Emperor of Havoc: Chapter 5

“Does it owe you money?”

I’m startled out of my thoughts by Nina’s hands signing in front of my face, and my gaze lifts from the piece of Hamachi sashimi I’ve been stabbing repeatedly with my chopstick without even realizing it.

I glance at her somewhat sheepishly. She grins at me.

“Like, maybe give it a chance to pay you before you murder it?”

I roll my eyes, managing a faint smile as I glance at her. “Just practicing for the wedding night,” I sign, dropping my eyes to the small, pale piece of raw fish on my plate. “I’m guessing this is about as much as I can expect from him.”

Nina bites back a snort. Her sharp blue eyes glint with amusement, though she keeps her expression neutral.

“Everything okay, Nina?” Papa mutters quietly, yanking both our gazes across the table. He eyes us coldly, his expression tolerating zero bullshit.

Obviously, Papa knows what we’re signing. I could switch from the American Sign Language that Nina and I usually use to the Japanese version, and he’d still know. He’s good with languages, something I’ve inherited from him. I may not speak anything these days. But I can fluently understand Japanese, English, Russian, and Italian, as can Nina.

Next to me, she blushes, clearing her throat. “Everything is fine, Kolya-san,” she says with a quiet smile. “I merely had something in my throat.”

“Well, I’m glad it’s no longer there,” Papa answers dryly. “Still, why don’t we keep the conversation in a language the whole table understands,” he murmurs, turning to smile benignly at our guests.

Sergey Vorobev clears his throat. “Is no problem, Kolya,” he grunts in his thick Russian accent. “My son will be doubling up on his signing lessons as we proceed with this…” He glances at his idiot offspring, who’s halfway through chugging his god-only-knows what number glass of wine for the evening. “Arrangement,” Sergey finishes, squinting meaningfully at his son.

I pick at the delicate slices of sashimi on my plate, zoning out and letting it all fade to white noise. Everything about tonight feels distant, unimportant. My mind drifts back to that evening, four nights ago.

Four endless, sleepless nights.

I still don’t know how he got in, or left without a trace. I’ve gone over the security footage from all over the house myself, frame by frame, looking for a flicker of movement, a single shadow out of place. There was nothing. It’s like he materialized out of the darkness itself, grabbed me, put his hands on me, made me come, and then vanished again like smoke.

My chest tightens as I remember his hand—strong, unrelenting—pressing the back of my neck. Three of his thick fingers driving in and out of me. His voice, deep and dangerous, sending a shiver skittering down my spine as he whispered things I can’t let myself even think about now in the cold light of day.

I remember my heart racing, torn between terror and the thrill of surrender, and the heat of him, far too close and yet not close enough.

A lump catches in my throat, shame mixing with the lingering fire of my own betrayal. Part of me has been waiting for him to come back again. Another part of me has been dreading it, to the point that I’ve moved Furrcules’ cat bed to the foot of my own.

Rodion belches loudly, grinning from ear to ear as he lifts his empty glass.

“To Katarina,” he announces loudly, his glass raised high, swaying in his unsteady hand. “The hottest woman in Tokyo, and my future wife.”

My stomach tightens and his father Sergey shifts awkwardly beside him, offering a strained chuckle that does little to mask his discomfort. Nina’s gaze flicks to me again, her expression unreadable, though the look in her eyes speaks volumes.

“How very flattering,” I sign, my face neutral. “I can’t wait to shove you over the first balcony we walk past, you disgusting troll.”

My father shoots me a look, even though neither Rodion nor his father understands a single word of sign language.

“Ms. Osipova,” Sergey says with a slight chuckle, turning to Nina. “Would you mind translating for us?”

“Yes, please do, Nina,” I sign, a large smile on my face. “Don’t leave out a single thing⁠—”

“Katarina,” Papa growls quietly, another warning look on his face before he turns to Sergey. “My daughter was just saying she looks forward to bridging the gap between our two families and seeing how far we can take this partnership.”

“Very well…ahh…said,” Sergey smiles. “Very well indeed, Ms. Ishida.”

I take a large gulp of wine. Nina taps my thigh. I glance over to see her signing “I’ll be on the lookout for balconies” under the table.

This is why we’re best friends.

Technically speaking, Nina is a hostage of my father’s. The Bratva—and the Yakuza too—both tend to draw inspiration from both medieval times and Game of Thrones. And one of their customs is the idea of taking a “ward”, AKA, a hostage.

