Page 24 of Brutal Union
I chuckle as the elevator dings open, revealing a breathtaking room that feels like a slice of nature in the middle of an office building. The floor is black marble, polished so smooth it reflects every shadow we cast. The walls are trimmed with pale oak—clean, minimal, perfectly symmetrical. Soft light glows from hidden slats in the ceiling, illuminating the space like a shrine, or a stage.
A small woman, no taller than five feet, greets us with a graceful bow. She’s dressed in a pale blue silk kimono embroidered with cranes, her dark hair twisted into a perfect chignon. Without looking up, she speaks, her voice too cheerful for this establishment.
“Kutsu o nuguidasai.”Please take off your shoes.
Aleksandr murmurs, “Take off your shoes,” and is already bending to slip off his loafers with the practiced ease of someone raised under our father’s rigid discipline. He steps aside and offers me a hand.
I roll my eyes, but take it.
Leaning into his balance, I unlatch the thick zippers of my heeled combat boots and step out of them, one foot at a time, my knife still sheathed in the lining of my jacket. The woman doesn’t blink at the visible weapon. That alone tells me she’s seen worse.
She bows once again and hands us a pair of soft, linen house sandals—black for Aleksandr, ivory for me. Then, she gestures with two fingers toward a set of massive double doors at the far end of the room, before turning to walk in that direction.
They’re jet black and windowless, paneled in lacquered wood, with no visible handle. Just the symbol of the Matsumoto family—an etched white chrysanthemum—carved into the center of each.
“Here we go,” Aleksandr mutters under his breath, already moving.
I adjust my jacket, slide the sandals on, and follow.
At the end of the hall, she stops in front of the towering black double doors, a serpent curls around a blade with whitechrysanthemums gathered at the base, the emblem catching the overhead light.
She knocks in a precise pattern: two soft. Pause. Three hard. Followed by an open palm hand slap.
The doors open simultaneously from within, as if pulled back by ghosts. Behind them stands a wall of power—three men, still as statues, each exuding a different kind of threat.
The one on the left is Tanaka Ryoji, heavyset with a dense, brutal build. His graying buzz cut and thick neck only make the deep lines in his scarred knuckles more noticeable.
On the right stands Matsuda Kenji, snake-thin and sharp-edged in an immaculately tailored charcoal Armani suit. His small black eyes don’t blink, don’t move.
And standing dead center—larger than life and twice as dangerous—is Hiragi Daichi, the Executioner. Built like a wall, tall and thick with muscle, his loose black clothing does nothing to hide the sheer size of him. A jagged scar curves down from his cheek to his throat like a warning carved into flesh, and from the edges of his collar, the vibrant coils of a dragon tattoo peek out—irezumi ink (traditional Japanese tatoos) that marks him as death on legs. He steps forward without a word, eyes unreadable as he motions for us to raise our arms.
Aleksandr obliges first, lifting his hands as Daichi steps into his space. He pats him down swiftly and thoroughly, removing three guns from hidden holsters with the efficiency of a soldier—and zero ceremony. One from the waistband, one from the ankle, one from beneath the back panel of his suit jacket. Daichi holds them up for the others to see, then sets them aside in a tray just inside the door.
Then he turns to me.
I lift my arms, meeting his eyes. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t leer. Just starts the process. The knife at my hip, the other at my ankle, the narrow one tucked into the lining in the sleeve of my jacket, and the spring-loaded one along the waist of my jeans. His hands find the one tucked in the hidden shoulder pocket of my jacket, and I feel his pause—but just for a second—before he draws it out with clinical precision and a grunt.
When he finishes, I drop my arms and let out a short exhale.
I lift my chin. “You missed one.”
He freezes, eyes rolling over me with a lethal glare.
I smirk. “Kidding.”
One of the Daichi grumbles under his breath,“Kuso onna...”Damn woman,while Tanka mutters, “Amerika no musume wa itsumo mendou da...”American women are always a pain...
Aleksandr snorts softly beside me, eyes flicking sideways. “They’re not wrong.”
I elbow him in the ribs, not hard enough to bruise—just enough to remind him I’m still armed with attitude, if nothing else.
Daichi steps back the tension in his shoulders not wavering despite our lack of weapons. He gestures us forward into the chamber beyond, revealing Takeda Matsumoto, the head of the Yakuza and Sho’s father.
He wears a traditional black kimono, the fine silk folding precisely across his lean frame, untouched by time or movement. A serpent curled around a blade, his family crest, sits on the chest—simple, stark, and unmistakable against the deepblack of the kimono. His salt-and-pepper hair is slicked back without a strand out of place, not one sign of disorder.
A lacquered tray rests in front of him, centered with a delicate cast-iron teapot and three small ceramic cups—white with dark blue brushstrokes curling like smoke. He pours the tea himself, slow and careful, bracing the kettle with both hands, without looking up. The sound of the liquid hitting porcelain is the only noise in the room.
Aleksandr and I stop in front of him, both going into a deep bow at the hip.
