Dangerous Deceit (The Vegas Yakuza #1)

1. Kenzo

CHAPTER 1

KENZO

“A damn shame,” I mutter, thumbing through the playlists on the device. “No appreciation for the classics.”

Orchestral notes play through the cell’s speakers. It’s technically classical music, but it’s not what I mean by “the classics.” Each note vibrates through my veins, and although it’s not my typical genre, it pairs nicely with the idiot handcuffed to the table. He’s sitting on a metal chair, and there’s a deep slice on his cheek, which exposes those red-stained teeth. His gag is soaked, and with his head tilted back, it drips down his chin, dribbling over his shoulder, and pooling on the cement beneath him. The pink puddle glimmers under the stark fluorescent lights.

I turn up the volume, letting the floating tune wash over me. This is my favorite holding cell; it has the best surround sound system in the entire resort, installed just for me on days like this. I even got the boss to add a turntable and a cabinet with our favorite vinyl records.

The contrast of the strings against his blood should be enough for me. I want the classical music to compensate for what’s missing in this violent interrogation.

It doesn’t.

“No Eagles?” I ask, gesturing at his phone. “No Styx? Tell me you have Aerosmith.”

He moans through the gag, but he’s barely audible over the music. Mild excitement bubbles in my blood vessels as I adjust the camera on the tripod, then crouch down. Usually, I’m more creative than this—I like having fun, pushing these corporate big shots to their limits, seeing how far they can go before they beg for mercy—but the music is distracting. I am classic rock and murder, not humiliation and work.

The strings crescendo, and I use my switchblade to conduct the imaginary orchestra, but it’s still not right.

I lean down, putting our ears next to each other. Better to hear over the music. He pulls away from me. I inch closer.

“How old are you, Mr. CEO?” I ask.

“Sss-sees-dee-woor?—”

“Sixty-two.” I whistle.

This CEO has thirty-two years on me, and yet I’m the one who can appreciate music from his youth? He should be killed for that alone!

I run my thumb across my switchblade. The metal gleams, and the poor bastard winces.

I’m not supposed to kill him; I’m supposed to humiliate him. Teach him a lesson. Motivate him to do what we ask. It’s not much: sell your assets and give the money to us, or we’ll tell your humble stockholders what you actually do on the weekends. They won’t appreciate their CEO spending their company’s charity money on Shabu-8 and strippers.

“Sixty-two years old,” I continue, “and you still don’t know how to keep your bad habits a secret.”

He sobs into his gag, breaking up the music. My ears throb, adrenaline buzzing in my fingertips.

Blood on the floor. Music in my chest.

Does it amuse me or bore me?

“At least you have music on your phone,” I laugh. “You should have seen what happened to the one who didn’t have any music.”

I flip through Mr. CEO’s playlists again, but it’s all classical music, and that irritates me.

I run the tip of the blade over the side of his neck, his loose skin bunching up under the metal. My white suit jacket shifts forward.

“You know,” I say. He squirms, and a grin takes over my expression. “We were only trying to help you. The Endo-kai wants nothing more than to see your company succeed.”

“Ya-caa—” he tries to scream. “Ya-ya-coo?—”

He’s right. I am from the yakuza.

A tear runs down the side of his cheek, burning through the peek-a-boo cut I gave him earlier, and I chuckle, increasing the pressure on the blade, letting it break his neck skin. A thin spray of blood marks my suit, which is why I wear white. Everything is bland, but with red on white, it’s like a sunset in paradise, a blank canvas made into art again.

But the stains are monotone today. I’ve done this exact kind of kill. There’s nothing special about it. I want something different, something more. I’m on a journey to his grave, but I want a higher dose of satisfaction this time.

Shambala.

I smack my side with my free hand. The song pops into my head, and I can’t think of anything else.

I shove the knife back into my pocket and toss the CEO’s phone to the side. I pick through a cabinet and find the right album, then add it to the record player. The speakers begin playing “Shambala,” the perfect song to pair with the CEO’s torture. Warm relief flickers inside of me.

The door swings open behind me. The shuffle of feet rattle over the cement floor. I keep my eyes on my device, adding to the dismissive tension I know agitates our prisoners. One of our enforcers must be bringing the CEO’s second-in-command to make sure the lesson is fully understood. A huff escapes the CEO—perhaps a verbal acknowledgement of his friend—and the enforcer clicks the new prisoner’s handcuffs to the other side of the table.

A subtle scent lingers under the stench of concrete and rubbing alcohol, something I hadn’t noticed before. Burnt sugar. I snicker to myself, then click play on the chosen song. Either the CEO never stopped getting lap dances from strippers, or his fear smells sweet.

I keep my back to them, my shoulders dancing to the song’s beat as I ready the knife again.

“You like Three Dog Night?” I shout over the music. A groan ripples through the room, like someone startling awake, but the chorus fills my head, and I can’t help but sing along with the lyrics and keep dancing. Their lessons can wait.

“Where am I?” a woman asks, her silky voice extremely high pitched, rampant with fear. “Uncle Jay? Please. What have you done with him? We didn’t do anything wrong!”

I spin around on the beat and find a young woman in her early twenties, handcuffed to the table just like I expected, but she’s blindfolded with a thick sash of fabric. Natural reddish-orange hair is strapped down under the blindfold, and freckles paint her skin. A hoodie is slung over her shoulders, hiding her figure. Light pink lips.

I raise a brow. I don’t recognize her from the meetings at the CEO’s corporate office, and judging by the shake of her bottom lip, she feels out of place too. The common instinct would be to assume she’s the CEO’s college-aged daughter or perhaps his stripper-turned-girlfriend, but judging by her clothes, neither of those seem right, and I would’ve taken notes about relationships like that.

Her teeth nab at her puckered bottom lip, and I suck in a breath. Burnt sugar. Like butter and candied crystals left in a saucepan for too long. If I had seen her before, I would’ve recognized her.

She’s not supposed to be here.

A curious sensation trickles over me, like the faint hint of needles dabbing at my skin. She can’t see, which gives me more leeway, and with the music on, I want to finish this before the chorus begins to fade.

I slip behind Mr. CEO, and he fidgets like a hamster in a wheel. Then I take the perfect gleaming knife to his throat. I keep my eyes on the blindfolded woman. I like that she can’t see me. She doesn’t even know who I am, or that I’m about to kill a man in front of her. A man she believes could be her uncle.

Mr. CEO groans through his gag as I press the blade against his throat, and she stiffens, almost as if she knows what’s happening.

“Please don’t hurt him,” she whispers, obviously still convinced the man is her uncle.

I run the knife across the CEO’s throat, and the blood gushes over my white jacket and spills over his chest. The blood begins to gurgle as it leaves his throat, and her head lowers like she knows the other captive is dead, even if she can’t see it. Tears wet the collar of her hoodie. I briefly consider comforting her with the fact I doubt she’s related to the poor sack I just killed, but then, I don’t owe her anything.

The song changes, and I slip out of the room. I’ll have to see why the boss sent her to me.