12. Vi
CHAPTER 12
VI
The lobby restroom is quiet. Citrus and chemicals permeate the air. My heels tap on the marble floors, echoing between the walls.
In the mirror, I gawk at my reflection, but it isn’t me. Light brown makeup highlights my natural beauty, and the fake lashes make my eyes huge. My natural red hair is shinier than ever, and it’s pulled back into an elegant updo. Kenzo’s preferences, I guess. He sent another stylist to come pamper me before the wedding.
I touch the candle tattoo behind my ear, wondering if he kept my hair up on purpose, so he can see it. He seems pretty preoccupied by it.
“Shit,” a woman’s voice mutters. She shuffles through the contents of a bag, then groans. “Right. Because I didn’t bring any with me today. Fuck this wedding.”
My chest tightens. That time of the month? Ugh. I hate when that happens.
I quickly poke through my cleavage, finding the one tiny tampon I always keep in my cleavage just in case. It’ll work in a pinch.
The toilet flushes. The door directly behind me opens, and a woman steps out. Her synthetically vibrant red hair contrasts sharply with mine, and a silky red wrap dress, almost like a robe, shows off her fit and feminine figure. The seams are lined in a shiny rose gold, with a matching bow on one side of her hips. Short, red ankle boots finish her outfit, and a septum ring hangs from her nose. A tattoo of pink flowers flutters down the side of her neck, but I can tell that’s only part of it. Like Kenzo, she’s probably covered in tattoos.
“Sorry,” I say. “I thought I was the only one in here. I’m Vi.”
She wrinkles her nose at me, then turns to the sink, the automatic faucet running as she washes her hands with ivory soap.
“Are you Kenzo’s friend?” I ask. She looks more American than Japanese, but I don’t know anything about him. She may be a cousin, like Patrick is to me.
“I’m his sister.” She holds out her freshly-washed hand. “I’m Cherry.”
“Cherry!” I say. Instead of taking her hand, I shove the tiny tampon into her palm. “Here. I always have one on me.”
Her lips crunch together, and she takes it from me slowly.
“Thanks?” she says, almost like a question. She stares at the tampon like it’s a bomb.
“Heard you in there,” I say sheepishly.
“So you’re nosey, then.”
I wince, and I want to point out she was the one who practically shouted about her menstrual state, but I don’t. I want her to like me. If she’s Kenzo’s sister, then I need her on my side.
“Can’t help it,” I babble nervously. “We’re sisters now, right?” And now I can’t stop; the embarrassing words keep tumbling out: “I’ve always wanted a sister. We girls have to stick together, right? Even if that means giving each other tampons or whatever. Girl stuff.”
She tilts her head. “This is the first time we’ve met, and you’re already calling me your sister?” she says cautiously.
“Do you have any sisters?” I ask. The information about the Endo-kai is extremely limited online, and everything I found about Kenzo has to do with Samurai Corporation, not his family.
Her upper lip curls, and she steps back. “Uh, no. Grew up with brothers.”
“Me too! Well, a male cousin, but?—”
She wrinkles her nose and shakes her head. “You’re fucking weird.”
“Thanks!” I say out of habit. I’m acting way too nervous. What’s wrong with me?
She lifts the tampon and gives a clipped laugh. “Thanks for this.”
As soon as she’s gone, I smack my forehead in annoyance. Sisters? You called her your sister? I want to bury myself inside of a hole and never come out. This is why I’m on research and not conning. I do dumb stuff like this and make a complete ass of myself. I need Cherry to like me, not to think of me as some weird sister-in-law she tolerates.
The door opens again, and this time, the wedding planner chirps: “You’re walking in five minutes, Miss Vi!”
I gather myself, then head back over to the bride’s quarters. Uncle Jay offers me his elbow, and the two of us walk to the lobby. Patrick must be in the audience already.
In the windows facing the ballroom, rows of people patiently watch as the wedding party—bridesmaids and groomsmen I’ve never met before—walks down the aisle. Nausea swims in my gut, and I try to stay positive. This is nothing. It’s a job. A few more days, and we’ll be gone. This wedding won’t matter.
But I can’t swallow those thoughts. My eyes scan the rows of seats.
It’s a lot of people to lie to. A lot of people to trick.
