Page 39 of Brutal Union (Ruthless Mafia Kings #8)

NADIA

Sho keeps a firm hand on my wrist as he guides me toward the back of the club, cutting through the haze of sweat, smoke, and cheap perfume.

The bass still thunders beneath our feet, but I hardly hear it over the wave of jeers and boos erupting from the crowd.

They’re disappointed. Hungry for more blood.

For a longer show. For the humiliation of a woman who didn’t break when they wanted her to.

“Take it off!”

“Boo! Kill the bitch!”

“Back to the block with you, Bratva bitch!”

And then, above all the noise, Aoi’s voice crackles through the speakers, cold and sharp as a blade. “The next man who opens his fucking mouth will have his tongue in a jar. Try me.”

The silence that falls after that is swift and absolute.

Sho doesn’t say a word as he pushes through the last hallway, ignoring the men who part for him like water. I try to speak—to explain, to ask if he’s okay, if I did something wrong—but the set of his jaw is locked, and his grip doesn’t loosen. He’s silent, but not cruel with his movements.

We reach a black steel door near the back, paint chipped around the edges, the lock crusted with rust and fingerprints.

He shoulders it open and drags me inside with him.

The office is cramped and dimly lit, cluttered with old ledgers, an unplugged fan in the corner, and the scent of alcohol-soaked upholstery.

A metal desk sits against the far wall, and beside it, a beat-up red first-aid kit.

I open my mouth to speak, to say anything—anything that might bring him back to me—but he drops my wrist without a glance and moves straight to the desk. He yanks open the drawer, digs out the first-aid kit with a roughness I’ve only ever seen in him mid-fight, and tosses it onto the surface.

I step forward. “Sho?—”

He turns sharply and walks past me. He doesn't shove or touch or even look at me. He just moves, fast and clean, opens the door, and slams it shut behind him without a word.

The sound echoes through the room, sharp and sudden.

I blink, frozen for a second, the sudden stillness hitting harder than the fight.

The door creaks open again, and for a second my heart leaps.

But it’s not Sho.

Aoi strides in like she owns the room—because she does.

Tall, elegant, and lethal in tight black slacks and a silk blouse that doesn't have a single wrinkle despite the chaos outside.

Her long black hair is pulled back, and her earrings sparkle under the flickering overhead light as she saunters toward me .

She eyes me up and down like I’m a bloody canvas someone left in her gallery.

“Well, well,” she purrs, her voice low and mocking. “Looks like someone's been a very naughty girl.”

I lift my head, pain still throbbing through my shoulder, through every limb. I don’t want to do this—not now—but I will if she pushes me. I meet her gaze squarely.

“Don’t make me disrespect you in your own establishment,” I snap, voice sharp and cold despite the ache spreading through my bones. “Not when I’m trying to be polite.”

Aoi’s eyes sparkle with amusement, lips curving into a slow, delighted smile.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she says with a quiet laugh, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “You’d need both arms working to pull that off.”

Before I can react, she’s behind me.

There’s no warning. Just a sudden, brutal grip on my dangling arm.

I suck in a breath, spinning, but her hand is already on my shoulder, the other wrapped around my elbow. She yanks.

White-hot pain shoots through my chest, seizing everything in its path.

Snap.

A sharp pop echoes in the small room as my shoulder slams back into its socket.

I scream—a sound that punches from my throat involuntarily, choked off as quickly as it came. I crumple to one knee, breath ripped from my lungs, eyes wet with the sudden jolt of agony .

Aoi crouches next to me, still smiling, completely unfazed.

“You’re welcome,” she says, brushing imaginary dust off her knee.

I grip my arm, rubbing at the newly repositioned socket. “I am not feeling very thankful bitch.”

“If it were up to me,” she says, breaking the silence as she tears open a sterile packet of antiseptic, “you’d already be dead.”

I lift my eyes to her and speak through gritted teeth. “Good thing it is not up to you.”

She kneels in front of me without ceremony, not gentle but not cruel, and begins wiping the blood from my arms with a damp cloth. The sting is immediate, sharp. My jaw clenches, but I don’t pull away.

She tilts her head, studying a particularly deep gash just above my bicep. “Sho wouldn’t forgive me, though. Not for that.”

I scoff, the sound bitter. “He almost killed me himself. Twice.”

Aoi dabs the wound clean and starts applying a numbing solution, her movements precise. “That’s not the same,” she says coolly. “He didn’t want you dead. He just wanted you to feel it.”

“Feel what?”

