Page 9 of Brutal Union (Ruthless Mafia Kings #8)

NADIA

It takes me three fucking hours to crawl across the penthouse floor, the leather belt biting into my wrists, my arms screaming from the strain.

Three hours of dragging myself toward my dead phone—useless, lying by the floor-to-ceiling windows like a sleek little corpse.

Three hours of bloodied palms, carpet burns, and sawing at the restraints with the dull edge of my favorite goddamn knife.

Sho left me bound like a trophy. And now I’m bleeding for the privilege of undoing it.

Could I have screamed? Absolutely. I could’ve shattered the glass with my voice. Security downstairs, the concierge, maybe even some poor maid—they would’ve come running.

But that would’ve meant being seen .

Half-naked. Sweaty. Lips bruised from a gag. Wrists bound behind my back with a belt like some broken little plaything.

And I’m a lot of things—but humiliated? Never .

Another thing I’ll be telling Sho the next time I see him: humiliation is a hard line. And definitely not a kink I fucking have.

After one brutal yank, the belt finally gives. My palm splits open, blood oozing from a gash that’ll probably need stitches. I don’t care. I’m free.

I dig through the penthouse with one good hand until I find a charger, then jam it into the outlet beside the marble coffee table and plug in my phone.

Now I wait.

I throw myself onto the leather couch— the same one he desecrated me on —and glare at the phone like I can will it back to life. The belt lies limp across my lap, still looped around my left wrist, soaked with blood and sweat.

I lean back, dragging my fingers through my hair and wincing when they catch on a knot. My thighs are still sticky, my pulse still too high, and my mouth still tastes like him. And the worst part ? He kissed me on the cheek.

That smug little bastard had the audacity to kiss me like a lover before leaving me tied up and wrecked. Like what he was doing was not a complete declaration of war.

“I’m going to kill him,” I whisper, voice shaking with fury. “I am going to carve my name into his ribcage and burn that fucking smirk off his face.”

I look over at the phone and tap the screen -- still black, because of course it is.

I shove off the couch and stalk toward the bathroom, each step leaving a smear of blood across the pristine floors—a breadcrumb trail soaked in fury. Revenge drips from me, literal and figurative.

The light hums to life as I flick the switch, cool and sterile against the sweat still clinging to my skin. My reflection stares back, a portrait of aftermath—mascara smudged into the hollows beneath my eyes, lipstick smeared like a bruise, hair a wild, tangled crown of chaos. I look wrecked.

Sho would say I look beautiful . That I look ruined in the way he likes. That I learned my lesson well.

I bare my teeth at the mirror, hatred and humiliation burning behind my eyes.

Then I rip open the cabinet beneath the sink. Of course. A first aid kit—meticulously stocked. Bandages organized, alcohol wipes unopened, the thread wound tight. Predictable.

This is one of Sho’s safe houses. His little playground. His fucking trap.

Good.

I dump the kit onto the marble countertop with my good hand, my palm sticky with blood, my patience hanging on by a thread.

Thread. Needle. Wipes. Gauze. Sho’s probably stitched himself up here multiple times, and now I am sitting on the cold marble counter, knees up, prepared to fucking stitch back my own hand.

Next time I see Sho, I am going to hurt him.

I wash my hand in the sink, watching the blood dilute and spiral down the drain. The cut stings under the water, sharp and immediate, but manageable. I’ve had worse.

With one steadying breath, I grab the alcohol and sterilize the needle, fingers shaking more from exhaustion than anything else. The smell burns my nose, and for a second, I just breathe.

Then I brace my injured hand on the edge of the sink. The porcelain is slick with blood, streaked in uneven lines that smear when I shift. I bite down on a rolled towel and get to work.

The first stitch bites. So does the second.

I pull the thread through slowly, carefully.

Clean edges. Even spacing. It’s not pretty, but it’s enough.

Each tug sends a jolt up my arm, makes my eyes blur a little—but I keep going.

The pain is blinding. My vision pulses at the edges.

I feel sweat bead on my temple, breath ragged through my nose.

But I don’t stop. I don’t cry. And I don’t fucking wince.

Right when I make the final knot with my teeth I hear the familiar ring of my phone from the living room. My feet pad against the heated floors as I rush back to the coffee table. Practically falling on the floor as I answer the phone.

“Yes?” I huff.

