25. Kenzo
CHAPTER 25
KENZO
But there’s nothing nice about the way I drive. I tailgate every car in front of me, darting around until I finally make it to my destination. I put on my gloves and text one of my handlers, telling them to get Patrick and bring him to John’s Town on Boulder Highway.
The casino is lit up like it means something, but that’s the thing about Boulder Highway. You don’t find tourists here but seasoned residents, addicts, and people like me. People who can’t seem to crawl out of this fucking hellhole. People who need to be knocked down.
Nice people.
I gave Patrick a warning. I told him not to touch my wife. I simply didn’t realize it would extend retroactively. That’s usually not my deal, but with Patrick, I’ll be nice and make an exception.
A few minutes later, I find Patrick resting against the casino’s exterior, his ankles crossed. A button-up navy blue shirt and white slacks don his frame like he’s ready for a job interview. He’s tall, probably a year or two younger than me, but all I see is his hands on Vi. My wife.
Patrick straightens his shirt. He really thinks we’re going to talk business right now. And we are, in a way. Vi is my business. It’s better to keep your enemies close to you, right under your thumb, where you can crush them.
“Hey, man,” Patrick says. We shake hands. There are no false niceties when it comes to Patrick. He didn’t learn Japanese phrases before meeting me. He treats me like a brother-in-law, and there’s something I can respect in that. No games. Just business.
And so, I get right to it.
“Vi tells me you want to sell,” I say.
He nods eagerly. “Yeah, man. I’ve been waiting to hear from you. Shabu-8 is the shit. I can?—”
I motion to the side of the building, glancing around us like I don’t want anyone to overhear us. The truth is no one gives a shit in this part of town. Half of these people probably buy from my dealers.
“Let’s go around the back,” I say. “We can talk privately over there.”
He follows me like a puppy dog, and a twinge of sharp emotion runs through me. I don’t know what it is—guilt? Anger? Rage? What if Vi feels bad about her cousin dying? Maybe Patrick is a victim of his father’s upbringing too. Maybe his father is a piece of shit raising another fucking turd, his son, to believe this is how you protect family—by breaking them before the world can.
But that’s not family to me. I ran away from home, and I still have people watching out for my biological parents. This isn’t the life they wanted for me, but it’s the life I chose, and I still respect them. Still make sure they’re okay. Still send them anonymous payments so they’re well taken care of. That’s family. And that’s not even my chosen family! I’ve killed for the Endo-kai. I’ve dedicated my life to serving our yakuza.
Respect. Loyalty. Family. None of that means anything to Patrick Petrus.
A few cars are parked behind the building, probably employees, and dumpster bins dot the premise every couple of feet. Spotlights beam down on us, lighting the oil shimmering in the cracks of the asphalt. The security cameras are aimed at us, but I know the owner; he’s under our protection racket, and we’ve given him a discount on Shabu-8. The more drugged up his clientele is, the more likely they are to gamble away their savings. Everyone is happy. Everyone wins. And I happen to know those security cameras are for show. The owner won’t mind if I take care of business back here. And if he does, I’ll take care of him too.
I want to kill him, but if Vi’s “family” is working for someone, then I need to do my duty. I need to get Patrick comfortable. Get him to talk. See what he’s willing to say.
“Here’s the deal,” I finally say. Patrick’s sinewy muscles and blond hair face me, but he’s got the same blue eyes as Vi, and for a moment, that stops me. But not for long. I keep my emotions in, making sure he thinks this is legit. “I’ve got a beginner’s plan. Best place to start is over by the college. Plenty of students over there live off of Shabu-8. They’re gullible too. Play to their cocky sides, then upcharge the hell out of them.”
“I can raise prices?”
That’s what “upcharge” means, bakayarou. Idiot. He’s a fucking idiot. But I play along, giving him my classic charm.
“Exactly,” I say. “It’s easy to build a following there. Try Harmon and Maryland. There are plenty of little places you can use to meet buyers.”
He wipes his nose on the back of his hand. My upper lip curls in disgust; it’s like he’s dog shit on the bottom of my shoe.
“All right. You don’t have people over there?” he asks.
I do, but that doesn’t matter.
“Focus on you, brother,” I say, putting a hand on his shoulder. “No one’s going to give you problems except for me.”
He flinches, but my lips pull up in satisfaction. Yeah, that was a bit much, but I want panic to rise in his chest.
“You’re a smart man,” I say calmly. I squeeze his shoulder, holding back the anger boiling inside of me at being this close to him and not ripping his head off. “If you make me happy, there’s no reason for me to give you problems. Everything is business. You know that.”
His shoulders loosen. He thinks we’re on the same side.
“So where is it, then?” he asks. “You got it in one of these dumpsters or something?”
So eager to work. Too bad his motivation is going to waste.
“You want to work that badly?” I ask.
“Gotta prove myself.” He taps his chest. “Gotta show you that you won’t regret it.”
I regret a lot of things already. When Cherry told me Patrick put his hand on Vi’s arm at the wedding reception, I should have beaten the fucker within an inch of his life. Given him a physical demonstration that, even if he is my brother-in-law in a roundabout way, he will never be excluded from debts.
That regret ends tonight.