Nina’s father, Mitya Osopov, was once an ally of my father’s…until Mitya double-crossed him, trying both to steal his distribution network and put a bullet in Kolya’s head on a trip back to Russia.

Obviously, he failed to do either.

Mitya then immediately bent the knee, groveling and begging for forgiveness. Now, normally, given my father’s bloody and brutal history, neither of those things would have done a damn thing to move the imaginary needle to save the fucker. But in this rare case, for some reason, Papa found a shred of forgiveness inside him and did spare Mitya.

Spared his life, at least. He did take the majority of his empire, his standing within any Bratva circle on Earth, and his daughter, Nina.

This was about eleven years ago, and Nina’s been with us ever since. I say “hostage” mostly as a joke: at this point, she’s basically an Ishida. And in any case, even if she doesn’t really talk about her time ‘before’, I know she has nothing nice to say about her family back in Russia.

We’re best friends, practically sisters, and joined at the hip most of the time. Which is good, because she’s also my translator when we’re around people who don’t sign.

“Will she ever talk?”

My eyes snap to Rodion as he dumps the rest of the wine from the bottle into his glass.

Papa clears his throat. Sergey winces.

In a way, I almost feel bad for the guy. Yes, by all accounts, he’s kind of a prick himself. But then I try to imagine having a walking, talking turd like Rodion as a son, and it’s impossible not to feel some sympathy for him.

Still…

“My apologies,” Sergey growls. “My son has had a bit too much,” he hisses sharply, yanking the glass away from Rodion’s mouth and setting it sharply down on the table.

“It’s an honest question,” Rodion slurs. “I mean, Father,” he sighs, changing to Russian as he glances at Sergey, “what am I supposed to do? Fuck a mute who can’t even moan for my⁠—”

“Despite her condition,” my father says coldly, his voice sharp as his eyes stab into Rodion. “My daughter is fluent in Russian.” His eyes narrow. “As. Am. I.”

“Sincere apologies again, Kolya-san,” Sergey says tightly, bowing his head. “He’s…not usually like this.”

I purse my lips as I turn toward Nina. “Maybe I’ll feed him to Furrcules,” I sign.

Furrcules would be my baby. Okay, not a human baby. Furrcules is a one-hundred-pound, adorable, death machine…AKA, a six-month-old tiger cub that I took in five months ago.

Ryu, Papa’s top advisor and one of his best waka gashira, found him when he was raiding a Triad-owned warehouse. Furrcules’ mother was being used to guard drugs and, unfortunately, was killed in the ensuing gun battle. But Ryu found the barely weaned little cub and, knowing how much I’ve always loved tigers, brought it home for me.

Is gifting someone a tiger cub a good idea? No. And at some point, there’s going to be no way I can keep my little fuzzball and expect to survive. But until that day comes he’s my little prince and my baby, and I will feed the shit out of Rodion fucking Vorobev to him if the asshole keeps running his mouth like this.

“Katarina,” Rodion blurts, leaning lopsidedly across the table on one elbow. “You and I… We will make a hell of a match. Think of the power our families will have together.”

“I’m thinking more about what an utter disgrace it would be to be seen with you, let alone be married to you,” I sign.

Sergey smiles, turning to Nina. “Ms. Osipova?”

Nina clears her throat. “She says she’s looking forward to getting to know your son⁠—”

“Please, Kolya,” Sergey says, turning to Papa. “What she truly said. My skin is thick. I will not get offended.”

Papa sighs, arching a brow. “Very well. My daughter said your son is a drunk bastard, and she’d be embarrassed to be seen with him.”

I grin as a silence descends over the table, turning to dip my chin at Papa. He shoots me a look back, but I can see the slight curl of his lips.

“My son does not speak Japanese,” Sergey suddenly says in slow, halting, but mostly understandable Japanese. “So let us switch to that while he sits there like an idiot.” He glances at the rest of us. “I know what my son is, Kolya. I know he’s beneath you and your daughter. However…” A dark smile plays across his mouth as he spreads his arms. “I also know that you need a man like my son. I know Katarina is perfectly capable of leading but the Yakuza world won’t allow it. I know you need someone to play her husband. So why don’t we stop playing games and tiptoeing around the subject.”

Fuck.

The dining room goes silent again, except for the sound of Rodion’s sashimi hitting the plate as it falls from his chopsticks.

But then there’s a sharp knock at the door, and I smile when Ryu steps in, his usual gruff expression on his face.

Most people don’t like Ryu. He’s a cold-hearted asshole most of the time, hardly ever smiles, and I’m not sure I’ve ever heard him say anything nice about anyone.

