27. Vi
CHAPTER 27
VI
I wake up disoriented. My body aches like a millennium has passed, but it’s just past midday. Kenzo’s humming floats through the penthouse, mixed with a savory scent. I crawl out of bed, throw my hair into a ponytail, and right as I leave the room, I catch a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror. Light purple bruises, the size of fingerprints, are scattered along my neck. I should put on a scarf or a choker, but instead, I glance down at the diamond wedding ring on my finger. His bruises on me are more of a demonstration of ownership than this expensive ring.
Not that I want to be owned, but there is a certain appeal to it. Life with Uncle Jay and Patrick means always being on the run, and the longer I stay with Kenzo, the more I think of him as safety, like a home, even if he is crazy.
In a way, his craziness is reliable. I can count on him for it.
In the kitchen, he’s shirtless. Tattoos shade his chest and neck. A koi fish fights against the current of a blue ocean, and a skull breaks up the waves in the middle. His chest flexes, and his singing stops. I sit at the dining table, and he flips to me.
“Damn, baby. You slept late,” he teases. “I’ve already been to work and back.”
My jaw drops. “How?”
“Working on a big deal. Golden Honor Firearms—ever heard of them?”
I’ve been mentally pouring over the papers on his desk since I first saw them. Golden Honor Firearms. How could I forget? I lift my shoulders, trusting my body to do the lying for me. Technically, I’m still on the job. I need to learn as much as I can from him.
“What’s it about?” I ask.
“Guns direct from the manufacturer. If we can cut a deal, we can stop getting our weapons from—” he pauses, his jaw clicking, then he winks. “I’m getting way too damn comfortable with you.”
He almost told me everything.
“You can tell me,” I say. “Besides,” I lower my voice and add a sultry twist: “I already know you’re a bad, bad man.”
“You don’t need to know the ins and outs of our smuggling,” he grins. “Just know this is a big deal for us. We need this to work.”
His eyes narrow slightly, and I connect the dots; if they’re switching from smuggling to a legitimate deal, then that means they’re probably going to make better money overall. If the deal goes through.
This is the kind of information our client wants. Golden Honor Firearms. That’s what they’re after.
My stomach pains as I think about telling Uncle Jay. I don’t want to, but I should.
But I can put it off for now.
“I get it,” I say. Then I change the subject: “What are you cooking?”
Kenzo grabs a ladle and dumps out two large scoops of soup into a bowl, then brings it to me with a deep spoon. Miso paste undulates in the broth like lava in a lamp, tofu chunks float, and seaweed sinks to the bottom of the bowl.
“Truth is, I can’t cook for shit,” Kenzo says. “But I can dump packets into a pot of water.” He crooks his head to the side. “My mom used to make this for me when I was sick. Homemade though—not this packet bullshit. Still, I make this instant soup whenever I need to feel like myself again.”
My chest dips as I think of my own mom. Is Kenzo’s mom still alive? Does he visit her? And why doesn’t he feel like himself? How could he run away from home, yet still crave the comfort of his biological family?
My mind jumps to Uncle Jay and Patrick.
Patrick.
Images flash before me: blood on Kenzo’s cheeks, smeared across his forehead, his stained gloves. I need to hear him say it. To confirm my suspicions.
Sweat covers my palms. “Why were you covered in blood last night?”
He snickers, scooping himself a bowl too. He slides into the seat across from me and slurps up a spoonful.
“It was a drop of blood, not a gallon,” he says.
“There wasn’t a scratch on you,” I say. “So what happened? Whose blood was that?”
“Why are you so concerned?”
“I’m curious.”
“Does that mean you actually like me?”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
He carries on in silence for a few minutes, and I’m almost about to take the teasing remark back. The truth is I do like him, even if it’s wrong. It may be the fact I’ve never spent this much time with a guy that wasn’t Uncle Jay or Patrick, or it may be because Kenzo makes me feel wanted. Needed. Safe.
“I was taking care of business,” he says.
My gut twists. He did something he doesn’t want to tell me, and since he refuses to lie, he’s avoiding the question.
