Page 93 of Brutal Unionn

His brow twitches. “Of course I did.”

I huff a breath, nearly a laugh. “Didn’t know you could cook.”

He arches a dark brow, handing me the bowl now that I’m upright. “I’m a grown man, Nadia. I know how to scale a building. I know how to kill. I know how to clean up blood and hide bodies.” He leans in slightly, voice dropping. “And I know how to make fucking soup.”

“Well sorry,” I mutter as I lift the bowl and press the warm edge of the bowl to my lips, taking a sip. It’s good.Reallygood. Balanced, light, but full of umami. Earthy, and grounding. He’s a way better cook than I am.

But before I can compliment him again, the stillness is broken by a sound.

Low. Groaning. A sharp, guttural noise that scrapes against the edges of the quiet night.

I freeze, bowl halfway to my mouth.

I glance around, pulse quickening. “What… was that?”

Sho doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even look up from the steam curling between us.

Instead, he just lifts his tea to his lips and takes a slow sip.

“It’s better than any other time,” he mutters, “for you to see your forgiveness present.”

Another groan—this one more distinct. Human. Strangled.

I lower the bowl and narrow my eyes. “Forgiveness present?” I echo warily.

He smirks around the rim of his cup. “You’ll understand part of the reason I was so pissed you betrayed me.” He sets the cup down gently, and I flinch at the sound. “It was supposed to be our one month anniversary present, now it can be our wedding present.”

“Wedding present?”

“You think I am going through this again?” Sho rises slowly, brushing his palms down his thighs, then holds out a hand to me. “You and I would be married by now.”

“Right,” I hum out the word, before clearing my throat and looking at the imaginary watch on my wrist, “but we have only been dating for I don’t know… three minutes.”

“And I hear the wedding bells, don’t you?”

“Sho--”

“Come on, Hime,” he says with a smile so twisted adrenaline rushes through my veins. “Let's go kill your father.”

22

NADIA

I don’t believe it.

Like—Iseriouslydo not believe what is in front of me right now.

I thought Nikolia had shown my father the depths of hell when we had him locked up. I thought the cold cells, the strategic starvation, the bone-deep beatings, and psychological torment we unleashed on him were the pinnacle of retribution.

But that?

That was mercy compared to what Sho Matsumoto has done to the once-great Boris Petrov—the Demon of New York. The man who built a criminal empire on blood and screams. The man who mademe.

The man of so many nightmares. The man ofmynightmares.

Now? Now he barely looks like a man at all.

He’s chained in the center of the room—not to a wall, but to a wooden beam suspended low enough that he can’t quite stand, but not low enough to sit. His legs shake from the effort of holding himself upright, ankles raw and red where steel cuffs have rubbed skin down to wet sinew. His arms hang limp, dislocated, chained at the wrists and stretched wide above him. His body sags like meat on a hook.