Page 23 of Brutal Union
“He got your size right,” Aleksandr mutters.
“Don’t mention it,” I growl.
We arrive at a sleek glass tower rising from the heart of Marunouchi, Tokyo’s financial district. Aleksandr steps ahead of me and opens the door, smoothing the front of his suit with practiced precision. Always immaculate—jet-black hair slicked back without a strand out of place, posture sharp as a blade. He looks like our father, down to the hard jaw and the broad, built frame. Massive. Imposing. But never messy.
Where I’m chaos, Aleksandr is order. He thrives on control—numbers, structure, the kind of quiet legitimacy that keeps the Mafia breathing on paper. Violence doesn’t thrill him the way it does me. He doesn’t chase blood. He weighs it, calculates it, and only acts when every other option is exhausted. For him, killing is a line item—not a craving.
He adjusts his cufflinks before following me inside. Not because they’re crooked, but because he always needs to be doing something. A nervous tick he swears isn’t nervousness.
Nikolai—our older brother—used to be the one I was closest to. But after he betrayed me, everything shifted. Aleksandr and I bonded in the aftermath. He doesn’t try to control me like Nik did. He balances me. Calms me without trying to tame me.
Together, Aleksandr and I are two sides of the same empire.
The air in Marunouchi smells like money and ambition—crisp, calculated, and layered with the quiet tension of men who carry secrets in custom suits. This isn’t the Tokyo tourists see. No street vendors. No neon. Just mirrored towers, luxury sedans, and the heavy hush of real power.
Marunouchi is the empire’s mask.
All clean lines and corporate elegance on the surface. But beneath? Unwritten deals. Threats passed quietly between elevator rides. Money funneled through offshore accounts, security firms that don’t ask questions, and boardrooms where silence is currency.
For the Yakuza, this place isn’t just neutral ground—it’s theater. The illusion of legitimacy in the most orderly city in the world.
We walk up to the doorman. He is a lean man, with no tattoos, a sleek expensive black suit and bleached blonde hair. What screams Yakuza about him is the fact that he is wearing sunglasses inside like a fucking Bond villian.
“Omae wa akai yoru o mite iru ka?”Are you seeing the red night?He questions, tilting his head to the side, and resting both hands on top of each other in front of his belt, close enough to any weapon he may draw.
I place both of my hands in the pockets of my leather jacket, feeling the hilt of my knife in the secret compartment of my jacket that I discovered on my way here.
Aleksandr smiles in that way that makes him look boyish even with his massive size. “Aka wa tada hajimari da.”Red is just the beginning.
“Ah,” The man appraises, before bending into a deep bow, allowing us to walk to the elevator behind him, and I release my grip on the knife in my pocket.
The elevator is seamless—black glass on three sides, with a mirrored ceiling that catches the gleam of city light and the sharp line of our silhouettes. There's only one button, unlabeled, backlit in red. No floor numbers, no emergency call, not even a keycard swipe. You either belong here or you don’t.
Aleksandr presses the button with a knuckle, and the doors close in silence. No music. No movement. Just a slow vertical slide that feels like sinking into something inevitable.
“You know they’re going to ask if I’m really in charge,” I say, crossing my arms as the elevator glides up.
“They’ll ask,” Aleksandr agrees, eyes locked on our reflection in the mirrored ceiling, “and then they’ll test you.”
I let out a humorless laugh. “Good. I hope they do. I’ve been itching to remind someone what I’m capable of.”
“They don’t care about capability, Nadia. They care about control. If they’re going to keep up the alliance, they want to know someone predictable is running the Bratva.”
“They’d rather deal with you.”
“They would,” he says plainly. “But I’m not the rightful heir.”
I scoff. “If you wanted it, it wouldn’t take much for you to have it.”
Aleksandr looks me dead in the eye, and shakes his head twice. “I do not want it.”
I nod, pursing my lips to the side. “Right. Do we know what they want in exchange for the alliance and Boris?”
Aleksandr exhales through his nose, slow and tight. “No, but I assume it is within reach and easily attainable.”
“Promise,” I smirk.
“No.”
