint rust marks streak the stone from where water runs down old chains embedded into the walls.

It’s silent, save for the occasional drip of moisture and the low hum of the generator buried beneath the floor.

A frayed bulb swings overhead, its cord tangled with cobwebs. I flip the switch.

The light stutters to life, bathing the chamber in a jaundiced glow. And there, against the far wall, is the man I’ve kept at the edge of death for three years.

Boris Petrov.

His body slumped against the wall, arms chained to the ground with minimal give. . What’s left of him barely resembles a man. His chest is sunken, ribs pushing against skin that clings like paper. His stomach is hollow, bruises layering like sediment—some faded yellow, others freshly purple.

His face is a mess of swelling, hair, and blood. The beard is matted, flecked with little specks of dried food. It is difficult to identify who he once was, the strong-willed, brutal ruler of the Bratva. One eye is swollen shut. The other, clouded but alert, finds me instantly.

I take a step forward. My boots scrape against the stone, and his neck gives the smallest twitch. He lifts his head, slowly, unsure of what I bring. Still, there’s recognition. He knows it’s me.

I want him to know.

Despite his appearance, his health is meticulously maintained.

I make a ritual of it all. I clean this place obsessively, not for him.

For the mission. I stitched him up without the grace of pain-killers.

He gets the bare minimum vitamin intake for the week, hidden in the slosh a normal man would not dare consider food.

I keep him alive, not well. Sustained, not safe.

Just enough to make sure he suffers. Just enough to ensure he’s here when she’s ready.

Three years of ice water wake-ups and broken bones. Three years of rationing his food to keep his organs running. Three years of pain. Questions. Lies. Answers I already knew.

Still, I haven’t killed him.

Because I want her to.

That’s the truth. One I’ve never said—not to Bhon, not to Aoi, not to myself.

I move closer. His lips tremble, a dry sound escaping from his throat.

“Доброе утро, отец.” Good morning, father, I say.

He blinks. Maybe. Or twitches. It’s hard to tell.. His tongue is swollen, cracked. I wonder if he remembers his name .

Aoi was right. I am consumed with her.

I keep him for her. I learned Russian for her. I killed for her. And I told myself it was all part of moving on—burying her in blood.

“You—” Boris rasps. “You have come to kill me.”

I kneel, dunking a sponge into a nearby bucket. The water is stained brown with rust, soap, and memory. I swirl it slowly, watching the ripples.

“You wish, Gifu,” I say.

He throws his head back. The soft crack of skull against stone barely registers anymore. His eyes roll. A sound escapes—part laugh, part surrender.

I step in close, press the sponge to his shoulder, gently at first, wiping away the grime.

“You eat today.”

He wheezes a laugh. “Do you pray for me?”

“I don’t,” I mutter.

“I do,” he says. “You’re soft. Blinded. By pussy.”

My hand freezes mid-stroke.

“You never learn,” I say, my voice low. “You still speak of her.”

He smiles a broken smile. “Nadia is like her mother. A liar. You’ll learn. Or die for her.”

The sponge drops.

I hit him. Fist to jaw. His head whips sideways, chains clanging. Blood spatters across the stone. He coughs, mouth trembling .

“You don’t say her name,” I growl, grabbing his beard and forcing his head back toward me. “You don’t speak about her. You don’t think about her.”

Boris coughs blood, smearing it down his chin. “You love her,” he croaks. “She’ll gut you.”

I toss the bucket of soapy water over his head in one smooth, uncaring motion.

The cold hits him like a slap, and I hope—really fucking hope—a mouthful of it slides down his throat.

Fitting, since he’s been choking on lies for decades.

He coughs, sputters, but still—he smiles.

That smug little curl of his cracked lips.

Boris Petrov doesn’t fear death. He’s waiting for it.

Daring me to make it hurt. I drop the bucket.

Let the hollow clang of it on the concrete ring out like a bell. A countdown. A warning. A promise.

“You only die by her hand,” I snarl. “That’s the only ending you get.” I wind up kicking his shins, to give him a lasting pain before I return.

“Sho! Blades!” Bhon’s voice echoes down from above.

I look down at Boris, his eye half-closed, his breath thin.

“You’ve always been a lucky bastard, Gifu.”