Page 67 of Brutal Unionn
Her lips curl into a smirk as she steps into my space. One hand pinches my chin, tilting it. The other snakes behind my neck with the quiet finality of an executioner’s grip—deadly and practiced. Assassin control. Before I could blink, she could snap my neck.
“Who are you keeping him alive for?” she taunts, her voice a breath against my cheek. “You won’t let anyone touch him.Won’t let me finish the job. But you keep him there. Hanging. Dripping. Like the sweetest carrot.”
I clench my fists, jaw twitching.
Her fingertips curve over the outline of my jaw. “Who else do you do it for if not her?”
“Your point, Aoi.” I keep my voice strained, eyes never leaving hers.
“Go get her back before you go to war,” she says, no flirtation, no venom—just the bone-deep command of a killer who’s done dancing with emotion.
“You sound like you care about me,” I smirk.
Aoi taps my cheek once, like a warning. “I care that you don’t make a fool of Bhon, because you’re distracted by a pair of tits.”
“You know it’s more than that.”
She turns away, a smirk over her shoulder as her robe trailing behind her, disappearing back into the house. I wait until I can’t hear her footsteps anymore before I move.
Through the brush, I follow the narrow, hidden path carved out by years of secrecy and blood. Jagged stones jut up from the earth like broken teeth, their edges worn smooth by footsteps that never wanted to be followed. Thick roots snake along the ground, silent and unmoving beneath a canopy of pine and cedar that swallows sound. The deeper I go, the more the forest tightens, the air cooling with every step, until even the breeze feels hesitant to follow.
I stop at the torii gate—half-collapsed, (iconic Japanese gate) its once vibrant paint now peeled and lost to rain, its frame strangled by creeping vines. There’s a sacredness here, but it’slong since curdled into something more sinister. My fingers press into the rusted metal panel hidden behind a loose stone. The keys are worn to the point of guessing, but I know the code by feel. When the last button clicks into place, the trapdoor at the base of the gate shifts, ancient hinges groaning like something buried too long.
As I descend, the wooden stairs creak beneath my weight, damp with forest moisture and thick with the scent of soil and decay. The temperature drops sharply, the kind of cold that seeps straight into your bones. The basement is carved directly into the mountain’s rock, the walls wet with condensation that collects in slow drips from the ceiling. Faint rust marks streak the stone from where water runs down old chains embedded into the walls. It’s silent, save for the occasional drip of moisture and the low hum of the generator buried beneath the floor.
A frayed bulb swings overhead, its cord tangled with cobwebs. I flip the switch.
The light stutters to life, bathing the chamber in a jaundiced glow. And there, against the far wall, is the man I’ve kept at the edge of death for three years.
Boris Petrov.
His body slumped against the wall, arms chained to the ground with minimal give. . What’s left of him barely resembles a man. His chest is sunken, ribs pushing against skin that clings like paper. His stomach is hollow, bruises layering like sediment—some faded yellow, others freshly purple.
His face isa mess of swelling, hair, and blood. The beard is matted, flecked with little specks of dried food. It is difficultto identify who he once was, the strong-willed, brutal ruler of the Bratva. One eye is swollen shut. The other, clouded but alert, finds me instantly.
I take a step forward. My boots scrape against the stone, and his neck gives the smallest twitch. He lifts his head, slowly, unsure of what I bring. Still, there’s recognition. He knows it’s me.
I want him to know.
Despite his appearance, his health is meticulously maintained. I make a ritual of it all. I clean this place obsessively, not for him. For the mission. I stitched him up without the grace of pain-killers. He gets the bare minimum vitamin intake for the week, hidden in the slosh a normal man would not dare consider food. I keep him alive, not well. Sustained, not safe. Just enough to make sure he suffers. Just enough to ensure he’s here when she’s ready.
Three years of ice water wake-ups and broken bones. Three years of rationing his food to keep his organs running. Three years of pain. Questions. Lies. Answers I already knew.
Still, I haven’t killed him.
Because I want her to.
That’s the truth. One I’ve never said—not to Bhon, not to Aoi, not to myself.
I move closer. His lips tremble, a dry sound escaping from his throat.
“?????? ????, ????.”Good morning, father,I say.
He blinks. Maybe. Or twitches. It’s hard to tell.. His tongue is swollen, cracked. I wonder if he remembers his name.
Aoi was right. I am consumed with her.
I keep him for her. I learned Russian for her. I killed for her. And I told myself it was all part of moving on—burying her in blood.