She meets my eyes. “Everything that you put him through for the last three years.”

We fall into a tense silence again as she starts sealing one of the deeper cuts with liquid stitches. It burns like fire across my skin, but I bite down on the pain. She presses a gauze pad into another wound to stop the slow bleed, her hands methodical, practiced .

“He loves you, but he is not above punishing those who have wronged him,” Aoi says casually, like she’s pointing out a stain on my shirt.

“I know.”

Her hands don’t stop moving. She applies another layer of adhesive to the cut on my shoulder before wrapping it tight. She doesn’t look at me when she speaks again.

“You hurt him again, and I will kill you.” There’s no malice in her voice, just a matter of fact tone of how things will play out. “I don’t care what Sho says. What he forgives. What he still hopes you’ll become. If you tear him open again just to see what’s left inside—I’ll end you myself.”

“There is nothing remotely more painful that you can do to me then what has happened between Sho and I.” I snarl, narrowing my eyes on her.

“You think I don’t already know what I’ve done to him?

” I say quietly, eyes locked on hers. “You think I haven’t paid for that every second of the last three years? ”

She leans back on her heels, finally looking at me—truly looking, her gaze cutting, steady.

“I think you haven’t finished paying yet,” she says. “But at least now you seem ready to try.”

She sets the last piece of gauze down, then rises with that same slow, graceful control, like every movement she makes is calculated ten seconds in advance. She closes the first-aid kit and places it back on the shelf with exact precision.

As she turns slightly, ready to leave, the door opens behind her .

Sho steps into the doorway dressed in jeans and a black t-shirt partially cleaned up from the fight, his shoulders taut, eyes already locked on the both of us. “ Ore no kanojo ni kamawanai de. ” Don't mess with my girlfriend.

Aoi doesn’t flinch. She turns back to him slowly, lips curving into a lazy smirk, and responds in English with a shrug, “Just two girls chatting.”

She walks toward him without hurry, her heels silent on the floor. As she passes, she reaches up, smacks his cheek lightly—twice, not hard, but familiar, firm. Her hand lingers for a second longer than necessary, then drops away.

She leans in, her lips near his ear, and whispers in perfect Romaji, soft and sharp like a blade drawn in the dark:

“ Baka ni naru na. ” Don't be an idiot.

Aoi disappears down the hallway, and Sho doesn’t turn to watch her leave. He keeps his eyes on me. His eyes drop to my shoulder, where the bandages Aoi just applied sit clean and tight, then rise back to my face.

He lifts his chin slightly, wordless, and nods toward the hallway behind him, turning to leave. I scramble to my feet and follow, ignoring the dull pain of my bones.

The trek back to Sho’s house is long, and mostly uphill, but he does not slow down for me.

He moves like a shadow—fluid, effortless, almost inhuman as he navigates the winding, moss-covered path through the dense forest of Osaka.

The air is thick with humidity, buzzing with the constant hum of cicadas.

I’m sweating, my hair sticking to the back of my neck, but Sho doesn’t even look like he’s breathing hard.

He doesn’t speak to me, not even a glance thrown over his shoulder.

Except once.

“Watch your foot,” he says, gesturing toward a thin string tied low between two tree trunks—nearly invisible until you're right on top of it. A homemade tripwire, probably connected to something nasty. “Homemade,” he adds, as if that explains everything. Then he’s off again, brushing past branches and ducking under limbs without missing a step.

I, on the other hand, am forced to scramble over fallen logs and slippery rocks, the heels of my boots slick with damp leaves. My thighs burn, my jeans sticking to me from the humidity, and every time I open my mouth to demand a break or a direction, he somehow speeds up like he can sense it.

A branch smacks me across the face, and Sho calls over his shoulder, “Watch your head.”

That’s it. That’s the extent of our conversation.

I don’t know how far we’ve gone, only that the thick canopy above lets in barely any light and the air feels heavier the deeper we go. This place isn’t just off the grid—it’s erased from it. Perfect for a man like Sho. A man who wants to disappear. Or hide something.

Eventually, the path narrows, and he slips between a pair of leaning bamboo stalks, completely overgrown with ivy.

I push through after him, swearing under my breath, and when I finally make it through, I’m greeted by the sight of a small, weather-worn house tucked into the hillside like it grew out of the earth itself .

The roof is covered in moss, walls are a thin cream color that looks like cotton paper, and a single paper lantern sways gently above the front door. It smells like cedar and old smoke. Peaceful—if you don’t know who lives here.