Page 117 of Brutal Unionn
Just enough to carve a deep, punishing cut across his chest that forces him to stagger back.
The dark silk of his kimono sliced open and soaked with red. He stumbles back a step, then another, breath hitching as he grips his side. The arrogance is gone. But his eyes still burn with that same fire—the fire of a man who thought he’d never bleed.
I don’t give him time to recover.
My blade slashes across his thigh, clean and fast. He buckles to one knee with a grunt, panting, sweat dripping from his jaw.
“You think this is how you prove something?” he spits, lifting his gaze to mine. “Killing me makes you a king?”
“No,” I answer, circling slowly, blade glinting in the low light. “It makes me your fucking God. There is no heaven for tyrants, father.”
He tries to rise, and I slam my boot into his chest, sending him sprawling flat on his back. His sword lies ten feet away, forgotten. He coughs, blood bubbling at the edge of his lips. He’s still breathing, still glaring—still trying to win a war he already lost.
I stand over him, katana raised, my heart pounding not with fear—but with relief that this moment is finally here.
“You were never worthy of the Yakuza,” I whisper, raising the katana high. “And as you die you will not be worthy of the same heaven that holds my mother. Your spirit dies here. ”
“Sho-” He sputters but it is too late.
One clean swing. The blade cuts through flesh, bone, silk. His head rolls once, then settles, eyes frozen wide in disbelief.
Blood pools across the polished floor, spreading around his lifeless body like a halo in reverse. I lower the blade slowly, chest heaving.
I look over my shoulder.
Nadia stands a few feet away, a smile so wide and bright you’d think she’d see heaven and not me killing my own father. Her blade is lowered. Her shoulders are squared.
And when our eyes meet, she runs into my arms, and whispers, “I am so proud of you.”
EPILOGUE
Nadia
A YEAR LATER
“Who the fuckputs baby’s breath in a winter wedding bouquet withredandblackas the main colors?!” Gwen screeches into her phone, pacing the width of the bridal suite like she’s planning a hit, not a ceremony.
“Language!” Lily snaps, scandalized, as she gently covers Ashley’s ears. The little girl sits between her thighs, head tilted back, curls tumbling like dark silk down her back while Lily attempts—futilely—to tame her hair into something wedding-appropriate.
Mia, lounging nearby with one leg kicked over the arm of a plush chair, giggles. “Mommy says bad words all the time.”
Gwen spins, eyeing her daughter like she’s just committed high treason. “One—Mia, you are a traitor. And two—both of those children are mine!”
Lily gasps, clutching a hairbrush like it’s a dagger. “That doesn’t mean you get to curse like a sailor in front of them! Have some decorum, Gwendolyn!”
“Oh, please,” Gwen scoffs, flipping her off with the same hand holding her phone, manicured nails catching the light. “They’ve heard worse from you in traffic.”
Lily glares but doesn’t argue. Instead, she sighs and turns back to the girls, wiggling in her hair station. “Don’t listen to your mother,” she murmurs, parting Ashley’s curls with practiced ease. “You two are angels. And today, we’re going to make you look like princesses.”
Ashley beams and leans back into Lily’s touch, and Mia wiggles closer, looping her pinky with her like they share some sacred, unspoken promise.
They’ve been inseparable ever since the rescue.
Mia wouldn’t let go of Ashley—not for the doctors, not for Gwen, not even when offered the safest, warmest home imaginable. Her little arms wrapped around Ashley’s waist like armor, and when Nikolai suggested rehoming her to a “loving family,” Mia cried until Gwen agreed to adopt her.
“Don’t mess with the curls,” Mia warns Lily, leaning over. “She likes them wild.”
Ashley nods solemnly. “Like a lion. Rawr!”
