Page 59 of Brutal Union
“I swear to you,” I murmur, my voice breaking against the wind. “She will never wonder if she matters. Not like I did. Not like you did. I will be a better man. I will be a strong man…just like you raised me to be.”
And just as the last sliver of sun disappears, a figure comes into view, moving slowly down the beach, just beyond the tide line. I watch as this old man drags his feet through the sand with a paper bag and a can of beer, just like his neighbors said he would.
He looks smaller than I remember. Slower. His shoulders curve inward like the years have finally started collapsing his spine.
I rise without rush. Wipe the sand from my palms. The knife slips into the loop on my belt as I make my way over to him. He doesn’t see me at first. His attention stays on the water, his movements are well practiced and his eyes stay focused. I walk toward him without sound, each step pressing firm into the sand.
He’s a few feet from the rocks now, where the shoreline breaks and the beach grows uneven sitting right on the edge as if he is meditating and I found him at the one place where he finds peace. How ironic to die where you thought you could at peace.
Once I am close enough to hear the waves he tenses, his hands crushing the beer can in his hand. “You picked a hell of a place to die.”
He turns to look at me but I tap his shoulder back forward with the tip of my boot.
“Don’t take your eyes off that,” I say, my voice steady. “It’ll be your last.”
He exhales. “Did my bitch of a daughter put you up to this?”
I shake my head and click my tongue. “I would recommend you speak better about my future wife,” I say calmly. “You’re already going to die with your eyes plucked out. Don’t add to the pain, Boris. I beg you.”
He huffs, then finally turns to face me, not flinching, but not smiling either. “She’s got you wrapped tight, doesn’t she?”
I don’t answer, but Boris leans back on his elbows, eyes locked forward.
Boris chuckles without humor. “You think she’s yours. She’s playing you for a fucking fool.”
“You’re not in a position to talk about her,” I snap, eyes narrowing. “You forfeited that right the first time you casted her out, but now that you’ve put a hit on her? She’s dead to you.”
“She’s still my blood.”
“No,” I say, my voice cutting clean. “She’s mine now. Your blood means nothing.”
He snorts, shaking his head with that same smug tilt he must’ve worn the first time he backhanded her. “You really think that means something? Come on, I thought the son of the mighty Takeda Matsumoto was smarter than this.”
“The son of Takeda Matsumoto is dead as well,” I murmur. “When you die, remember it was Sho who killed you, and Nadia didn’t even have to ask.”
Boris leans forward, both hands on his knees, eyes sharp, mouth curling around something venomous. “You fucking idiot. She doesn’t want you.”
The words barely leave his mouth before I grab the front of his shirt, yank him off balance, and slam the back of his head against the edge of a half-buried rock. The crunch is wet and immediate. His beer drops from his hand and spills across the sand.
He groans, dazed, blood beginning to slide from behind his ear. I shove him backward onto his spine, kneel over him, and press the blade to his throat hard enough to draw the first line of red.
“Say that again,” I growl, breathing hard. “Say one more goddamn word about her and I’ll carve the inside of your throat before you can finish it.”
Boris coughs, blood already collecting at the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t fight. He grins.
“She made a deal,” he rasps, voice shaking from the impact but still smug beneath the pain. “With the council. They told her—kill Sho, and she gets her revenge on me, and a secure relationship with the Yakuza.”
I don’t move the knife.
“Keep talking,” I whisper.
His breathing hitches, but he pushes through. “She agreed. It was the only way she could get the Yakuza to give me over. It’s the only reason I hired Bhon.”
My heart stalls in my chest. This man is fucking vile. My girl. My Nadia would never. I hold his gaze, and speak through my teeth. “You’re lying.”
He leans in, the stink of beer and rot thick on his breath. “Then call her.”
I don’t respond, my nostrils flaring at the scent of metal in the air.
