Page 47 of Brutal Unionn
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SHO
New York Cityis nothing compared to Tokyo at night. In fact, it feels safer here. In America, the criminals are loud—on full display for anyone paying attention. The shadows aren’t hidden; they shine with gravitas, iced-out chains, and men desperate to be seen. Everyone wants you to know who they are and exactly how much power they hold.
No one moves in silence. Every man is chasing clout, trying to make a wave. And with so many people willing to be bought, it’s almost too easy to find whoever you’re looking for.
Even an assassin known for silent kills.
Even one feared by everyone.
When I first heard the Korean, I should’ve known exactly who Bhon Lee was. But I was distracted—by a dying Nadia. The fear of losing her pulled everything else out of focus. It made me forget who stood before me. And more importantly,whyeven my father, Takeda Matsumoto, feared him.
They call himThe Viper—not just for how he kills, but for how patient he is while waiting to strike.
Bhon Lee’s story is common, an old story about the relationship between money and power. It's gnarly, brutal—unfortunately familiar in the world of the Yakuza. He was sold to my father twenty-three years ago. Not adopted.Bought.A child traded for debt. For the dishonor his father brought to their family name.
You see, his father, Si-woo Lee, owed over twenty billion yen to the Yakuza. That’s about 138 million U.S. dollars, for the Americans in the room. No one that broke could pay a debt that big with money. So he paid in blood. In flesh. He handed over his sons.
Duri was too young to be of fighting use, but Bhon—he was old enough to train. Old enough to bleed.
We trained together as boys. I remember watching him with a mix of fear and awe, even then. He didn’t speak much. Didn't cry. Just absorbed pain like it belonged to him.
And when he finally bargained for his freedom, he was given a choice.
Kill a thousand people. In the name of the Yakuza, or survive a beating out.
If it were me, I would’ve taken the thousand.
Bhon chose the beating. Forty-seven men went after him in the main courtyard. He killed them all. It was brutal. No one stepped in. My father watched the whole thing, and when it was over, he let Bhon walk. Just like that.
No rewards. No promises. Just the clothes on his back.
Back then, I thought Bhon was a legend. I still do.
I’m being hunted for killing the trusted guards when I was sixteen, along with what was left of the Matsumoto family. And even with that on my name, Bhon is still the only man who ever escaped the Yakuza and earned their respect on the way out.
I should have recognized him, by his voice alone.
I lean back against the bar, my fingers tapping against the polished dark wood—cleaner than I expected for a place like this. The lighting shifts between low purple and deep blue, pulsing softly across the room in sync with the bass that hums beneath the marble floor.
Rich, dark wood and velvet booths line the edges, broken up by mirrored walls and scattered chandeliers that hang low, casting a soft glow over the room.
Women walk around inPlayboybunny bodysuits like tuxedos moving through the space with full trays of drinks and sexual trinkets. A few more handsy than the others. Bhon sits near the back, in a wide black leather chair just shy of the private booths, but he doesn’t touch the woman in front of him. If anything, he looks irritated—at her, at whoever’s on the other end of the line.
My gaze weighs heavy, and after a few seconds, he shifts—eyes scanning the room like something doesn’t feel right. The pressure of being watched has reached him, even if he hasn’t figured out where it’s coming from.
A tall blonde with wide eyes and a southern drawl drifts over, placing a hand on my shoulder like she’s known me forever. Her smile is big, and her eyes look almost doll-like.
“Well, hey there, stranger. Can I get you anything?” She purrs, pushing up on her tip-toes.
I grab her wrist, sliding her hand off of me. “Not right now.”
“You sure?” She pouts, her chest grazing my arms, making almost every nerve on my body curl away from her. “Because you look like you could relax.”
I chuckle, in that dry humorless way that confuses most people. “You really don’t want your hand.”
“You threatening me?” She questions, leaning into her hip as her eyes narrow on me.
