Page 120 of Brutal Unionn
Sho and I are weapons, not politicians. So we learned to delegate—carefully.
Officially, Sho is the head of the Yakuza. To the public, it’s all him. But behind the curtain, Aoi and Bhon handle most of the diplomacy—cutting deals, managing relations, keeping things quiet. Sho doesn’t have the patience for handshakes and veiled threats. They do.
On my side, I reclaimed the Bratva the only way I knew how—by delivering Boris Petrov’s head in the middle of a councilmeeting. That single moment erased any doubts about my loyalty or my ruthlessness.
I kept the title of Queen, but I’ve learned to share the burden. Nikolai handles the day-to-day operations now—logistics, money, keeping the old guard in line. I trust him, mostly. He knows better than to cross me twice.
I asked Aleksandr once if he wanted to take on more. He shook his head and said, “Between Lily and Rosie, I already report to two bosses who don’t accept excuses.” Fair enough. Their toddler could probably run a small militia already.
It’s not perfect, splitting our lives between New York and Tokyo. The time zones suck. The politics are worse. But it’s what needs to be done if we want this to last. If we want to build something real out of all the destruction we came from.
Which leaves me here. In a wedding dress. Wearing a ring that’s both a promise and a warning. Surrounded by crime lords who’ve all agreed—no killings until after 2 a.m.
After that? All bets are off.
“You look gorgeous,” the low rasp of Sho’s voice catches me off guard and instead of hiding myself I place both hands on my hips, and narrow my eyes at him.
He stands just inside the suite, wearing a crisp whitemontsukikimono layered over a blackhakama. The family crest stitched in silver on the chest, his sleeves perfectly folded, his hair clean and pushed back, revealing every sharp angle of his face. Even in formalwear, he looks like a man built to ruin people.
“You’re not supposed to see me yet,” I say, crossing my arms, but not moving to cover the slit that runs up my leg.
He smirks. “That rule doesn’t apply to us.”
“It’s bad luck.”
“Weare bad luck,” he says simply, stepping closer. “If the universe hasn’t cursed us by now, a dress isn’t going to do it.”
Sho stops just in front of me. His hands curl around my waist, firm and steady. The weight of them is grounding—familiar in a way that makes my chest tighten.
“Touching the bride has to be double bad luck,” I smirk, the clearness of his green eyes almost looks like the Everglades, and I feel like I am falling in love with him again.
“Ooo,” he mutters. “I am so scared.”
His lips brush the base of my neck—light, slow. Then higher, pressing a kiss just beneath my jaw. The heat coils low in my stomach, and I don’t move. Don’t breathe. Another kiss, just behind my ear, and I can feel the smile against my skin as he murmurs, “I am going to rip this dress off with my teeth later.”
I laugh softly, though it’s more of a breathless exhale. “Only if you’re a good boy until after the ceremony.”
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his gaze sharp and predatory. “You wouldn’t torture me by not giving me a taste.”
The word no dies in my throat. Because the way he’s looking at me—like he’s already undressing me in his mind—makes my heart race and my skin flush. I swallow hard, trying to steady myself, but it’s impossible when he’s this close, when his hands are still on my waist, when his lips are still tilted in that dangerous smirk.
“Gwen will kill me if I fuck up this dress,” I gasp as his hand trails up my outer thigh.
“Gwen is going to have to fight me first,” he growls, nipping at the edge of my ear.
“You’re terrible,” I manage finally, my voice shaky. “An hour before the ceremony, and you’re already?—”
“Trying to consummate the marriage?” His fingers tighten slightly on my waist, and he leans in again, his breath warm against my ear.
“You are insufferable,” I grab his hand just as he gets to my hips, but before he can fully notice that I am not wearing any panties. “Am I going to have to handcuff you to keep your hands to yourself tonight?”
He smirks, cocky and completely unrepentant. “Please?”
I push at his chest with the intention of creating space, of reminding him we’re on a schedule, but all it does is give him leverage. His hands slide lower as he pulls me closer, until our bodies are fully pressed together—my chest against his, the silk of my dress dragging across the textured folds of his hakama, every breath shared, every inch of me aligned to the heat rolling off of him.
He dips his head, brushing his nose against mine, and for a second everything goes still. His hand tightens at my waist like he’s holding himself back. Like he’s trying to be good.
Then he kisses me.