“Kenzo,” I say sternly. “Tell me.”
His jaw is set. “Patrick won’t bother you again.”
Every blood vessel inside of me constricts, pain pulsing through my skull. Patrick won’t bother me? That means?—
“You killed him!” I gasp. “Why? How could you?”
Kenzo waves a hand, dismissing my question. “Everyone dies. What does it matter if I cut his life short?”
My mind spins as I stare down at my bowl. Uncle Jay is going to be crushed. What am I going to do? What am I going to tell him?
This is my fault. I shouldn’t have said anything about what happened with my virginity. It was in the past. I had said Patrick could do it. Everything was fine. And I screwed it all up.
“Don’t cry over him. Fuck,” Kenzo says, irritation and confusion swimming across his face, pinching his brow and lips. He leans back in his chair, studying me, but I won’t let my eyes leave the soup. The miso paste settles at the bottom of the bowl. Bile rises in my throat.
“Why are you upset?” he asks. “He raped you, Vi. He didn’t deserve to live.”
I can’t change the past and make it so I never told Kenzo our family secrets. And I can’t bring Patrick back from the dead, no matter how hard I try.
But I can save Uncle Jay.
“You can’t kill Uncle Jay,” I say. I don’t know why I say it—Kenzo doesn’t have any reason to kill Uncle Jay, but I have to make Kenzo do this for me. Uncle Jay is the last family member I have. My only family. Without him, I’m alone, and I can’t accept that. “Promise me you won’t kill Uncle Jay.”
“I don’t make promises,” Kenzo says flatly.
I reach across the table, grabbing his hand. “Please.”
He sets his spoon down beside his bowl. His eyes challenge my racing thoughts.
“Has Jay ever touched you?” he asks.
“What?” I ask. “No!”
“If you tell me he’s never touched you, then I’ll see what I can do.” He rubs his forehead. “Damn it, Vi. If it makes you happy, I’ll even promise. But only if he’s never laid a hand on you.”
I let my memories flash across my mind. The drunken nights. The lessons. The fake situations. The “friends” I was introduced to. We’re a screwed up family, and there are some nights I don’t remember at all. But in those flashes of clarity, Uncle Jay never touched me.
“I promise,” I say.
Without another word, Kenzo picks up his spoon and devours the rest of his bowl. If last night was any indication of Kenzo’s extreme side, then maybe this calmer side, this relaxed state, is more like him. Is he feeling like himself yet?
“Uncle Jay is all I have left,” I explain. Kenzo’s eyes barely flick to mine, but his posture stiffens; he’s listening.
“All you have?” he asks.
Guilt weighs down on my shoulders. “Not like that,” I say. “You know, like family-family. You’re my husband, but Jay is my?—”
I take a sip of soup so I don’t have to say anything. My cheeks flush; what am I doing? This is a job; Kenzo isn’t my real husband. So why do I feel so guilty for saying Uncle Jay is my only family?
I focus on the soup; it’s salty and warm, and the tofu melts in my mouth. Kenzo’s bowl is empty, but he’s still watching me.
The last time I told him about our past, Patrick wound up dead. But for some reason, this impulse to spill everything grows inside of me.
Kenzo needs to know why Uncle Jay matters.
“When I was six, burglars broke into our house. Luckily, we weren’t inside when it happened—we were coming home from a candle shopping trip—I can’t remember too much, to be honest.” Everything about those memories is foggy, like my brain doesn’t have the power to process them. It’s probably a coping mechanism or something. “From the driveway, we could see something was wrong.” My hands sweat, and I’m instantly back in the car, the scent of a million different candles tickling my nose, the leather seats crunching under my fingers as I waited. “My father went inside to check things out, but when he didn’t come back, my mother went in, telling me to stay in the car.” I swallow a gulp, trying not to let the anxiety creep in. This is just a memory—it’s not real —but sometimes, it’s hard to see through it. “They never came back out.”
Kenzo’s eyes darken, but his shoulders remain relaxed, and he’s still, listening to me completely, taking every word in. He’s not even flicking his fingers in bored agitation.