But he and I get along swimmingly.

He nods stiffly at me as he crosses the room to my father, bowing low.

“Kolya-sama,” he murmurs. “An unexpected visitor requests an audience with you.”

Papa’s brow furrows. “Who?”

Ryu clears his throat. “Takeshi Mori.”

The air in the room instantly changes, tension rippling around the table. Papa sits straighter, his jaw tightening, while Sergey’s face pales visibly. Even Rodion sobers up slightly, lowering his glass and frowning in confusion.

Me? I see red.

Takeshi fucking Mori, the lunatic psycho younger brother of Kenzo Mori, Oyabun of the Mori-kai. Three months ago, the sociopath lit my fucking apartment on fire while I was in it. I got out, but Furrcules singed his little whiskers, and even hearing Takeshi’s name these days makes me want to stick his face in a high-rise fire.

What the fuck is he doing here?

“Really,” Papa growls quietly.

“He’s alone, and unarmed,” Ryu murmurs. “But I’ll happily…dispose of him,” he adds, a low, ominous tone to his voice.

My father’s fingers tap the table. “That won’t be necessary. Show him in, Ryu.”

I gape at him. “Seriously?!” I sign.

He lifts a shoulder. “I could certainly use a change in conversation,” he signs back to me. “And I’m curious.”

Nina’s hand brushes mine under the table in a small gesture of solidarity. A minute later, the door opens again. Ryu steps through, a black look on his face as he moves aside.

And then, Takeshi Mori enters the room.

It’s like spilled ink staining a pristine page. He’s dressed simply in a black button-up shirt and slacks, his presence a bottomless pit that pulls every gaze to him.

I swallow as I take in his height, his broad shoulders, and his ridiculously chiseled jawline.

Takeshi, like his twin sister Hana and their older brother Kenzo, is half-Japanese, half-Norwegian. On Takeshi, the mix gives him the appearance of a sinfully good-looking but dangerous samurai, with the hulking size of a savage Viking warrior. His mid-length black hair is slicked back, his dark eyes piercing as he approaches the table.

Without any preamble, he hefts the white beverage cooler in his hand, setting it on the table with a heavy thud.

A faint trail of red drips from one corner.

“Kolya-san,” he says, an almost sarcastic smile on his face, his voice smooth and unhurried. “My invitation to dinner must have been lost in the mail.”

Papa eyes him, unfazed, ready for anything.

“I’m quite positive you were sent no invitation.”

Takeshi grins. His eyes sweep over the table, and when they hit me, I feel an electric zap sizzle through me as his piercing eyes cut into me before moving away.

“I forget that you Russians are much more versed in the unspoken manners involved in a Cold War. I should have⁠—”

“What do you want, Mr. Mori,” Papa growls quietly. “And what…” My father’s gaze drops to the cooler, then slowly lifts back to Takeshi’s. “Is that.”

Takeshi clears his throat, glancing at Sergey and Rodion.

“It would be best if we spoke alone, Kolya-san.”

“And I’m of the opinion that it would be best if you didn’t interrupt my dinner parties uninvited, Mr. Mori,” Papa says coldly.

“Hey, buddy,” Rodion slurs, dragging his gaze up to Takeshi. “If you’re taking orders, can you get rid of this shit and bring me some real food?” He shoves his plate of sashimi and sighs heavily. “I don’t know why we’re eating raw fish anyway.”

Dark amusement flashes across Takeshi’s face.

“You’re eating raw fish,” he growls quietly, “because your host is trying to throw you off just enough to put you on his terms. It’s a power move. Him being both Japanese and Russian allows him to dip into both cultures, thus either allying or distancing himself as necessary. He could easily be serving you borscht or potatoes or whatever passes for food in Russia to make you both happy. But by serving you sashimi, he makes you the outsider, and since his roots are in this culture, he does so without looking like a poser or an outsider himself.”

I blink, stunned, as Takeshi calmly reaches out, deftly plucks an untouched piece of Hamachi from Rodion’s plate with a fresh set of chopsticks, and pops it into his mouth.

“Mmm. Delicious. On a related note, learn some fucking manners, and try to cultivate a better palate, you dumb Russian fuck.”

Sergey lurches to his feet, a vicious scowl on his face.

“How dare you⁠—”

“Provoke you into fighting your adult son’s battles for him?” Takeshi smiles sadly. “Pathetic, I agree. And yet, here we are.”