“We have a meeting at nine a.m. with the Yakuza and a flight back to New York at three p.m. It is approximately four in the morning and you have been unresponsive for five hours.” Aleksandr, my only full brother, his disappointed voice rings through the phone.

I roll my eyes and lean against the couch, looking at my stitched hand leaning against my knee. “You are not supposed to be keeping tabs on your superior.”

“Correct,” he grumbles. “But you are my sister and the Bratva Queen, meaning your disappearance after an hour should have required a slew of soldiers to hunt you and Sho down. ”

“Sho is mine,” I snap, immediately regretting it when Aleksandr chuckles. “To hunt and kill. He is mine to kill.”

“Of course yours to kill, ” Aleksandr mocks in the chill monotone I have come to realize was his humor. “You know you have a habit of beating up the men you have crushes on.”

“I do not have a crush,” I hiss, rolling onto my feet and searching for his bedroom, because there is no way I am walking the streets of Tokyo at five in the morning in my dress and heels.

“Right, you have a searing need for vengeance for releasing our father, that just so happens to end in making out,” Aleksandr mocks, and I roll my eyes. He is a blunt bastard that doesn’t truly hide anything he is thinking or feeling.

“You’re just saying that because I took you away from Lily,” I counter as I roam into a bedroom that looks so pristine I doubt Sho has ever slept in there.

“She is fine, spending the weekend in the Hamptons with her friends.”

I scoff. “Are you having the girl watched?”

“She has been watched since high school.”

I walk into the closet and look at an array of jeans, button ups, t-shirts and hoodies hanging up like an all I can wear buffet of fuck Sho.

I run my hands over the expensive fabrics and pinch my phone between my ear and shoulder. “That was a protection detail by her father, not her weird stalker-ish friend. ”

“I am not a stalker,” Alek snarls and I chuckle because his anger could scare armies, but to me it’s like a tickle .

“You’re not her friend either,” I remind him, pulling out a black hoodie that looks two sizes too big and heading to the dresser in search of joggers and a tank top.

He huffs, and I smile to myself. See, Aleksandr has had a crush on Lily for years. Lily, whose father was once one of our father’s closest confidants—until he died on our father’s orders, of course. Classic.

Does Lily know about Aleksandr’s crush? No. Will Aleksandr ever admit it like a normal human being instead of grunting and brooding around her like a caveman? Also no.

But who am I to judge? I’m locked in a violent, codependent maybe-something with a man who just left me tied up and naked in a Tokyo penthouse. So no judgment here—just envy. Some people get a cute will-they-won’t-they. I get this: deranged, dysfunctional, and completely unhinged.

And the worst part? I want this again. The adrenaline. The anticipation. The heat. It’s fucking immaculate. And I can’t get enough. But if Sho ever asks? He’s a dead man and I fucking despise him.

“No more Lily talk. People could be listening,” Alek grunts, and I hear the distinct clink of a lock snapping shut on his end.

“Meet me in Marunouchi. Two hours.” I yank a pair of black joggers from the drawer.

“Of course, Vor .” Aleksandr mocks, using the official moniker of the Bratva leader.

“Shut up and bring me a change of clothes.” I growl moving into the bedroom .

Aleksandr chuckles, low and smug. “I don’t even want to know which one of you is kinky enough to leave without them.”

My jaw tightens. “Two hours.”

I hang up before he can say anything else, cheeks burning as I toss the phone onto the bed. It lights up again almost instantly, and when I glance over—there it is. A message from my fucking arch-nemesis.

UNKNOWN: I hope you got out of your bondage.

I practically scramble across the bed to pull the phone into my hands.

NADIA: I am going to kill you.

UNKNOWN: Now, don’t threaten your dom. I may have to gag you with more than your panties.

I pull my thighs tight, my center pooling.

NADIA: Next time, I will be gagging you with a gun.

UNKNOWN: Mmm promise?

I stare at the screen, seething. “Oh, you think you’re cute,” I mutter, growling low in my throat. Talking to him is like setting myself on fire and pretending I don’t love the burn.

I toss the phone onto the bed, resisting the urge to hurl it through the window. My skin still hums from being touched, spanked, and bound. I can feel the dried sweat and slick clinging to every inch of me like a second skin.

I march toward the bathroom, blood still crusted faintly around the cut on my palm, my thighs sore with bruised muscle and phantom sensation.