“Uncle Jay found me like that. In the back seat. All alone,” I say.
You’re not supposed to be here, he had said, before unbuckling me from my booster seat.
“He took me home that night,” I say. “I was so scared, but Uncle Jay stayed with me. He promised he would always be there for me, that he’d take care of me like his own kid. And you know what?” I laugh, because it’s funny looking back on it all now. “I didn’t believe him. Not for a long time. And why should I? My own parents had died. That’s not something you can control. That’s something that happens. Why wouldn’t the same thing happen to Uncle Jay?”
Kenzo’s eyes peer into me like he can see deep inside of my soul. But he stays quiet, letting me guide him through my past.
“Patrick didn’t like it when I came into their lives, but Uncle Jay was always good to me. So please,” I beg. “Don’t take Uncle Jay away from me too.”
Kenzo blinks, but there’s a softness to his expression, and I wonder if he can relate. If Tomo was always good to him too.
“I promise,” he finally says.
Relief swells through me. I don’t know Kenzo well, but I know he honors his word, and if he makes a promise, he will keep it. He cleans his bowl and stores the rest of the soup. Humming to himself, he disappears into the back of the penthouse, and I let the anxiety go.
Patrick is dead, but at least Uncle Jay is safe. I trust Kenzo to keep his word.
Kenzo emerges from the bedroom in a clean, white suit. “I’ve got some work to take care of,” he says. “But tonight, we’ve got plans.”
“Plans?”
“I’m taking you to work. Be ready.”
I blink at him. “Okay.”
Once Kenzo is gone, I dial Uncle Jay, wanting to tell him about Patrick as soon as possible and get this over with. My heart races like a stampede in my chest, but Uncle Jay has to know. It’s his son. I can half-lie to Kenzo, but keeping this from Uncle Jay is impossible.
“Vi? Everything okay, sweetheart?” Uncle Jay asks with sleep in his voice. “Do you know where Patrick is?”
I swallow my guilt, then glance at the clock. It’s past one o’clock in the afternoon now. This isn’t the kind of thing you want to tell someone right when they wake up.
I can change subjects. Switch to Golden Honor Firearms. Make this phone call about work. But I don’t.
I start: “Patrick is?—”
Then I stop. An ache flickers in my throat, the world spinning around me. After a few moments, Uncle Jay lets out a long sigh.
“He’s on vacation, isn’t he?” he asks.
That’s what we used to say about my parents. They didn’t die; they’re on vacation. A permanent one. Sometimes, it made me feel better, like they were happy out there, somewhere. Like they could come back one day, and this would all be over. But that never happened. They’re gone, and now, Patrick is gone too.
“I’m sorry,” I wheeze.
There’s silence on the other end, and that breaks my heart more than anything. Uncle Jay has taken care of Patrick since he was a baby. He may not have been the best father, but he did everything he could for both of us.
I don’t know if I’ll miss Patrick. At times, we hated each other. But I ache for Uncle Jay. Patrick is his blood. I can’t imagine a loss like that.
“Do you have time to catch a movie today?” he asks, his voice emotionless. A trip to the movies was what we did every year for Patrick’s birthday. No matter where we were, there was always a movie theater and a crappy action movie to go see.
“Of course,” I say.
My posture sinks. I don’t know if Patrick deserved to die like Kenzo thinks he did, but I know Uncle Jay doesn’t deserve this pain. Losing a child must be like losing a part of yourself.
Now I’m all Uncle Jay has.
“Be careful, Vi,” Uncle Jay says mournfully. “If your husband hurts you, I don’t know what I’ll do. We need to work. Not this vacation bullshit.” He adjusts his grip on the phone and mutters curse words to himself, then he clears his throat. “We need to be smart. If not, we’ll be next. And I’m not going to let the Endo-kai be the end of us.”
I swallow a dry gulp. I can tell Uncle Jay what he needs to know right now, so he can deliver the information about the Golden Honor Firearms to our client, but I don’t tell him anything. I want this conversation to be over before I become a sobbing, guilty wreck.
“Okay,” I mumble. “A movie.”
“See you soon,” he whispers.