Page 26 of Brutal Union
“So did Judas,” Kenji replies smoothly.
Takeda raises a hand again, and Kenji steps back. The room settles.
“Last night,” Takeda says, eyes sharp on me now, “Sho Matsumoto was seen leaving the Kitano district. You were seen minutes before. Same block. Same surveillance feed.”
I don’t respond. “There are whispers that he is your… companion.”
“He’s not,” I say quickly, firmly, despite the words burning on my tongue. “We have an acquaintance.”
Takeda’s gaze doesn’t waver. “Then use that…acquaintanceship to your advantage.”
Aleksandr cuts in. “What is it you want?”
Takeda clasps his hands in front of him.
“Surrender Sho Matsumoto to us. In return, we will provide the exact location of Boris Petrov. We will consider the slate clean, and the alliance will remain intact. No retaliation. No war.”
“You know the exact location of Boris?” I question, my eyes narrowing as I lean in forward.
“He ran to us, after he was denied entry in Russia.” Takeda nods, leaning back. “Your father has many allies in Japan. We just haven't felt the need to get him, as he doesn’t have much value to us until now.”
I look over at Aleksandr, but his eyes stay locked on Takeda. “Do we have a deal?”
Aleksandr’s silence beside me is thunderous. I know he wants to say yes. I know what I’m supposed to say.
But Takeda is still watching me—waiting to see if my heart will get in the way of my crown.
I breathe in.
And nod once.
“Agreed.”
7
SHO
Broad daylightin the middle of Osaka is a private spring—quiet, serene, and deceptively innocent. The onsen (Japanese hot springs)sits tucked between a stretch of high-end ryokan and traditional homes, a place frequented by high-ranking Yakuza members who like to wash their sins away in mineral water and pretend they’re still men of honor. One man in particular stands out: Matsuda Kenji, the current lieutenant of the Yakuza, the brain behind their financial empire. The man launders billions, manipulates the stock market like a puppet show, and plays politicians like flutes.
He also has a very specific, very disgusting soft spot—for barely eighteen-year-old girls and boys. And a knack for strict, predictable schedules.
My buddy Nickel runs this onsen with his parents. The second Kenji started coming around regularly, he let me know. That was two months ago. Since then, I’ve been patient. Watching. Waiting. Gathering patterns. And more importantly, gathering dirt. Because I know all about Kenji’s preferences—not fromrumors, but from history. From my time in the Yakuza. From the years I spent as the heir.
During that time, I was their ghost and their golden boy. The one who bowed the lowest in public and slit throats in private. I learned every dirty little secret, every soft weakness and hidden shame behind the men who called themselves brothers. Back then, I pledged my loyalty to them with blood.
Now, I just want to spill it.
I’m seated on a flat rock under the shade of a maple tree, loose robes slung around my hips, feet dipped in the warm edge of the spring. Posing as just another guest, but that doesn’t matter, because Kenji is too focused on a dark haired girl to even think about me. My eyes track his every movement as he emerges from the changing area in a fresh linen yukata,summer kimono, sandals tapping quietly against the stone.
He spots me. I keep my expression lazy, neutral—like I haven’t just mapped the two guards posted at the edges of the courtyard. He nods once, a subtle, informal bow. I return it, just enough to acknowledge without inviting attention. From this distance, and at this angle, there’s no way he can see me clearly. The lighting is dim, my posture turned slightly to the side, and the tattoos—my most telling feature—are covered with medical-grade concealment stickers. Even if he squints, all he’s getting is a vague silhouette and a familiar energy he can’t quite place.
It’s been almost seven years since he last saw me. And if Kenji had any real instincts left—beyond his fixation on getting his dick sucked—I might’ve had to kill him right then and there. Instead, I watch as a flicker of curiosity crosses his face. Not recognition. Not yet. Just... interest.
“Aye lover boy,” a voice rings out over the tranquility of the spring. Kenji and I both sharply look in the direction of the voice. It's Nickel; he scurries across the stones with a goofy smile on his face. Nickel has always been loud, unorganized, rude and the exact opposite of me. He looks like the Japanese version of Buddha with a man bun.
Kenji approaches me with that ever-slick smile of his, something wrapped neatly in a cloth held in one hand.
“What about incognito did you not understand?” I whisper, my eyes still on Kenji whose head is cocked to the side as he watches our interaction.