Sergey whirls to Papa. “Kolya-san,” he growls. “I ask your permission to beat this Mori-kai piece of shit myself. I won’t have a known psychopath waltzing in here and insulting me or my son!”

My father is silent for a moment.

“Kolya!” Sergey snarls. “I said⁠—”

“I heard you,” Papa murmurs quietly. “And no—you may not.”

“This fucking guy bothering you, Dad?” Rodion lurches unsteadily to his feet and whirls as if to throw a wild punch at Takeshi. But the huge Samurai-Viking of a man quickly grabs Rodion’s fist and twists his arm violently. Rodion screams, his face wrenching in pain as Takeshi calmly spins him around, grabs the scruff of his neck, and slams him face-down into his Hamachi.

Where the hell is my popcorn.

Predictably, chaos erupts. Sergey roars, reaching into his waistband and yanking out a concealed snub-nosed pistol. But instantly, Ryu is on him, ripping the gun from his fingers, kicking his legs out, and bringing the Russian to his knees, a blade to his jugular.

“That’s enough.”

My father’s voice is neither loud nor angry. Even so, there’s a subtle power to it that silences the whole room. He stands, buttoning his jacket and shooting Sergey a cold look.

“My rules on weapons in my home, at my dinner table,” he growls darkly, “were abundantly clear, Sergey.”

“Da, but Kolya⁠—”

“Dinner is over.” Papa turns to Ryu. “Please escort our guest and his son out.”

Sergey shoots Papa a cold look. “Don’t be idiotic, Kolya. You need this as much as I⁠—”

“You have twenty seconds to get the fuck out of my house before we see exactly how little I need you, Sergey.”

The Russian’s nostrils flare and his face turns beet red as he swallows, nodding stiffly. “We will speak another time, then.”

“Perhaps.”

Papa nods at Ryu and three additional guards who’ve now entered the room. The four of them grab Sergey and haul a groaning Rodion off the table, escorting them both from the room.

Takeshi seems to have observed this entire thing with amusement. He arches a brow, turning to watch Papa’s men leave with Sergey and Rodion.

“Are all of your dinner parties as eventful as this, Kolya?” he asks dryly. “I feel that I’ve been missing out⁠—”

“I’m in no mood for any more bullshit this evening, Mr. Mori,” Papa growls quietly. “So, please, in as few words as possible, what the fuck do you want, and what the fuck is that,” he grunts, nodding at the cooler which I’ve realized is definitely leaking blood.

“This,” Takeshi says, his smile cold as he pats the top of the cooler, “is Avgustin Vlasov.”

Oh, shit.

Two months ago, another Yakuza Oyabun loyal to the Mori-kai tried to start a war pitting the Ishida and Mori families against each other. He also bribed an ally of my father’s, Avgustin Vlasov, into assisting with kidnapping me. The scheming Oyabun’s idea was that he’d pick up the pieces after said war, and rule Tokyo himself.

When this Oyabun’s plan failed and he was killed, Avgustin went into hiding. Papa’s had a price on his head ever since.

My father’s expression is unreadable as he rises from his seat and approaches the cooler. He opens the lid, peers inside for a long moment, and then lets it fall shut again.

“Well, Mr. Mori,” Papa growls. “It would seem you delivered. Although I did say I preferred him alive.”

Takeshi shrugs, unbothered. “If you don’t mind getting a bit gooey, find some glue and some stiff boards, and you can probably pretend.”

The air is thick with silence, the weight of Takeshi’s audacity pressing down on us. Papa’s gaze is steady as he eyes our new guest.

“You’re waiting for my ask,” Takeshi murmurs, his smile widening. A flicker of darkness twinkles in his eyes.

My father’s jaw tightens. “Yes, there was mention of a favor for whomever found this piece of shit.” He levels his gaze at Takeshi. “Fine. Speak.”

Slowly, drawing it out, Takeshi swivels his malevolent, unhinged gaze…

…Until it lands on me.

Something cold and sharp drags slowly up my spine. An uneasy familiarity sweeps over me, my stomach clenching as his gaze locks with mine. And for a moment, the room fades away. His smile sharpens, turning predatory, as he lifts a single finger to point at me.

“Her,” he growls.

My brain short-circuits.

What?

“I want her,” Takeshi murmurs quietly. “As my wife.”

And just as the roaring in my head begins to turn into a scream—just as I think the bomb has already been dropped—the man with the coal-black eyes, lethal jaw, and yakuza tattoos snaking out from under his shirt turns to level a cold, ruthless look straight at me.

“Doesn’t that sound nice…Snowflake?”