Page 40 of Brutal Union (Ruthless Mafia Kings #8)

Sho finally stops at the threshold, one hand on the sliding door.

His back is still to me, as he unlocks the door and slides it open with the tips of his fingers.

Then, without a word, he bends and slips out of his shoes, leaving them perfectly aligned on the porch like the militant, crazed man he is.

“Take off your shoes, but bring them inside and lean them against the wall,” He murmurs, his tone so dead you’d think he was talking to his own shadow instead of me, the woman he has claimed to be madly in love with is right here looking at him.

I watch him walk inside, and for a second, I forget how to breathe.

His shoulders have broadened—carved from granite and wrapped in skin stretched tight across thick, hard muscle.

His back is a map of lean, powerful ridges and valleys, and the short sleeves of his black shirt cling to biceps that weren’t that big the last time I saw him.

Not this sculpted. Not this solid . His traps ripple slightly as he lifts one hand to press against the wall for balance, the muscles in his forearm flexing, veins raised like rivers beneath the skin.

He’s bigger now. Stronger. There’s no softness left in him. No hesitation in his steps. This isn’t the Sho I tortured in a basement and teased into submission. This version of him could break me in half—and I don’t know if I’d even try to stop him, because it’s not like I tried before.

I grunt as I start to yank at my laces, nearly falling off the damn porch. “ Look,” I snarl, pulling at the knot at the top of my boot. “I get it. I fucked up.”

He pauses, mid-step, turning to the side.

The silhouette of his chiseled form is relaxed and yet every muscle is pulled tight.

His side profile cuts through the dim light leaking through the paper walls braced with wood around the edges: sharp jaw, sloped shoulders, the slope of a well-earned V-line disappearing into the loose waistband of his pants.

“You fucked up,” he replies evenly.

I finally yank the first shoe off and toss it inside, the heel skidding across the wooden floor. I scoff, shifting to balance on the tips of my toes as I start tugging at the other boot. “Yeah, I fucked up,” I mutter. “And I said I’m sorry.”

Sho doesn’t move at first, but when he speaks again, his tone is tighter—cut from something raw and dark.

“No. Fucking up is getting my order wrong at the store,” he says, stepping toward me, his shadow stretching across the floor. “Fucking up is writing my last name wrong by one letter because you still can’t read or write in Japanese.”

Another step. His presence fills the space like smoke—slow, suffocating, and I stumble to my feet as I slide the shoe off and hold the doorframe to keep me steady.

“Fucking up is forgetting my birthday or losing a knife. What you did, ” his voice drops, low and sharp enough to sting, “wasn’t a fuck-up.”

He’s standing close now, towering just inside the doorway, his frame bigger, broader, more brutal than I remembered.

His shoulders stretch the seams of his black shirt, and the flickering moonlight from the paper window casts his muscles in sharp relief—his chest rising and falling like a storm held at bay.

There’s heat rolling off of him, thick and suffocating, the kind of heat that says run or burn.

“You didn’t fuck up, Nadia,” he growls, my name curling off his tongue like venom, sharp and full of betrayal—for the first time in our lives.

“You tried to sell me back to the fucking Yakuza. You were going to have me killed.”

“That was a deal I made before I knew about us,” I snap, voice thin but defiant. “Before this —” I gesture between us, a wild slash of my hand “—was even real.”

His eyes narrow.

“So you made this deal before Gwen was even kidnapped?”

“No.”

He doesn’t blink. “You made this deal right after I escaped?”

“No, but it doesn’t?—”

“It fucking matters when you made the deal, Nadia,” he snarls, turning on his heel and stalking deeper into the dimly lit house.

His back is tense, muscles shifting beneath the thin cotton of his shirt like caged violence.

The moonlight cuts across his jaw, turning him into something mythic—half-man, half-wrath.

I slam the door behind me and follow him into the next room, the sharp crack of wood-on-wood echoing like a gunshot. The silence stretches as he speaks, voice low as he unties the battered wraps from his knuckles .

“Because if you made that deal while I was still your prisoner—while we were still just playing our twisted little game—then fine, maybe I could forgive that,” he says, tossing the wraps onto a nearby chair. “But you didn’t.”

