7. Vi
CHAPTER 7
VI
The suited man holds open a door to a private exit off the side of the building, but before I go through the door, I swallow a breath, steeling myself.
This isn’t research, but I grew up with an uncle and cousin who are expert cons. I probably picked up things by mere association.
I can do this.
I step through the doors, holding my shoulders back with confidence. But then I stop in my tracks. Instantly, I know exactly who I’m facing.
It’s him.
Tall. Muscular arms. Wavy black hair hangs around his face in a carefree way. Stubble crosses his jawline. Dark brown eyes glow as they soak me up. His suit is expensive and tailored—not like the suits I see Uncle Jay and Patrick wear—and a hint of a tattoo, a koi fish swimming against the current, brings color to his neck. Pure sensuality drips from his lips, like he’s about to tease a secret out of me. But his posture stops me. Strong and dominant, like he can command an entire fleet of soldiers with a flick of his finger.
“Vi Petrus,” he says in a warm, gravelly voice. He holds out a hand, and as I reach for it, he pulls me into a hug, swallowing me in his ginger whisky scent. My stomach tightens as his hard body presses against me, tension rolling to my throat.
This is the man who helped cut kanji into my uncle’s hand?
I stutter into his chest: “And you are?—”
“Kenzo,” he says cooly. “Thank you for coming with me on such short notice. These galas—” he laughs, deep and whimsical, like he’s seducing a crowd of eager listeners, even though it’s just me. “They require a certain social appearance, and trust me, it helps to have a partner-in-crime.”
He winks, and my stomach does a backflip. A partner-in-crime? That’s not exactly the kind of thing you want to hear a man from the yakuza say, especially someone who has bodyguards at his disposal. And to make it even worse, he’s acting like I don’t know about the horrible torture his family forced my uncle to endure.
But I force a smile. He thanked me for coming. As if I had a choice.
“Any time,” I say.
He opens the car door for me. “Good. Let’s go.”
We pull up to the MGM Grand Conference Center, a rectangular building with red accents and palm trees lining the landscape. Inside, Kenzo leads me to the Grand Ballroom. A string quartet plays covers of pop songs on the stage, and Kenzo nods appreciatively at the musicians. The room is filled with high tables cloaked in shiny fabric. Even the carpet is elegant, designed with stylish vines and leaves.
“Champagne?” a server asks.
“Absolutely,” Kenzo says.
He grabs two glasses and hands one to me. I shrink under my shoulders. I don’t really drink; I’m the epitome of a lightweight. At twenty-five, I’ve only had alcohol around Uncle Jay and Patrick, and I always pass out quickly. I’ve never had champagne, and this isn’t the time or the place to be knocked unconscious.
Kenzo puts an arm around my shoulder. There’s a relaxed grin on his lips, like he’s reading me and understands my concerns. I tense, but his deep laughter puts me at ease. My thighs clench together.
“Relax,” he says. “Drink it slowly. You’ll be fine.”
“People keep saying I’ll be fine,” I mumble. “It’s almost like they know I won’t be fine.”
He laughs a deep, real laugh, and I swear my stomach doesn’t know up from down anymore.
I blink up at him. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing’s going to happen to you, Vi,” he says. “Don’t worry. You’re with me.” He clinks our flutes together. “ Kanpai. ”
“Cheers,” I say.
I take a sip, and the sweet, bubbly taste fizzes against my inner cheeks. I’m rosy already, and with the alcohol, it’s only going to get worse.
But I take another big sip. It is liquid courage, after all.
“Screw it,” I say, then I down the rest.
Kenzo’s jaw drops slightly. “All right, then.”
The bubbles float to my head, and with his words and the champagne, it’s like I’m walking on clouds. Several people come up to us, and I bob my head, pretending like I know what they’re talking about. Kenzo introduces me, and I pretend to be his date. Not a hostage.
But after a while, we’re alone again, and Kenzo pulls me around to face him.
“How many exits do you see?” he asks.
I wrinkle my nose. Usually, I like double-checking for escape routes, but once I got into the car with Kenzo, I figured I was committed to the evening.
I lean forward. “What do you mean?”
He quickly motions around the room. “There are eight exits on the stage side. What about the entrance?”
I count. “Maybe another eight? More?”
“Keep an eye on them. That way, you’ll always be ready.” He squeezes my shoulder, and my neck tingles. It’s almost like he’s warning me I’ll have to run tonight. Maybe he expects an enemy to attack us. It probably happens in the mafia.
But more likely, he knows I want to escape him. I don’t know any of these people, but I know Kenzo is from the yakuza.
“Which exit will you take?” he asks.
His confidence is distracting—relaxed shoulders, a charming smile, his lips open and wet. It’s like he knows if I run, it’ll only be because he wants me to.
“I wasn’t aware I had a choice,” I say.
Did that come out of my mouth?
I smack a hand to my face, but he grins down at me, amused by my outburst.
“There’s always a choice, Vivian,” he says.
I die a little inside. No one calls me that anymore. Not since my parents died.
“Not when you tortured my uncle,” I whisper. But then I hit my hand against my forehead and slosh my second glass of champagne on the carpet. Apparently, I didn’t need the second glass. “Don’t worry. It’s fine,” I whisper. “I get it. He crossed a line, so he had to pay.”
“What do you want?” he asks.
My heart stops. I blink at him. It’s a simple question, but it’s complicated coming from him. His rich, brown eyes drink me in, and I’m entranced. He’s masculine and authoritative, but his eyes gleam, and it’s almost like he’s curious. Like he’s actually considering me as a wife. Images of glamorous fabric and masculine hands swirl in my mind, and for a split second, I imagine Kenzo throwing me down on the floor. Right here. In a room full of people.
I shake my head. I’ve never truly liked sex, but I’ve also never really been around anyone else besides Uncle Jay and Patrick. Whenever I had crushes, they always stomped those out before I could experience the reality of other men.
But with Kenzo, they want me to be here, and I have no doubt he can kill me with a few simple strokes of his fists. Based on this first impression, I bet he’d even make me beg him for the opportunity.
Kenzo is the biggest red flag of them all, but I’m still here.
“Call me Vi,” I whisper.
“ That’s what you want from me?”
I want this night to be over so I can forget you ever dressed me up like your little doll, or for a brief second, I was actually attracted to a yakuza gangster.
“Sure,” I say.
“All right. Vi,” he says, lust and curiosity lingering in his expression, and I know there’s so much more planned for tonight than I’m prepared for.
And we’ve barely even started.