Page 68 of Brutal Unionn

“You—” Boris rasps. “You have come to kill me.”

I kneel, dunking a sponge into a nearby bucket. The water is stained brown with rust, soap, and memory. I swirl it slowly, watching the ripples.

“You wish, Gifu,” I say.

He throws his head back. The soft crack of skull against stone barely registers anymore. His eyes roll. A sound escapes—part laugh, part surrender.

I step in close, press the sponge to his shoulder, gently at first, wiping away the grime.

“You eat today.”

He wheezes a laugh. “Do you pray for me?”

“I don’t,” I mutter.

“I do,” he says. “You’re soft. Blinded. By pussy.”

My hand freezes mid-stroke.

“You never learn,” I say, my voice low. “You still speak of her.”

He smiles a broken smile. “Nadia is like her mother. A liar. You’ll learn. Or die for her.”

The sponge drops.

I hit him. Fist to jaw. His head whips sideways, chains clanging. Blood spatters across the stone. He coughs, mouth trembling.

“You don’t say her name,” I growl, grabbing his beard and forcing his head back toward me. “You don’t speak about her. You don’t think about her.”

Boris coughs blood, smearing it down his chin. “You love her,” he croaks. “She’ll gut you.”

I toss the bucket of soapy water over his head in one smooth, uncaring motion. The cold hits him like a slap, and I hope—really fucking hope—a mouthful of it slides down his throat. Fitting, since he’s been choking on lies for decades. He coughs, sputters, but still—he smiles. That smug little curl of his cracked lips. Boris Petrov doesn’t fear death. He’s waiting for it. Daring me to make it hurt. I drop the bucket. Let the hollow clang of it on the concrete ring out like a bell. A countdown. A warning. A promise.

“You only die by her hand,”I snarl. “That’s the only ending you get.” I wind up kicking his shins, to give him a lasting pain before I return.

“Sho! Blades!”Bhon’s voice echoes down from above.

I look down at Boris, his eye half-closed, his breath thin.

“You’ve always been a lucky bastard, Gifu.”

17

NADIA

“You want to straighten your back,”I say, pressing my fingers firmly into the small of Mia’s spine.

She stiffens under my touch, trying to obey, but ends up contorting like a confused flamingo. Her shoulders jerk up, her hips tilt forward awkwardly, and she juts her chest out like she’s trying to impress a firing squad. It’s almost impressive how wrong she can make it look.

Her tongue pokes out from the corner of her mouth, curling up toward her nose, and her right eye clamps shut like she’s taking aim through a sniper scope. She looks like a child pretending to be a soldier. Because she is.

I sigh through my nose, biting back a smirk.

“And stop puffing out your chest,” I snort, slipping two fingers beneath her ribs and tickling her sides just enough to make her squirm.

She squeals, trying not to laugh, trying even harder not to lose her balance.

“You’re not about to blow into a trumpet,” I murmur, stepping back, letting her find her posture again. “You’re throwing a weapon, not performing in a parade.”