Page 119 of Brutal Union
“Thinking about backing out?” Aoi asks, watching me in the mirror.
“No,” I say quietly. “Just thinking.”
“Dangerous,” Aoi clicks her tongue as she points the curling rod at me. “I just want you to know I am on strict orders to get you down that aisle, by any means necessary.”
In the background, Gwen is yelling again—this time at the caterer for missing the vegan quiches. Lily’s running through the hallway in heels that don’t fit. Someone drops a tray of champagne flutes.
“I promise,” I snort. “I will make it down the aisle, now let's see if my bridesmaids do as well.”
Aoi looks over her shoulder at both of them maniacally working in the hallway. “My wedding gift to you will be getting them to stop freaking.”
I giggle, as she clicks off the curler and places it on the table. “Hey, I still want thosehisandherskatana!”
“That’s Bhon’s present,” she sticks her tongue out at me clapping, her hands together as she pleasantly saysladies.
Chuckling, I turn back to myself in the mirror.
The dress Gwen fought me on fits like it was made for a war queen. Timeless silk, structured bodice, no lace, no frills. The fabric hugs my frame with clean lines, and the slit down the left leg is obscene in the best way—high enough to show the thigh holster GwenthinksI’m not wearing.
I smooth my hands down the waist, catching the shimmer of gold at my ring finger. This dress wasn’t made just to walk down the aisle. It was also made for battle in case anyone tried to kill both the leaders of the Yakuza and the Bratva on their wedding day.
This wedding isn’t just about love. It’s about power. About showing the world—our allies and our enemies—that the Bratva and the Yakuza are no longer at war. That we’re united. Bound not just by blood and history, but by choice.
One foot in the Bratva. One foot in the Yakuza.
After our fathers died, there was chaos. Blood, betrayal, and power grabs from every direction. Sho and I tried to hold it all together—him running Japan, me managing the States. We lasted a few months before burning out, both exhausted and missing each other more than either of us wanted to admit.
Sho and I are weapons, not politicians. So we learned to delegate—carefully.
Officially, Sho is the head of the Yakuza. To the public, it’s all him. But behind the curtain, Aoi and Bhon handle most of the diplomacy—cutting deals, managing relations, keeping things quiet. Sho doesn’t have the patience for handshakes and veiled threats. They do.
On my side, I reclaimed the Bratva the only way I knew how—by delivering Boris Petrov’s head in the middle of a council meeting. That single moment erased any doubts about my loyalty or my ruthlessness.
I kept the title of Queen, but I’ve learned to share the burden. Nikolai handles the day-to-day operations now—logistics, money, keeping the old guard in line. I trust him, mostly. He knows better than to cross me twice.
I asked Aleksandr once if he wanted to take on more. He shook his head and said, “Between Lily and Rosie, I already report to two bosses who don’t accept excuses.” Fair enough. Their toddler could probably run a small militia already.
It’s not perfect, splitting our lives between New York and Tokyo. The time zones suck. The politics are worse. But it’s what needs to be done if we want this to last. If we want to build something real out of all the destruction we came from.
Which leaves me here. In a wedding dress. Wearing a ring that’s both a promise and a warning. Surrounded by crime lords who’ve all agreed—no killings until after 2 a.m.
After that? All bets are off.
“You look gorgeous,” the low rasp of Sho’s voice catches me off guard and instead of hiding myself I place both hands on my hips, and narrow my eyes at him.
He stands just inside the suite, wearing a crisp whitemontsukikimono layered over a blackhakama. The family crest stitched in silver on the chest, his sleeves perfectly folded, his hair clean and pushed back, revealing every sharp angle of his face. Even in formalwear, he looks like a man built to ruin people.
“You’re not supposed to see me yet,” I say, crossing my arms, but not moving to cover the slit that runs up my leg.
He smirks. “That rule doesn’t apply to us.”
“It’s bad luck.”
“Weare bad luck,” he says simply, stepping closer. “If the universe hasn’t cursed us by now, a dress isn’t going to do it.”
Sho stops just in front of me. His hands curl around my waist, firm and steady. The weight of them is grounding—familiar in a way that makes my chest tighten.
“Touching the bride has to be double bad luck,” I smirk, the clearness of his green eyes almost looks like the Everglades, and I feel like I am falling in love with him again.
