Page 35 of Brutal Union (Ruthless Mafia Kings #8)

My eyes narrow on the sai user, tall, lean, trying to re-center himself.

That’s the technician. Precision fighter.

He’s the kind of guy who thinks one perfect stab will end a fight.

He's probably trained in kata, drilled clean forms a thousand times in front of a mirror, never once bled for it. He’s dangerous only if you give him space.

The clawed one, he’s the brawler. Fast, aggressive, but wild. The limp in his left leg will get worse the more he moves. His strikes are fueled by pain now, not discipline. That makes him predictable. And exploitable .

Then there’s kama boy. Japanese sickle. The hungriest of the trio. He moves like he wants to prove something, fast, sharp, almost too fast. He overcommits. He doesn’t know how to wait. That’s going to get him killed.

I tighten my grip on the blade, fingers flexing against the makeshift cloth wraps now slick with sweat and blood. Bhon always said the first rule of survival wasn’t strength—it was composure . And I’ve made a career out of staying composed while everything around me dies screaming.

I breathe in deep through my nose. The scent of rust, dirt, and blood thick in the air. The metallic sting of my own wound hums under my ribs like a warning bell.

Focus, Sho.

You’ve been poisoned, hunted, drowned, starved, tortured, betrayed. What’s three amateurs with pointy toys?

I roll my neck, cracking it to the side. Let them think they still have a chance.

The clawed one lunges first, just as I expect.

He leads with desperation, not strategy—pain has made him reckless.

I let my posture falter just slightly, just enough to bait him in.

He takes the opening. His right claw slices through the space where my throat had been a half-second earlier, but I’ve already slipped to the side.

His momentum carries him past me, off-balance, and I redirect it, stepping behind him and striking the back of his head with the hilt of my blade.

He stumbles to a knee, dazed and unsteady.

I don’t stop moving. My foot hooks behind his ankle and I twist, sending him to the ground in one smooth motion.

He falls with a thud as the next opponent closes in—twin sai flashing like sharpened intentions .

I meet his strikes with the flat of my blade, our weapons clashing in quick, precise bursts. He’s fast and measured, clearly trained. But he holds back, just slightly, as though this were still a sparring match instead of survival. He moves like a man waiting for applause.

There’s no audience here. No ceremony. Only consequence.

I shift my stance, lead with my shoulder, and break the rhythm.

A quick snap forward and my forehead collides with his face—not enough to maim, but enough to disorient.

He recoils instinctively, hands rising to his nose.

I seize the opening and sweep his legs with a low, spinning kick.

He crashes down beside the first, breath knocked out and stunned.

Two are down. Not defeated, but dulled. I don’t give them time to recover.

Movement slices the air behind me. A whisper of danger.

The third is already airborne. I turn sharply on the balls of my feet, just in time to see the arc of a kama aiming for my neck.

The blade passes close—close enough to stir the hair at my temple.

I allow the illusion to hang for a breath, let him believe he almost had me.

Then I move. My blade cuts across his thigh—not deeply, but precisely—enough to rattle his landing.

He stumbles as his knee gives, hitting the ground unevenly.

His second strike comes wide and clumsy, and I raise my arm, meeting the wooden handle with my wrapped forearm.

The force stings, but the cloth absorbs just enough to keep it manageable.

I press forward, driving a knee into his center, not for damage, but to collapse his stance. He exhales sharply and folds, and I let him drop, already scanning for the others .

The sai user is back on his feet now. His breathing is sharper, his movements less certain.

Blood trickles down his face, but it’s not the injury that matters—it’s the fear flickering just behind his eyes.

He’s beginning to understand. This isn’t a contest. It’s not a challenge.

It’s a reckoning. And I’m the one delivering it.

I step toward him without hesitation. He swings—wide, angry—but it lacks the sharpness of his earlier strikes. I deflect it and move inside his guard, planting my elbow into his side. He stumbles again.

That’s the difference between us.

They’re fighting because they’ve been ordered to. Because someone in the shadows told them to face me, promised them something for their loyalty. But me? I’m not fighting for orders. I’m not here for applause or survival. I fight because it’s who I am.

Because every calculated step I take, every strike I deliver with precision and control, brings me closer to the silence I’ve learned to live with.

