Page 25 of Brutal Unionn
On the right stands Matsuda Kenji, snake-thin and sharp-edged in an immaculately tailored charcoal Armani suit. His small black eyes don’t blink, don’t move.
And standing dead center—larger than life and twice as dangerous—is Hiragi Daichi, the Executioner. Built like a wall, tall and thick with muscle, his loose black clothing does nothing to hide the sheer size of him. A jagged scar curves down from his cheek to his throat like a warning carved into flesh, and from the edges of his collar, the vibrant coils of a dragon tattoo peek out—irezumi ink (traditional Japanese tatoos) that marks him as death on legs. He steps forward without a word, eyes unreadable as he motions for us to raise our arms.
Aleksandr obliges first, lifting his hands as Daichi steps into his space. He pats him down swiftly and thoroughly, removing three guns from hidden holsters with the efficiency of a soldier—and zero ceremony. One from the waistband, one from the ankle, one from beneath the back panel of his suit jacket. Daichi holds them up for the others to see, then sets them aside in a tray just inside the door.
Then he turns to me.
I lift my arms, meeting his eyes. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t leer. Just starts the process. The knife at my hip, the other at my ankle, the narrow one tucked into the lining in the sleeve of my jacket, and the spring-loaded one along the waist of my jeans. His hands find the one tucked in the hidden shoulder pocket of my jacket, and I feel his pause—but just for a second—before he draws it out with clinical precision and a grunt.
When he finishes, I drop my arms and let out a short exhale.
I lift my chin. “You missed one.”
He freezes, eyes rolling over me with a lethal glare.
I smirk. “Kidding.”
One of the Daichi grumbles under his breath,“Kuso onna...”Damn woman,while Tanka mutters, “Amerika no musume wa itsumo mendou da...”American women are always a pain...
Aleksandr snorts softly beside me, eyes flicking sideways. “They’re not wrong.”
I elbow him in the ribs, not hard enough to bruise—just enough to remind him I’m still armed with attitude, if nothing else.
Daichi steps back the tension in his shoulders not wavering despite our lack of weapons. He gestures us forward into the chamber beyond, revealing Takeda Matsumoto, the head of the Yakuza and Sho’s father.
He wears a traditional black kimono, the fine silk folding precisely across his lean frame, untouched by time or movement. A serpent curled around a blade, his family crest, sits on the chest—simple, stark, and unmistakable against thedeep black of the kimono. His salt-and-pepper hair is slicked back without a strand out of place, not one sign of disorder.
A lacquered tray rests in front of him, centered with a delicate cast-iron teapot and three small ceramic cups—white with dark blue brushstrokes curling like smoke. He pours the tea himself, slow and careful, bracing the kettle with both hands, without looking up. The sound of the liquid hitting porcelain is the only noise in the room.
Aleksandr and I stop in front of him, both going into a deep bow at the hip.
“Matsumoto-sama, watashi wa Aleksandr Petrov to moshimasu. Kochira wa Bratva no shidosha, Nadia Petrov desu. Oai dekite koei desu.” Aleksandr says, keeping his bowed formation.
I am shaky at Japanese but I am pretty sure he just introduced us.
Takeda Matsumoto finishes pouring his tea. I hear the pot being placed on the table but I do not break the bow, and keep my eyes on the floor. “Nihongo wa hanasemasu ka?”
Do you speak Japanese?He asks me.
I straighten my back, keep my hands still on my thighs, and answer carefully.
“Sukoshi dake,” I say. “Very little. But I’m learning. Out of respect for this alliance.”
Takeda’s eyes narrow slightly, as he looks me over. Then he gives a single nod, satisfied.
“In that case,” he says in crisp, almost accent free English, “we will speak in English. Please—sit.”
“Thank you,” I nod. We lower ourselves onto the cushions across from him, and he bows slightly with his head.
“I have provided ceremonial grade green tea,” Takeda says, his voice calm, almost indulgent. “It is a simple roasted tea, but it is my favorite.”
“Thank you, Matsumoto-sama,” Aleksandr responds smoothly, bowing his head slightly as he reaches for the cup with both hands—the way one should, with respect.
I mimic him, fingers curling around the delicate ceramic as I lift it to my lips. The steam curls gently upward, carrying a warm, earthy aroma—faintly floral with a whisper of smoke.
I take a cautious sip.
The flavor is smooth and layered, deeper than green tea but softer than black. It blooms across my tongue with notes of spring florals, stone fruit, and a trace of honey at the finish—smoky, slightly sweet, and grounding in a way that catches me off guard.
