Page 74 of Brutal Union
“It was the Yakuza,” he says.
I don’t question it. I already know. But still—I ask. “How do you know?”
Nik shifts, reaches into the pocket of his ruined jacket with trembling fingers, and pulls out a small, blood-slicked object. He doesn’t speak. Just drops it into my palm.
It’s a bullet. Heavy. Warm from his body. And engraved with a mark I’d know anywhere.
A serpent coiled around a blade—clean, exact, unmistakable. The Yakuza crest, partially hidden by dried blood. I’ve only seen this symbol twice before: once on the front gates of the Yakuza headquarters, and once tattooed across Sho’s ribs.
“I dug it out myself,” Nik says. His voice is low, strained. “Wanted you to see it.”
I stare at the bullet in my palm, still warm, for a long moment before closing my fingers around it. The sharp grooves cut into my skin, and I don’t let go.
I turn away and walk down the stairs without another word.
“Nadia!” he calls after me.
I stop at the landing but don’t look back. “Take your family somewhere safe. Don’t tell me where. Don’t call. Don’t leave a trail.”
“I’m coming with you. She’s my?—”
“If I see you on American soil before I call for you, I will shoot you on sight.”
Nikolia inhales sharply, the wood yawning under the weight of a step. “Nadia?—”
Tears sting, but I don’t let them fall. I tighten my grip on the bullet, pressing the Yakuza crescent into the center of my palm.
“You, Nikolai Petrov,” I say, voice steady, “are hereby blacklisted from the Bratva.”
Behind me, I hear his knees hit the floor.
“Please—”
“I will return Mia when the time comes. Not before.”
“You cannot go in solo. You will die. Nadia, you’re my sister and?—”
I turn to face him, my expression flat and unshaking as I bark at him. “I am your leader. I am your queen.”
Nik freezes. His mouth opens, then closes again.
“Tsar ne umiraet,” I say quietly. “The tsar does not die.”
He looks down at me from the top of the stairs, face pale, blood seeping from his arm. “Believe me Nikolai, if you do not believe anything else: I will not die. Neither with Mia.”
19
SHO
“This seems unfair, Bhon,”I announce, pulling my sword from its sheath and angling it toward the moonlight.
The steel catches silver along the blade’s edge, shining under the sharpness of the blade. “I have been training with a sword since I could grip my mother’s finger. These boys are going to lose their lives for no reason.”
Across from me, Bhon leans back, and hinges a smile of amusement on his lips. “You think theseboyshaven’t had your same training? Even better?”
“I believe these boys never wielded a true blade.” I practice through the motions, guiding my steel with control. The blade sings with each arc, a clear ring that cuts through the air. “Kind of like this one Bhonnie boy!”
The sword I currently wield was crafted by Masaru Okabe—an old master-smith who lived alone in the mountains outside Osaka. They say he made fewer than ten blades in his lifetime, each one as flawless as the last. He never signed them. Said the steel should speak for itself.
