Page 52 of Brutal Unionn
I stop. Glance back.
“A man who orders a hit on their daughter,” Bhon says, a violent chill in his eyes, “doesn't deserve a clean kill.”
“Oh,” I smirk, lips curling over the rage brewing in my chest. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
13
NADIA
“Deep breath,Malen'kaya,”Little one. Rebecca whispers, her latex-covered finger pressing lightly into my side.
I suck in sharply, the lightning pain from my wound dulled to a slow burn over the week. It still bites, but no longer cripples. That’s what I callprogress.
“Not bad,” she mutters, eyes narrowing through her rainbow-colored glasses as she leans in to get a closer look. “No signs of infection. That’s more than I can say for some of theidiotsyou surround yourself with.”
“Don’t remind me,” I groan. “One of Aleksandr’s guys thought it was a good idea to pour vodka on a bullet wound and duct-tape it shut a couple of weeks ago.”
Rebecca barks out a laugh, as she pushes me onto my side to look at the back side of the wound. “Andyou’rethe one with the reputation for sadism. That man should be on a watchlist.”
“That man is not allowed to breathe without someone watching him. I am afraid he will die by accident,” I let out a chuckle.
The light squeeze of an ointment bottle is the only thing that alerts me before the cold jelly goes on my skin. Rebecca smiles. “That boy did a good job.”
I smile, biting back a wince as she gently wipes away the excess healing ointment. “Don’t tell him that. He’ll never let me live it down.”
“He shouldn’t. You could have died Nadia,” she whispers, her voice softer than I have ever heard it.
“Don’t get soft on me Rebecca,” I groan, moving to sit up on my coffee table.
“I can be as soft as I want to be,” she snaps, her voice dipping just slightly. “You are lucky that I was available to be flown in from Japan. With all this chaos, travel restrictions, and oh yeah—that amount of people who want you dead. I am surprised no one tried to kill me.”
I shrug, reaching for the thick envelope of cash on the table beside me. “I don’t trust anyone else, and if anyone killed you, they would have to answer to me.”
She eyes the envelope, unimpressed. “This again?”
I peel it open, letting her see the crisp stack of American hundreds nestled inside. “Stay. In the States. You know I don’t like strange hands near my body.”
Rebecca clicks her tongue, rolling her eyes. “You’re impossible.”
“But persuasive.” I grin.
“You think being rich means people will stay where you tell them. Listen to what you say?” She snorts, stuffing the envelope into her oversized canvas tote anyway. “Youarea paranoid queen, you know that?”
“It’s not paranoia,” I reply, stretching carefully so I don’t reopen anything. “It’s survival. There’s a difference.”
She smirks. “Sure,Malen'kaya. Keep telling yourself that.”
I narrow my eyes. “You call me little one like I don’t have six confirmed kills with a hairpin.”
“Ideliveredthe X-ray that confirmed them,” Rebecca shoots back with a wink. “Doesn’t mean I can’t still call you my little girl when you flinch at alcohol on an open wound.”
I let out a sharp laugh—genuine, for once.
Before she was a respected trauma nurse, she was a feared killer for the Bratva. The kind of woman who could set a man’s bones or break his neck with the same hands. There’s an old story—the kind whispered with vodka on breath and fear behind eyes—about how she once went toe to toe with a Bratva kingpin. Fought him in a back alley under moonlight and neon, walked away with his left testicle as a reward.
Literal badass.
I’ll deny it if she ever asks, but she’s my number one inspiration in life.