And when I move—when I close the gap between breath and blade—I hear her.

“You still have a soft spot for me, Sho?”

Maybe. Or maybe that spot hardened a long time ago into something sharper than steel.

Because even when I’m fighting for my life, I still remember the way she laughed while twisting a knife into my thigh. The way she whispered threats like promises. The way she watched me, not like prey, but like a project .

She thinks she knows me. She thinks she’s the only one who can break me. But she forgets, I don’t break. I bend the world until it shatters.

The clawed one struggles to rise, favoring his leg now, his breaths coming short and uneven.

There’s defiance in the way he squares his shoulders, a final surge of energy that says he knows this is his last chance.

He charges with everything he has left—teeth clenched, eyes blazing—but it’s desperation, not strategy.

I don’t give him the opportunity to follow through.

As he swings, I pivot smoothly, stepping aside just enough to guide his momentum past me.

My hand catches his arm mid-motion, redirecting his weight with a sharp turn.

His balance falters, and I feel the tension in his body as he tries to resist. But he’s too late.

I press in with the blade, shift my grip, and his body folds with the motion.

He collapses, his fight spent, and I let him go.

Ahead of me, the sai fighter hesitates. He’s still upright, still armed, but doubt flickers in his stance. He backs away a step, calculating. I can see him thinking about retreat.

I move before he can finish the thought, fast and focused, closing the distance in a heartbeat.

My blade finds its mark—not with flourish, but with clarity.

The strike lands true, and he stiffens, breath catching mid-motion.

He stares at me for a moment, confusion dawning in his expression, as if surprised I was able to reach him at all. Then he drops, quiet and still.

I turn toward the final challenger—the kama wielder. He’s on all fours now, crawling through the dust, no longer fighting, only trying to flee. He moves like a man trying to will himself invisible, each motion slower than the last .

I walk to him—not in haste, but with steady purpose.

The fight is over. We both know it. Kneeling beside him, I pause.

He doesn’t look back. Then, with the precision and control that has carried me through every battle, I press the tip of my blade into his side.

There’s no flourish, no anger. Just finality.

When it’s done, I rise. The pit is silent now.

The crowd, for once, holds its breath. There’s no chant, no roar of approval.

Just the quiet recognition of what’s been witnessed.

I stand alone in the center, steady and unflinching, already scanning the edge of the arena for the next one brave—or foolish—enough to step forward.

Then the crowd erupts, chaos, roaring approval, a sea of fists and howls. Somewhere above, Bhon is nodding faintly, arms crossed. Aoi is clapping, slow and sharp like a blade unsheathing.

I breathe deep. Blood soaks my hands, seeps into the wraps. My side aches. My lungs burn.

“ Round Four! ” Aoi’s voice rings out like a chime dipped in poison—sweet, but biting.

There’s a flutter in her tone, like she’s almost delighted by the chaos. Like she wants to see how far I can go before I bleed out or black out. Probably both. She always did enjoy watching me dance on the edge.

I hear him before I see him. The sound is unmistakable—thick, deliberate steps that make the dirt shift with each impact. The kind of footfalls that don’t echo—they announce .

When he finally enters the pit, the crowd’s collective gasp is instant.

He’s massive. A wall of muscle, easily six and a half feet tall, with the girth of a refrigerator and the movement of something too big to be real.

His skin is mottled with sweat and dark ink, a dragon coiled around his torso in thick black lines.

His club—more tree trunk than weapon—is slung casually over one shoulder like it weighs nothing.

But I know better. That thing could collapse a ribcage with a single swing.

Crap.

From the sidelines, Bhon bursts into a fit of childlike giggles, doubling over with delight like this is some slapstick comedy show and not a blood-soaked battle royale.

“Of course,” I mutter under my breath, not even bothering to hide the eye-roll. “Obnoxious bastard.”

He’s not laughing because he thinks I’ll lose. Bhon knows I’ll win. Eventually. But that’s not the point. He’s amused because he knows this is going to be a pain in my ass. And pain, to Bhon, is entertainment.

The sumotori doesn’t rush me. He doesn’t roar or posture like the last three fools. No, this one’s smarter—or maybe just more disciplined. He plants his feet wide, shifts his weight with slow confidence, and rests the club across both hands like a batter waiting for the fastball.