Page 9 of Brutal Unionn
He scans my face for a moment, before pulling back, jaw clicking and letting me go.
I traverse the cramped streets, using back alleys and random turns to make it back to my safehouse.The Shadow…my thought trails as I make my way up the stairs, enter the pin, and subtly remove the small piece of hair from the doorway, my makeshift intruder alarm. If I can find this Shadow, the bane of the Yakuza, I might get my shot at Sho.
I clean myself off, taking extra care to wash away the grime of today’s festivities. Years of experience puts me in my salacious, yet coy battle armor. Eye shadow that gives perpetual fuck-me eyes and cherry red lipstick with a matte finish, designed to get stares from everyone in the room, but my brows and contour lines tell those same people, don’t waste my time.
I slip on a crimson dress that hugs my curves tightly and accentuates my breasts to Victorian standards. The slit on the left leg reaches high enough to leave almost nothing to the imagination, enough to distract from the holsters hiding knives and a gun along my thighs.
My hair is wound up in a bun, held together by two sticks: one for throwing, the other for close range, a nicegift from a colleague in Beijing. To top it off is a short mink coat, perfect for revelations. The last touch of gold jewelry is added before I take off into the night.
3
NADIA
Skeezy.This club is sketchy and that is me saying this nicely.
The alleyway is dimly lit, tucked quite far from the nearest busy street. The lack of CCTV is noticeable, perhaps the main perk for illicit activity in Japan. I wonder if it was designed as such, or if Sho was able to make it that way. The alley itself is quite boring, like a stock backdrop in anime, save for a bright pink neon light outside of an unassuming bar. Outside the entrance is a tall, burlish, bouncer with a crooked nose, a real bruiser type. Next to him waiting to gain entry is a businessman: average height, sleek and clean. They look me up and down as I approach, a predatory glint in their eyes.
“Please take off your jacket,” the big man says, “we need to conduct athoroughsearch.” A smile creeps along his mouth. Instinctively, I brace myself to punch him in the throat and visualize the fight, leaving both men on the ground, clutching at knife wounds and their groins. Before I can react, the businessman scolds the big one.
“Where are your manners?” he chides. He turns to me as I escape the brief moment of shock. “You should always let a woman this gorgeous in, no search necessary.”
His eyes crawl over my skin, as he slides his tongue over the plump pink of his lips. The guy has shaggy blonde hair, bright brown eyes, broad shoulders and tan skin that screams Italian. If I didn’t have a serious mission I would ask this guy to direct me to the nearest restroom and let him know the feeling is mutual, but I can’t, not when Sho could be anywhere.
I flutter my eyelashes looking up into his eyes with a wicked smirk. “Back at ya’ handsome.”
I move past both of the guys, rubbing my hip into the growing hard-on of the handsome blonde guy, as I make my way into the club.
It is illegal to gamble in Japan, but like most illegal things, if there is a market then there is an underground market for it. The club pulses with low neon lights and deep bass, the scent of expensive cologne and cigar smoke clinging to the air like a second skin. I slip through the crowd, my body weaving between men in crisp suits and women draped in silk and sin. The underground gambling den is hidden beneath the illusion of an upscale bar—on the surface, it’s a place to drink, to dance, to forget. But below, past the velvet ropes and behind the mirrored doors, is where the real game begins.
I don’t need to ask for directions. I know exactly where Sho would be.
A man like him—cold, calculating, with enough charm to convince a snake to shed its skin—would never linger in the open. He’d be down in the VIP lounge, where the air is thick with smoke and secrets, where power shifts hands with the flick of a wrist and the turn of a card.
I’d usually push my breasts up a littlehigher in my dress and take the two sticks out of my bun, letting my long blonde hair fall down my back as I sweet-talk my way inside. However, the way the security guy’s lips curl as he checks out a man half his size tells me that cleavage isn’t the currency he deals in.
The mirrored doors swing open, and I step into the heart of the casino like I own it. Because, in a way, I do. The air is thick with sweat, smoke, and desperation—the scent of men who think luck is something they can buy.
Dice clatter against velvet, cards flick through practiced fingers, and glasses of whiskey sweat under the heat of bad decisions. Men in suits lean over tables, their confidence as fragile as their bankrolls, while women drape themselves over the winners, their smiles as expensive as their dresses.
I don’t bother trying to fit in, even in a room full of gorgeous women, some eyes drift to the curve of my hips, or my plunging neckline that fits the black tie dress code. A man with a potbelly licks his lips and mouths to mebeautiful, but all I want to do is cut his tongue out. This dress is for one guy, and it doesn’t even look like he is here.
I decide on the Craps table because it is one of the only gambling games I have ever played. There really isn’t any time to gamble when you are killing enemies, trying to figure out why your father killed your mother, and then becoming queen of a Mafia.
I sidle up to the table, slipping into an open spot beside a man whose gold watch gleams under the chandelier’s soft glow. The dealer eyes me as I purchase a stack of chips, but it’s not suspicion—it’s curiosity. I flash him a slow smile and place my bet, letting the dice tumble across the felt.
They land in my favor.
Alow whistle comes from my left. “Well, well. Looks like we’ve got a natural.”
I turn to find the blonde from the entrance, now lounging beside me with an easy grin and a whiskey glass dangling between his fingers. His brown eyes gleam under the lights, sharp but amused.
“Beginner’s luck,” I say, rolling the dice between my fingers.
“Nah,” he drawls, watching as I toss them again—another win. “That’s all me, sweetheart. I’m your lucky charm.”
I arch a brow, biting back a laugh. “That so?”
He nods, taking a slow sip of his drink before offering his hand. “Calvin Barnes. But everyone calls me Barney.”