He turns to face me, his green eyes glowing like broken glass in the moonlight. “You made that deal after we fucked. After you knew there was something real between us. You knew, and you still?—”

“You left me,” I cut in, my voice cracking before I can stop it. “You left me tied up. Naked. In your hotel room. You didn’t even look back. I thought I was a fucking game to you, Sho. I didn’t think?—”

“ Bullshit! ” he explodes, stepping closer, every muscle in his body coiled like a viper. “Don’t fucking lie to me.”

His eyes burn with something deeper than rage—betrayal, disappointment, something raw that makes my chest cave in.

“I watched you, Nadia,” he snarls. “I watched the way you looked at me like I was the only thing in the world that made you feel alive. And don’t tell me it wasn’t real, because I felt it too.

You made that deal after you had my hands on your skin and your heart in my mouth.

I called you after and I brought you clothes. I didn’t leave you alone in the cold.”

He’s breathing hard now, each inhale sharp and ragged, like every word he just spat was a punch he barely held back. His chest rises and falls beneath the sweat-dampened cotton. “You knew what this was. And you still agreed to hand me over.”

“I said I’m sorry,” I whisper, my voice breaking on the edge of tears. It rasps from my throat like it’s been buried too long, raw with desperation. I take a step forward, reaching out, forcing my trembling fingers to lace with his.

But before our hands can settle into anything resembling comfort or connection, he yanks his away like I burned him and moves to the far side of the room, putting the narrow cot between us like a barrier.

“No, you fucking didn’t, ” he snaps, turning his back to me.

“What?” I gasp, stunned, confused, watching his silhouette under the fractured moonlight as he unbuttons his shirt. One by one the fabric falls away from his body, revealing the full scale of how much he’s changed.

His torso is carved like a war god—thicker now, more defined.

Ridges of muscle curl along his abdomen like armor, a tight V cutting low into his hips.

His tattoos stretch with each breath, inked dragons and serpents curling around muscle that wasn’t there the last time I touched him.

A deep scar slices down his side—a fresh one I don’t remember—jagged and red against smooth tan flesh.

“You never said ‘I’m sorry,’ Nadia,” he says, voice quieter now, like he’s too tired to shout. “You never apologized.”

I turn toward him, glassy-eyed, throat tightening with emotion I’ve fought for too long. “Yes, I did,” I whisper, voice barely audible.

“No,” he says, more firmly, turning to face me with his shirt now discarded at his feet, chest rising with every wounded breath.

“You gave me reasons. You gave me justifications. You talked about Boris. About the Bratva. About your loyalty to your bloodline. But you never— never —looked me in the eye and said, ‘I’m sorry I tried to kill you, Sho.’”

My body quivers. The air feels too thick, like I’m drowning in all the things I never said. My hand lifts again, hesitant, shaking. “Y-you had to know,” I whisper. “You had to know how sorry I was.”

He doesn’t answer. Just methodically pulls at the cloth wraps around his waist—ripping them loose with practiced, violent flicks. The sound of fabric tearing fills the silence between us like thunder.

“Know what, Nadia?” he says finally, his eyes locked on mine. “That the woman I almost died for—more than once—thought I’d just feel her apology in the silence?”

He takes a step forward, and I freeze, my heart pounding against my ribs like a caged bird.

“How the fuck was I supposed to know anything, when you never gave me the one thing I asked for? Honesty.” He pauses, eyes scanning me like he’s searching for something. Maybe the girl I used to be. Maybe a reason to still care.

I take a shaky step toward him. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

He doesn’t move. His jaw ticks. His fists clench, but he just follows me with his eyes.

I step again, closer now, so close I can feel the heat off his bare chest. I look up at him, tears finally breaking free and sliding down my cheek.

“I’m so fucking sorry, Sho. For all of it.

For not saying it when I should have. For not fighting harder.

For making you think you were nothing to me when you were everything. ”

“This apology is too fucking late,” he rasps out, and I place both hands on his chest; the warmth burns me like the sun, but I take the pain in stride.

“No, it’s not,” I whisper .

I press a kiss to the center of his chest, right over the scar that slashes across his ribcage. His body shudders ever so slightly beneath my mouth, and I feel the deep, guttural rumble of something he refuses to let escape his throat.

“You and I both know that’s not true.”

And then I kiss my way down—slowly, reverently—each word spoken into the warm planes of his stomach as my lips trail lower.

“I’m sorry, Sho,” I murmur, the words trembling against his skin. “For betraying you. For not seeing what this was. For letting my need to prove myself to the Bratva blind me to what we had.”