Page 36 of Brutal Union (Ruthless Mafia Kings #8)

His eyes are unreadable. Not dead, but still. Stoic.

This man watched me cut down the others. He knows I’m quick. Precise. Deadly. But he also sees the blood on my wraps. The torn cloth at my ribs. The fatigue starting to creep into the corner of my stance. He thinks he has the edge.

He thinks I’m tired.

But I’ve been tired before.

I was tired when Nadia drugged me and chained me to a chair. I was tired when I fought Bhon in a frozen river with two broken ribs. I was tired when I buried my brother in the rain and promised him I’d never become the monster our father was.

And yet—here I am.

I shift my blade in my hand, letting it rest low near my hip, non-threatening. Casual. The crowd quiets, sensing the tension between us. A beast versus a shadow. Strength versus finesse. I smile slightly.

David always beats Goliath.

Not because he’s stronger, but because he’s smarter.

I dart left, and the club cuts through the air beside me, a heavy whistle trailing inches from my head.

It misses, but only just. He doesn’t overcommit—doesn’t stumble.

He’s been here before. This one isn’t reckless.

He’s deliberate. I roll across the packed earth and rise near the edge of the pit, breath sharp in my chest, sweat stinging where blood has dried.

He’s already resetting, broad stance firm, eyes trained on me with an unsettling stillness.

He’s not just strong—he’s trained. Not a brute, but a performer.

A fighter built to win and entertain. That’s what makes him dangerous.

I toss my blade, letting it skid across the dirt behind him.

He flinches, just slightly, tracking it with his eyes.

Exactly what I wanted. In that fraction of a second, I’m already sprinting forward—unarmed, deliberate.

The crowd lets out a collective gasp, confused and excited.

It looks reckless. Desperate. But it’s not.

He raises the club with both hands, anticipating the moment I get within reach. I slide low before he can swing, gathering a handful of gravel and loose dirt, and throw it upward, right into his face .

He bellows, more surprised than hurt, staggering as the dust clouds his vision. The club comes down hard, but wide, striking only empty space.

I’m already moving.

I reach for my blade and sweep it up into my hand, circling around him as he tries to recover. A clean strike to the back of his leg drops him to one knee. The pain slows him, but doesn’t break him. He’s still dangerous. Still calculating.

I shift forward, blade in hand, and drive it into the space near his shoulder. The movement is controlled, measured—not meant to destroy, but to end the momentum. He grits his teeth and swings the club again, a final, desperate arc with all the weight he can muster.

This time, I catch it.

Both hands brace against the force, the vibration jolting through my arms. The club threatens to push me backward, but I hold on. Redirect the weight. Step behind him and guide the motion off course. My blade lifts, steadies.

It rests at his neck—not slicing, not digging in. Just there.

“You’re done,” I say, low and steady.

His body sags with the weight of the fight, and the club slips from his hands. He falls forward, not violently, but with gravity—like a tree that’s stood too long against the wind.

I stand tall, still breathing hard, blade in hand, waiting for the next move—because I know better than to think this is over.

The next few fights blur together like a fever dream—flesh, fury, and blood smearing at the edges of consciousness.

“Round Five ”

He’s cocky. Young, whip-thin, swinging a chain like it’s an extension of his ego. The kind of guy who learned to fight on YouTube and thinks confidence is the same as competence.

He cracks the chain like a warning shot, grinning. I don’t give him the satisfaction of a response.

My feet move before thought catches up. The chain slices through the air toward my throat—I catch it mid-swing, feel it bite into my palm through the wraps, and yank him forward.

He loses balance, surprised. My knee rises like instinct—collides with his face.

He’s stunned, reaching for something solid to hold onto.

All I give him is steel. I wrap his own chain around his neck and pull, hard. He gurgles. Kicks. Scratches. But I don’t stop until he stops moving.

I step back, exhale, taste copper on my tongue. My vision flickers. But in the flicker, I see her .

Nadia.

Painted lips, wicked smile, blade dragging along my collarbone like she’s tracing ownership into my skin.

“You still fantasize about killing me, Sho?” she once purred.

No. I fantasize about ruling beside you.

“Round Six”

Another one barrels in—a knife fighter. Arms covered in crude tattoos, tiger claws etched along his forearms like he wants the world to know he’s a predator.

He moves like it too. Fast. Relentless. Slashing in tight arcs meant to disembowel.

One cut lands. Right across my shoulder. It burns hot, sharp .

I grunt, step into the pain, and deliver a palm strike to his chin. He stumbles back, and I don’t hesitate. I pivot and drive my blade across his throat. A red line blooms. He tries to speak, but only blood comes. He crumples like wet paper.

The crowd erupts again—cheers, laughter, bets being shouted. But I don’t hear it.

All I hear is Nadia’s voice. “You’ll never survive me.”

And maybe I won’t. But she sure as hell won’t survive without me.

“Round Seven”

She’s different.

No flash. No showmanship. A quiet killer. Her stance is textbook. Measured. Controlled. She goes for joints, pressure points. Lands one hit—a sharp jab to the nerve in my neck that sends stars bursting in my vision.She’s efficient. She’s good.

But she’s not Nadia.

And that means she’s not my enemy. I trap her arm during the next strike, and slam her to the ground. My knee pins her down, and my elbow swings down like a hammer.

She goes limp beneath me. I rise slowly, chest heaving, blood dripping from my ribs. My blade is shaking in my hand, not from fear—but rage. Focus. Obsession.

Nadia.

