Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 66993 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66993 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
They bombed a restaurant. A family spot. Small. Elegant. One we always loved.
That night, my mother and brother were there. Laughing. Eating grilled river fish and pouring plum wine. My father was there too—holding court, even at a dinner table.
The explosion leveled the entire block.
Civilians.
Staff.
My father’s guards.
Gone.
My mother’s body was found hours later; charred silk still wrapped around her waist. My brother. . .I couldn’t even identify his remains.
But my father?
The piece of shit survived.
Of fucking course, he did.
He lost a lung. Multiple ribs. A collapsed airway. Shrapnel embedded in his spine.
He could have recovered at the estate. We offered to build him a medical wing. His soldiers begged.
But he refused.
Now he lived in that hospital. Hooked to machines. A coward in silk.
He claimed, “no one would bomb a hospital full of innocents.”
And maybe he was right.
Most in Japan still held reverence for sanctuaries of the sick.
But it wasn’t just about safety. I believed that he couldn’t bear to walk past the empty rooms of our estate. Couldn’t face the ghost of Jobon’s laughter echoing down the halls or smell my mother’s perfume that still, even after all these years. . .lingered in every room.
And so. . .he put me in place to rule while he gave me his demands from a hospital bed.
Behind glass.
Surrounded by guards and ghosts.
Still giving orders.
Still, expecting obedience.
But never stepping outside.
Reo pulled me out of my thoughts. “Are you sure we should not bring the Fangs with us?”
“Father would only use them against me, as he is doing with Hiro.” I turned to Reo. “By the way, where did they pick up Hiro?”
“In the anime section of Akihabara. He was playing in an arcade with a woman.”
I frowned. “What woman?”
Reo exhaled. “Her name’s Nura. Remember the Somali woman from last night when we were heading to deal with the Lion?”
My mind flickered back to the Candy Room on the underground distribution floor where all drugs were processed, portioned, and prepped for export.
Hiro’s voice sliced through the silence. “Who’s the girl over there?”
I followed his gaze.
Near the back wall, a new face sat quietly at a workstation lined with rows of compressed MDMA tablets. She had dark brown skin and her scalp was shaved close. She was sorting, weighing, sealing—never once touching the product directly.
“She’s sharp,” Reo had said beside me. “Fast. Never slips. Never samples. Keeps her head down.”
“Background?” Hiro’s gaze remained locked on her.
“Somali,” Reo answered. “Refugee camps. Trafficked through Libya. Escaped from a black-market compound in Athens six months ago. We found her hiding in a cargo container bound for Tokyo. She asked to work for us.”
Hiro studied her like he was watching himself from another life. “Interesting.”
Of course, Hiro picked her.
Of course, he saw himself in her—saw the same broken steel welded into something new.
I returned my mind back to the car. “So, Hiro took her out?”
“Yes. He returned to the Candy Room that night after we wrapped things up with the Lion. Our people said he walked her home. Talked to her the whole way. Watched her go inside. Stood out there for a few hours before leaving.”
Under my order, Reo had guards tailing Hiro to make sure no one messed with him.
Reo continued, “tonight Hiro made Nura take the night off. He had one of the Claws cover her shift.”
My brows rose. “Which Claw?”
“Daisuke.”
I grinned, picturing Daisuke with his sharp black mohawk and tall lanky body, naked in a room of nude women, sorting and weighing drugs because Hiro wanted a date.
I shook my head. “How did Daisuke do?”
“The Candy Room guards complained that he kept getting an erection.”
“And that scared the women?”
“Actually. . .the guards complained that they giggled and flirted with him, instead of focusing on their tasks. Apparently, Daisuke got several numbers at the end of his shift.”
“Good for Daisuke.” I smiled.
Reo continued, “Hiro and Nura went to Akihabara together. He bought them manga and hit up several arcades.”
I could picture it now—neon lights flickering across Nura’s shaved head as she tilted her face toward a claw machine, her small hands gripping the controls. Hiro standing beside her, silent and still but his eyes sharper than the prize sensors.
“After two or three arcades, our people say they went to the food stalls.” Reo added, “They got dango.”
Ah. Dango.
Those skewered rice dumplings brushed with that shiny, sweet soy glaze.
I imagined Hiro handing her one without a word, his expression unreadable as always—just watching her take the first bite.
Soft.
Chewy.
Warm.
A comfort snack with a whisper of smoke. The kind of food that didn’t ask questions, just sat quietly in your mouth and reminded you that you were alive.
Reo smirked slightly. “Then Hiro got her karaage.”
That made sense. Crispy fried chicken sold from street stalls in little paper cups was the way to go for a true date in Akihabara.
“Hiro ate his plain,” Reo’s voice was flat, but amused. “Nura dumped spicy mayo on hers. Our people were close enough to hear Hiro tell Nura that she was ruining it. She said he had no taste buds. They playfully argued the entire time.”