My reflection catches me in the mirror as I reach for the faucet—hair wild, lips swollen, bite marks blooming at the edge of my collarbone like blooming bruises.

I look like a woman who just survived a war—and lost. But I don’t feel like a loser. The only man to make me feel like a loser was Boris, my father, but Sho knew I was strong enough for these wounds and bruises. He knew what I could handle.

I turn the shower on, and hot water hisses from the shower head instantly, the steam rolls over my exposed flesh and I sigh at the sensation knowing the water will be better.

I step under the spray and the first hit of heat makes me suck in a sharp breath.

The water is almost scalding, and I don’t turn it down.

I let it beat against my chest, my back, pouring over the places he touched.

My fingers scrub hard—too hard—over my skin, as if I can erase the evidence of what we did, his mouth, the way he left me undone, but I don’t want to erase him.

Phantom heat curls over my skin with every drag of the washcloth, and I let the scent of jasmine give me some semblance of peace before I do what I have to do.

My father, Boris Petrov—once called the Demon of New York and head of the Bratva’s American division—is free because of Sho, and he should never be free.

I spent my life trying to earn his approval, thinking if I killed enough, fought hard enough, he’d see me as worthy.

But Boris never believed women could lead.

He murdered my mother for infidelity, then tormented Aleksandr, Nik, and me by sending us pieces of her body.

And still, back then, I wanted his respect.

Now that I know the truth, all I want is for him to suffer—for what he did to her, for the lies he fed us, and for everything he took.

Sho didn’t mean to set all of this in motion.

He was chasing his own revenge against the Yakuza, blinded by it, and in the process, helped Boris escape.

Because of him, the man who hates me most is now free—a man who would rather see me dead than see me as Queen of the Bratva. That can’t go unanswered.

Aleksandr and I are meeting with the head of the Yakuza to demand Boris’s return or the location of his hiding place.

Sho may never forgive me for making that kind of deal, but what we have was never meant to last. He’s the heir to the Yakuza.

I’m a Bratva princess trying to take the throne.

Us being together would mean war. Whatever’s between us was always standing on ice—and I’m about to shatter it for my future.

The water cools slightly and I slip out of the shower, finally clean—every inch of me scrubbed raw, including freshly shampooed and conditioned hair that now smells like jasmine and vanilla, purely expensive.

I wrap a sinfully fluffy towel around my body and twist another into a knot at the top of my head.

My skin is pink from heat, scrubbed down to the bone. But I feel…reset. Not calm. Not centered. Just sharper. Like a blade wiped clean, waiting to be drawn again.

I step into the bedroom, steam trailing behind me like a ghost. And there it is—my phone, buzzing softly against the sheets. And beside it, the black garment bag.

With a cautious gaze, I tap my phone and look at the new message from Sho.

UNKNOWN: Your clothes should be there. Can’t have you leaving in that dress .

I roll my eyes changing his contact before I unzip the garment bag with more force than necessary, and the second the zipper drops, I mutter under my breath?—

“Блядь…” My jaw tightens. Of course the bastard was right.

Inside: a pair of high-waisted leather pants.

A cropped white tank top, soft but structured.

A matching leather jacket with quilted shoulders and a concealed blade slot in the inner lining.

And on the floor are heeled black military boots with silver buckles that look similar to the ones I wear back at home.

I quickly dry off, leaving the towel around my hair. Sho thought of everything but underwear, so I shrug and continue to get dressed

I slide on the pants—they hug my hips with dangerous precision—and tug the tank over my head. It settles into place like it was sewn onto me. I swipe a pair of his socks from the drawer—gray, thick, still warm from the drawer heater.

Even without the boots or the jacket, I already feel lethal again.

I grab my phone off the bed and fire off a message.

NADIA: No underwear?

The reply comes back instantly.

ASSHOLE: I don’t think you will be needing to wear it for the foreseeable future.

I roll my eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t fall out of my skull.

“Cocky little shit,” I mutter, but my fingers tighten around the phone, a wicked smile pulling at the edge of my mouth.

He’s not wrong. And that’s the problem .

I pull on the boots, zipping them up, and looking at how perfect they look on my feet. I throw on the leather jacket last. It’s heavier than it looks, like it could be bulletproof, or hold an absurd amount of weapons.

Fucking Sho . He knows me too well.