Page 75 of Brutal Unionn

“You, Nikolai Petrov,” I say, voice steady, “are hereby blacklisted from the Bratva.”

Behind me, I hear his knees hit the floor.

“Please—”

“I will return Mia when the time comes. Not before.”

“You cannot go in solo. You will die. Nadia, you’re my sister and?—”

I turn to face him, my expression flat and unshaking as I bark at him. “I am your leader. I am your queen.”

Nik freezes. His mouth opens, then closes again.

“Tsar ne umiraet,” I say quietly. “The tsar does not die.”

He looks down at me from the top of the stairs, face pale, blood seeping from his arm. “Believe me Nikolai, if you do not believe anything else: I will not die. Neither with Mia.”

19

SHO

“This seems unfair, Bhon,”I announce, pulling my sword from its sheath and angling it toward the moonlight.

The steel catches silver along the blade’s edge, shining under the sharpness of the blade. “I have been training with a sword since I could grip my mother’s finger. These boys are going to lose their lives for no reason.”

Across from me, Bhon leans back, and hinges a smile of amusement on his lips. “You think theseboyshaven’t had your same training? Even better?”

“I believe these boys never wielded a true blade.” I practice through the motions, guiding my steel with control. The blade sings with each arc, a clear ring that cuts through the air. “Kind of like this one Bhonnie boy!”

The sword I currently wield was crafted by Masaru Okabe—an old master-smith who lived alone in the mountains outside Osaka. They say he made fewer than ten blades in his lifetime,each one as flawless as the last. He never signed them. Said the steel should speak for itself.

My first sword was handmade by my grandfather, a legendary sword-smith in his own right, years ago, but once I held an Okabe sword I couldn’t imagine wielding anything else. It hums in my hand, alive and listening. I pull it closer to my face, angling it toward the dim light to check the edge.

“You think the sword is what matters,” Bhon replies, his voice calm but edged, the weight of his Korean accent sharpening each word. “A sword-maker would not give a blade to an inadequate swordsman.”

I glance down at my bare torso, the sweat clinging to my skin like a second layer. Cold air bites at my cuts—long, shallow slashes dried at the edge, evidence of our earlier rounds. My body aches, but I don’t show it.

“Are you calling me inadequate?” I ask, resetting my grip as I step into my stance. “You know nothing about the true worth of the sword, outsider.”

“I may be an outsider,” Bhon replies, raising his blade until the tip hovers near my throat, “but you are a spoiled pretty boy with fast hands and no patience. I wonder which is worse.”

I smirk, twisting my wrist slightly, the sword settling heavier in my grip. “Pretty boy, huh? Jealousy doesn’t look good on you.”

He lunges with no warning. I shift my weight to my back foot and sidestep, steel clashing against steel as I parry. The impact sends a jolt through my shoulder. Before I can recover, he’s already stepping in with a second strike—targeting my ribs from the left. I deflect with a fast upward block and pivot off my front foot, slashing back toward his torso. He ducks under theblade and slips behind me, fast and controlled, then taps the flat of his sword between my shoulder blades.

“Dead,” he mutters, voice even.

I pivot and swing low, aiming to knock his legs from under him. He hops clean over the arc and lands steady, knees slightly bent, laughing quietly.

We reset, circling.

“Fast, but no discipline,” he says, watching my footwork closely.

“Old, and out of breath,” I shoot back.

He feints low toward my shin, and I shift to counter—but it’s a trick. His blade darts toward my ribs. I catch it just in time with a quick deflection and step in, forcing the fight close. Our swords lock, steel grinding as we press against each other, searching for the slightest slip.

“You hit like a drunk with a dinner knife,” I hiss, face inches from his.