“Your cousin thinks I should start you off easy,” I say with a hint of amusement in my voice. “ Nice and slow, you know?”
“Vi doesn’t know shit,” he says.
“My wife doesn’t know shit?” I say. Then I laugh hard. This is fucking insane. Patrick, the sad little fuck, thinks I’m laughing with him. He lifts his shoulders. “I don’t trust sluts. You shouldn’t either, man.”
My vision tunnels as I focus my rage on that head of blond hair. My lips pull back.
“She’s a slut, huh?” I say in a low voice.
“Get her drunk. Trust me,” he chuckles. “She’ll do anything.”
“Jay said she was a virgin.”
Patricks stiffens, realizing his mistake. Yeah, I know your family lied to me. I curl my fingers one by one, readying my fists. My knuckles crunch in the gloves, but I keep myself steady.
I can’t kill him yet.
“Yeah, that’s because Dad thinks she’s a virgin,” Patrick says, trying to clear his mistake. “But trust me, man. You should get your dick checked.”
I keep my face pleasant. “Yeah?”
“Vi lied to my dad, and now she’s lying to you.” He shakes his head. “Everyone lies, but lying to your uncle and your husband? That’s unforgivable.” He gives a nervous laugh, making it a joke between us. Like we’re on the same side. The despicable little shit is throwing his cousin on the ground like she’s a piece of trash, and I want to stomp on his skull until it pulps beneath my feet. “I can make it work for you though. Dad is susceptible to blackmail, and if we work together, I can?—”
Does his stupidity and lack of respect really go so far as to blackmail his father, or is this another game he’s using to fuck with me?
“You’re willing to turn on your own father?” I ask. “Everyone lies, huh? You’re even willing to lie to your own family, aren’t you?” I lean in closer. “Have you lied to me? ”
Sweat beads Patrick’s forehead, and he glimpses around like someone is watching, but forces himself to lower his shoulders, keeping it cool. He knows he may have just exposed his family as a bunch of liars, but he’s still trying to make this deal work, to pull one over on me. That greedy, stupid son of a bitch. It’d almost be admirable if it wasn’t so fucking infuriating.
“That’s not what I meant,” he says quickly. “My family is just messed up, you know? My dad has wandering hands. My cousin pretends to be a prude when she’s always ready to?—”
“And what does that make you?”
“Your next biggest seller.”
His grin is wide; he truly believes it. He’s got balls to be saying that right now, and confidence like that is a good quality in the criminal world. But my skin tingles, boiling on edge. I imagine hanging him by hooks between his toes, dipping his body into a vat of acid as he screams bloody-murder, the skin curling away from his bones, his eye sockets receding until there’s nothing left but a partially liquefied skull.
Nice is not giving into my impulses.
Nice is not torturing him to death.
“That’s nice,” I say. Then I laugh to myself. “ Nice. What a fucking word.”
“I can be nice. Let me prove it to you,” Patrick says eagerly. “Give me a chance. Tonight.”
The fake smile falls from my expression, replaced by darkness. He wants a chance. A fucking chance. I grit my teeth and stare down at Patrick, and finally, his pupils narrow. He knows he’s in danger, but it’s too late now. My hand is already on the gun.
“You lost your chance when you laid your hands on my wife,” I say.
Before he can open his mouth, I hammer him to the ground. I press my shoe to his throat, crushing his windpipe while he chokes, sputtering over my shoe’s leather. He grabs at the sole, and I use my knife to pin his hand to the ground, nailing him to the cracked asphalt. He wails like an animal, and I chuckle. For the hell of it, I knock the back of my gun into his forehead. The contact point swells like a horn. He whimpers, and my chest expands with power.
“Tell me,” I say. “Who are you working for?”
“What the fuck?” he manages to say. “I-I-I just want to sell, man.”
I should interrogate him more. Torture him. Get him to spill his guts. But I take another knife and stab it into his stomach, twisting it around like his guts are soup. He gurgles like a fucking baby choking on its own spit, and rage flares through every single nerve inside of me. He sucks in a breath, wheezing desperately, and I don’t know why I didn’t kill him as soon as I laid my eyes on him tonight. There’s no joy in this murder. He’s a fucking insect, and every heartbeat in my body wants to crush him. All I want is to see his life flutter from his eyes. I don’t even care if I enjoy it. I want to kill him. Right. Fucking. Now.
Nice. Vi told me to be nice. I can be nice.
I press the gun’s muzzle to his forehead.
“P-please,” he stammers.
“This is for Vivian,” I murmur.
I shoot him in the forehead. The shot echoes faintly, dulled by the silencer, and a splatter of blood strikes my cheeks. My blood vessels widen, letting that comforting heat simmer through me.
I look down at the piece of shit lying on the floor. Lifeless blond hair. Blood streaming down his temples. Reflective white teeth. He’s a useless corpse now, just like when he was living.
I store my gun in my holster. Vi is going to be pissed at me for killing her cousin, but this is worth it. Fuckers like him don’t deserve to live. And when I took her as my wife, I made an oath to protect what’s mine. As much as I wanted to make him scream and beg for fucking mercy, I made a choice to honor my wife. And if she wants me to be nice? So fucking be it.
Nice is giving him an easy death.