Page 38 of Brutal Union
“And you probably have internal bleeding,” Sho fires back, the scrape of a spoon on ceramic following him like punctuation.
“So?” I cough as I remove the black cloth covering the true treasures inside.
“I thought we were just stating facts,” he responds, the distinct sound of the cabinets slamming follows the extended huff that leaves his lips. “Where’s your sugar?”
“No sugar,” I snap. “I drink my coffee black.”
He grumbles something under his breath.
“Huh? I didn’t hear that.” I mock. My fingers—raw, bruised, and lined with dried blood—dig into the exposed space and pull out a sleek matte-black case.
“I said you're crazy for drinking black coffee,” Sho yells louder, still slamming cabinets. “I mean tea? Sure. But coffee? Absolute psychopathy. Lifetime in prison, no parole.”
“I bet you put shit in there like caramel drizzles, and cold foam,” I grumble as I flip open the hidden metal case with the kind of reverence most people reserve for relics or wedding rings, but this is my valhalla, my salvation. The dark abyss I only left to lead the Bratva.
Inside the case are two Glock 43s, compact and modified with extended mags. A silencer fitted snugly between them. Beneath that, a velvet-lined row of specialty blades—black steel, ceramic edges, razor-sharp. Blades that don’t just cut flesh. They separate bone from tendon without hesitation.
“If you wanted my Starbucks order, all you had to do was ask,” Sho calls out, humor in his tone.
I don’t look up. My hands are steady as I lift the weapons from the case—the weight of them grounding me, familiar, almost comforting. Like coming home. One by one, I begin assembling the pieces.
“I don’t want your Starbucks order,” I reply flatly.
He continues anyway, footsteps creaking closer. “It’s a cinnamon dolce hot coffee. Extra cinnamon. Light foam. Soy milk. And if it’s Christmas… I’ll add those red and green sprinkles.”
I slide the first pistol into the waistband of my underwear. The steel kisses the bruised skin along my hip—cold, sharp, and unforgiving. Just like me.
“That’s too many words to still qualify as coffee,” I mutter, finally turning to face him.
He’s holding out a chipped green mug, steam curling lazily into the air. The scent of cheap instant coffee coils around my senses, bitter and burnt. I take the mug and set it beside me on the floor.
“Thank you,” I mutter.
Sho lowers himself onto the edge of the bed with a hiss, sipping from his own cup like he’s got all the time in the world and there isn’t a man who is hunting me down.
“Want to tell me what you’re doing?” he asks, tone mild but tight.
I lift the second gun, check the chamber, flick the safety on. “What does it look like?”
“It looks like you’re trying to get yourself killed,” he says sharply. “You’re still bleeding. You smell like smoke. You haven’t slept since the explosion three hours ago, and now you’re assembling a small armory.”
“I’m not giving him the first shot,” I say, quieter now. My eyes meet his. “If he wants war, he’s going to bleed for it.”
“You can’t go to war right now,” Sho huffs, a bored look of annoyance on his face.
I slam the pistol onto the table with more force than necessary, pushing to my feet—too fast. Pain lances through my side, white-hot and immediate. I suck in a breath and wince.
“Would you rather I give them time to finish the job?” I snap, biting down on the pain.
“I’d rather you take one damn day to heal,” he fires back, eyes narrowing. “You flinch every time you move. You should be in a hospital?—”
“No hospital.”
The words come out sharp, final. His jaw tightens.
“Then sit down,” he says, his voice low, controlled. “For the next twenty-four hours. No guns. No plans. No vengeance. You lost blood. You need food and rest.”
“Sho—”
