Page 38 of Brutal Unionn
A voice bellows over the rumble. “Can anyone hear me? Help is coming!”
“Not now, darling.” The man smirks. “I like to play with my kills first.”
10
NADIA
“Nadia stop,”Sho snarls, as I move to get up for the tenth time since he brought me to my safe house in Mount Vernon, New York right on the cusp of the Bronx.
Is this the safest location for me? No, Nikolai and Aleksandr both know about this place, and I am unsure if I can trust either of them right now. Surprisingly the only man in my life I can trust, I am actively trying to get killed by his own father. I want to feel guilty about that.I dofeel something close to regret, pretty similar to remorse, but I can’t afford that feeling right now.
The cauterized wound on my side pulls like it's being ripped open with every breath. It yawns wider every time I move, angry and raw beneath the skin. And as much as I know I owe Sho my life, the pain I’m in makes me want to pin him down and skin him alive just for touching me in the first place.
I limp across the room, heat radiating down my ribs, every step a silent curse. My body protests as I crouch by the closet on the far side, fingers trembling as I pull out a pair of blackleggings and a worn sports bra. I can’t afford softness, not now. Not when I know what’s coming.
“Nadia,” Sho warns behind me, his voice tight. The high-pitched scream of the teapot cuts through the tension, but I ignore him.
I bend down despite the burning throb in my abdomen, my breathing ragged. I shove a stack of clothes aside, hand sweeping deeper.
Nikolai wants me dead. My brother. The man I would’ve died for without hesitation even after the betrayal of lying to me about him being the true heir to the Bratva when he knew I was. The man who first put a blade in my hand, and then proceeded to teach me how to use it. The man who believed in me—when everyone else silenced me just because I didn’t have a dick—paid someone to fucking kill me.
He’s about to make his three kids orphans. Gwen, his wife, doesn’t deserve that. Gio and Mia don’t deserve that. They’re innocent people who love a guilty man. But what the fuck am I supposed to do—lie down and let him kill me out of some twisted loyalty? Out of pity? If that man truly cared about his family this wouldn’t even be an option.I am his sister.
My hand brushes the hardwood, and I grab the pocketknife tucked behind a fallen shirt. I flick it open and lean forward on my knees, wincing as the motion stretches the healing burn across my side.
Sho’s voice carries from the kitchen. “What are you doing?” I hear the clink of a mug hitting the counter, followed by the slam of a cabinet door.
I wedge the knife between two floorboards near the back of thecloset, angling it with precision. One sharp twist and the wood pops free with a low creak.
“My brother wants me dead,” I mutter, sweat rolling down my spine. I pry up the board and slide it aside, revealing the hidden compartment beneath.
“And you probably have internal bleeding,” Sho fires back, the scrape of a spoon on ceramic following him like punctuation.
“So?” I cough as I remove the black cloth covering the true treasures inside.
“I thought we were just stating facts,” he responds, the distinct sound of the cabinets slamming follows the extended huff that leaves his lips. “Where’s your sugar?”
“No sugar,” I snap. “I drink my coffee black.”
He grumbles something under his breath.
“Huh? I didn’t hear that.” I mock. My fingers—raw, bruised, and lined with dried blood—dig into the exposed space and pull out a sleek matte-black case.
“I said you're crazy for drinking black coffee,” Sho yells louder, still slamming cabinets. “I mean tea? Sure. But coffee? Absolute psychopathy. Lifetime in prison, no parole.”
“I bet you put shit in there like caramel drizzles, and cold foam,” I grumble as I flip open the hidden metal case with the kind of reverence most people reserve for relics or wedding rings, but this is my valhalla, my salvation. The dark abyss I only left to lead the Bratva.
Inside the case are two Glock 43s, compact and modified with extended mags. A silencer fitted snugly between them. Beneath that, a velvet-lined row of specialty blades—blacksteel, ceramic edges, razor-sharp. Blades that don’t just cut flesh. They separate bone from tendon without hesitation.
“If you wanted my Starbucks order, all you had to do was ask,” Sho calls out, humor in his tone.
I don’t look up. My hands are steady as I lift the weapons from the case—the weight of them grounding me, familiar, almost comforting. Like coming home. One by one, I begin assembling the pieces.
“I don’t want your Starbucks order,” I reply flatly.
He continues anyway, footsteps creaking closer. “It’s a cinnamon dolce hot coffee. Extra cinnamon. Light foam. Soy milk. And if it’s Christmas… I’ll add those red and green sprinkles.”
I slide the first pistol into the waistband of my underwear. The steel kisses the bruised skin along my hip—cold, sharp, and unforgiving. Just like me.
