Page 24 of Brutal Unionn
Aleksandr smiles in that way that makes him look boyish even with his massive size. “Aka wa tada hajimari da.”Red is just the beginning.
“Ah,” The man appraises, before bending into a deep bow, allowing us to walk to the elevator behind him, and I release my grip on the knife in my pocket.
The elevator is seamless—black glass on three sides, with a mirrored ceiling that catches the gleam of city light and the sharp line of our silhouettes. There's only one button, unlabeled, backlit in red. No floor numbers, no emergency call, not even a keycard swipe. You either belong here or you don’t.
Aleksandr presses the button with a knuckle, and the doors close in silence. No music. No movement. Just a slow vertical slide that feels like sinking into something inevitable.
“You know they’re going to ask if I’m really in charge,” I say, crossing my arms as the elevator glides up.
“They’ll ask,” Aleksandr agrees, eyes locked on our reflection in the mirrored ceiling, “and then they’ll test you.”
I let out a humorless laugh. “Good. I hope they do. I’ve been itching to remind someone what I’m capable of.”
“They don’t care about capability, Nadia. They care about control. If they’re going to keep up the alliance, they want to know someone predictable is running the Bratva.”
“They’d rather deal with you.”
“They would,” he says plainly. “But I’m not the rightful heir.”
I scoff. “If you wanted it, it wouldn’t take much for you to have it.”
Aleksandr looks me dead in the eye, and shakes his head twice. “I do not want it.”
I nod, pursing my lips to the side. “Right. Do we know what they want in exchange for the alliance and Boris?”
Aleksandr exhales through his nose, slow and tight. “No, but I assume it is within reach and easily attainable.”
“Promise,” I smirk.
“No.”
I chuckle as the elevator dings open, revealing a breathtaking room that feels like a slice of nature in the middle of an office building. The floor is black marble, polished so smooth it reflects every shadow we cast. The walls are trimmed with pale oak—clean, minimal, perfectly symmetrical. Soft light glows from hidden slats in the ceiling, illuminating the space like a shrine, or a stage.
A small woman, no taller than five feet, greets us with a graceful bow. She’s dressed in a pale blue silkkimono embroidered with cranes, her dark hair twisted into a perfect chignon. Without looking up, she speaks, her voice too cheerful for this establishment.
“Kutsu o nuguidasai.”Please take off your shoes.
Aleksandr murmurs, “Take off your shoes,” and is already bending to slip off his loafers with the practiced ease of someone raised under our father’s rigid discipline. He steps aside and offers me a hand.
I roll my eyes, but take it.
Leaning into his balance, I unlatch the thick zippers of my heeled combat boots and step out of them, one foot at a time, my knife still sheathed in the lining of my jacket. The woman doesn’t blink at the visible weapon. That alone tells me she’s seen worse.
She bows once again and hands us a pair of soft, linen house sandals—black for Aleksandr, ivory for me. Then, she gestures with two fingers toward a set of massive double doors at the far end of the room, before turning to walk in that direction.
They’re jet black and windowless, paneled in lacquered wood, with no visible handle. Just the symbol of the Matsumoto family—an etched white chrysanthemum—carved into the center of each.
“Here we go,” Aleksandr mutters under his breath, already moving.
I adjust my jacket, slide the sandals on, and follow.
At the end of the hall, she stops in front of the towering black double doors, a serpent curls around a blade with white chrysanthemums gathered at the base, the emblem catching the overhead light.
She knocks in a precise pattern: two soft. Pause. Three hard. Followed by an open palm hand slap.
The doors open simultaneously from within, as if pulled back by ghosts. Behind them stands a wall of power—three men, still as statues, each exuding a different kind of threat.
The one on the left is Tanaka Ryoji, heavyset with a dense, brutal build. His graying buzz cut and thick neck only make the deep lines in his scarred knuckles more noticeable.