Nadia with the guns strapped to her thighs and the perfume that smells like danger. Nadia, who once dragged a knife across my chest just to hear the sound I made when she cut me. She’d be watching me right now with that cruel smirk, licking blood off her fingers like dessert.

And all I want is to stand beside her. Not as her enemy. As her equal.

“Round Eight”

He’s huge. Not sumotori (sumo wrestling) huge—but close. Bald head, mohawk stripe, thick chest covered in burn scars. He drags a serrated axe behind him, and when he lifts it, the crowd gasps . He swings like a brute with nothing to lose. And I—I let him connect.

Just once. The blade grazes my ribs. Tears flesh. Blood blossoms instantly. But I needed it. I needed that clarity. That pain. It sharpens me.

I duck inside his guard, shoulder-ram into his chest, and he stumbles. I drive three rapid-fire strikes into his gut—blade, fist, blade again. He catches my wrist. Slams me into the dirt. The world spins. I cough, spit blood, grin . He raises the axe. I roll .

I sweep my leg low and fast, catching his from beneath him. His footing vanishes, and his body spins out, twisting midair like the blade of a windmill before crashing down—headfirst—into the dirt.

He groans, already breathless. The earlier blows I landed have done their work, chipping away at his strength until now, when he tries to rise, he barely manages more than a twitch.

His muscles strain against exhaustion, against the weight of defeat, but his body refuses to cooperate.

He stays down, panting, hands digging into the earth as if he can claw his way back into the fight. He can’t.

I step toward him, deliberate and calm, and wrench the axe from his grasp.

It comes free easily—he’s too weak to hold on, too spent to fight for it.

I hold the weapon up, turning slowly toward the crowd, letting the moment stretch.

My chest rises and falls with the weight of the fight, blood still humming in my ears, but my eyes remain sharp, locked on the sea of faces staring down at me.

I raise the axe just slightly, not in threat but in triumph, letting the image settle in their minds.

Is this what you wanted?

And the answer comes—loud, unanimous, and wild.

The crowd erupts, their cheers cascading over the arena like a tidal wave.

They shout, they roar, they stomp and clap, the sound rising to a fever pitch.

Their approval crashes into me like a second wind.

It’s not just victory—it’s validation. And it seals the moment like the final nail in a coffin.

I stumble back to center.

The crowd is howling , but they sound distant. Like echoes underwater.

All I can hear is the pounding of my own heart. All I can see is her —Nadia. Dripping in blood. Laughing with madness in her eyes.

This is for her. But not just for her. This is for the Yakuza.

The old ways. The empire that scarred me.

I’m going to tear it apart—root and bone—and rebuild it in my name.

Not out of revenge, but out of purpose. Because only when I rule will she finally kneel.

And when she does? I won’t demand her loyalty. I’ll demand her crown .

The air in the pit is thick—sodden with blood, sweat, and the quiet gasp of disbelief. My breath comes ragged, sharp in my throat, but I don’t lower my blade. Not yet. The rusted edge, chipped and worn, is still warm with blood. My arms ache. My ribs scream. But I remain standing.

Above me, Aoi’s voice slides across the silence like silk over a blade.

“Well, well, well,” she purrs, her tone syrupy with delight.

“It seems we’ve got a gladiator before us.

” Her heels click rhythmically against the stone ledge as she steps into view, the sheen of excitement in her eyes barely veiled.

“Since our good friend Sho has graciously defeated all ten of today’s scheduled opponents—” she pauses, letting the moment stretch like a bowstring, savoring the tension, “—why don’t we open the floor? ”

Her arms spread wide, theatrically, as if inviting the gods themselves to descend.

“Who thinks they’ve got what it takes to best the man with the rusted blade?”

The pit falls silent. Utterly, painfully silent. No roars, no bets, no jeers. Just the low hum of disbelief. The kind of stillness that follows a massacre when no one knows whether to cheer… or flee.

And how could they? What I’d done wasn’t a performance—it was a message. A ritual. I wasn’t just efficient. I was final. Aside from Bhon—who still leans at the edge of the arena, giggling softly to himself like a drunken monk—I am the most dangerous thing in this room. Maybe in any room.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, flicking blood from my lip, and prepare to turn my back on the crowd.

But then, a hand rises above the heads of the stunned onlookers. Not shaky. Not hesitant. High. Certain. And my heart drops I would know that hand anywhere .

It had once locked chains around my wrists and called it mercy. It had stabbed me with reverence and touched me like I was both an enemy and an addiction. That hand had carved its name into my skin, cupped my jaw after slicing me open, held me like it had every right to.

It was hers.

A voice followed—low, smooth, and maddeningly steady.

“I do,” said Nadia.

And just like that, everything in me stills.

The pit, the crowd, the ache in my muscles—all of it vanishes beneath the weight of her presence.

The sea of bodies parts as she walks, head held high and steps steady, like the queen of death.

Her long coat moves with every step like a second shadow, and beneath it, her curves are outlined by a black tank and jeans.

The clop of her combat boots is purposeful.

Her hair, tied in a loose bun, her sweat gleams under the arena lights.

She looks nothing like her royalty, yet still I am mesmerized.

She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t blink. She just stares, eyes locked on mine like crosshairs, like she has never forgotten the last time we were this close in the dark. Her voice still lingers in my memory like a curse.

And suddenly, it isn’t about the ten I’ve defeated. It isn’t about Bhon’s sick game or Aoi’s twisted theater.

It’s about her. It’s always been about her. And as she steps forward, eyes burning with challenge, one truth settles over me like a blade against the skin.

This isn’t the next fight. This is the real one. And the war between us?

It has only just begun.