“You’ve got this, sweetheart,” Uncle Jay says, shuffling some gray-brown hair off of his forehead. He’s not your typical father figure, but he’s always protected me and believed in me. You can’t ask for more from a parent.
Still, nausea rolls through me. “What if they kill us?” I whisper.
“No one’s going to die,” he says. “I won’t let them hurt you.”
But those symbols on his hand, crusted red and purple, a symbol of the yakuza, glare at me in warning. It’s healing, but it seems like proof someone will die.
“In two weeks, we won’t even remember this,” he adds. “We’ll be sitting on the beach, making mundane comments about the weather.”
He’s right. He has to be right. And if nothing else, I can do this wedding for us. For our family.
I push my shoulders back. If anyone can handle this, we can.
As the wedding planner motions for us to walk, I squeeze Uncle Jay’s arm, and my body quivers with adrenaline. Everyone stands like we’re royalty. Some gawk suspiciously at Uncle Jay, probably because of the bruises on his face and his disfigured hand. It won’t take long to figure out the backstory of this marriage.
I bite my lip and walk with purpose. There’s a tear in Uncle Jay’s eye, and it brings a tear to my own. He’s acting like I’m really getting married.
And, legally, I am.
We near the altar, and Kenzo’s eyes settle on me, sending heat between my thighs. His words echo in my mind: Run away while you still can.
I could’ve run away. So many times. But I’m still here.
The officiant, an older, shorter woman with stocky shoulders and salt-and-pepper hair, prattles on about the importance of loyalty in matrimony, especially in the traditional family, and I take the opportunity to study Kenzo again. A classic black tuxedo fits his muscular frame, and though he’s dashing and professional, the tattoos on his skin, ending right below his jawline, tell a different story. A fish swims up the side of his neck, going against the current, and I wonder if that’s what Kenzo is like—always going against the grain. He knocks his fingers on his waist, like he’s getting bored with the lecture on love, and runs his hand through his silky hair. It’s more groomed today than yesterday, but still long, and so different from the rest of the yakuza soldiers sitting on the benches.
The word “commitment” comes from the officiant’s mouth, and Kenzo’s brown eyes hold me still. Stubble lines his jaw, almost like he couldn’t get a close enough shave. I want to run my fingers along it and see if it’s as prickly as it looks, but I pinch myself.
I shouldn’t want a man like Kenzo. He’s a criminal.
But so am I. And I’ve got a job to do.
This is just like anything else. Uncle Jay and Patrick trust me.
I’ve got this, I coach myself. Kenzo grins, and I glance over at Uncle Jay and Patrick, my only family in this world. I nod to them, and they both give me a thumbs-up.
No, I correct myself. We’ve got this.
I follow along, and by the time we both say those two magical words, binding our union in front of a room full of strangers, my stomach is in knots.
“You may kiss the bride,” the officiant says.
Kenzo reaches for me. “Last chance to run,” he whispers.
I press my lips to his, shutting him up.
Too late.
At first, his tongue is smooth and penetrating, twisting his way into my mouth like a root taking hold in the soil, but then his hand grips my throat. My stomach tightens, and my eyes widen. His gaze is focused on me, and his pure aggression takes hold of my entire being. Heat scorches between my legs, and I slip a hand into his pants pocket, searching for something—anything to remind me this isn’t real love—it’s a job, nothing more. I find a little plastic bag and clutch it in my palm. Based on the zippered top, I know it has to be a bag for drugs. A deep, guttural moan erupts from his throat as he pushes back from me, breaking our kiss, but he keeps his hold firm on my neck, looking deep into my eyes. I can’t tell if he knows I took his drugs, or if he thinks I’m being dirty with him.
The shouts and cheers from the guests fill my ears, and I suddenly remember we’re in front of a crowd of people. Fire burns in Kenzo’s brown eyes as they rove over me. It’s like he thinks he finally has me in his trap. But I disagree.
Now, you’re mine, Kenzo.
He helps me straighten, then links his arm in mine and guides me down the aisle. Everyone is standing for us again, their cheers ringing in my ears. It’s overwhelming to think this many people dropped everything to come to a last-minute wedding for the yakuza, and it’s as if they fear what the leaders would do if they disappointed them with a lack of attendance. With everyone’s eyes on us and Kenzo holding my hand right now, the weight of his power is tangible.
Is everyone afraid of the Endo-kai?
Or just me?