22. The Journey #2
Her royal court laughed.
I didn’t turn around. “I would like to see the Dragon.”
Before the guards could speak, maybe-baby mama replied, “The Dragon is busy and he is not allowing anyone in.”
I refused to look at her.
Let them sip tea and snap fingers.
I kept my eyes on the guards, chin up, silent, poised, unbothered. I was playing the long game now.
The tall guard, the one with the scar across his eyebrow, shifted slightly. “I would need to get the Roar.”
I nodded.
Then he turned, opened the war room door, and stepped inside, leaving me alone in the hallway with my heartbeat, the suspicious guard, and them .
Behind me, the maybe-baby mama and her royal court dissolved into a tangle of laughter and whispers in Japanese. I didn’t need to speak the language to understand.
They were talking about me.
Picking me apart.
I’d seen those looks and had heard that kind of laughter before. It was the sound that followed me through high school hallways after the news broke about my father.
I felt the past snap its teeth.
This is like fucking high school all over again.
Back then, it had started with whispers in class.
Then eye rolls.
Then jokes. "Your Daddy's in jail. Right? Aren’t you worried he’ll be somebody’s bitch?"
When they found out about the mistresses—especially the seventeen-year-old, the one who was my age —they had a ball with that. They’d printed out the headlines and taped them to my locker.
Left me notes that said, "Maybe your dad wanted to fuck you. Or did he? Are you a true Daddy’s girl?"
This went on for months.
I begged my mother to let me leave. She didn’t hear me at first—too busy drowning in legal fees and press releases, pacing the kitchen while screaming about how “the Feds were setting up a prominent Black man,” how “they made that seventeen-year-old girl up,” how "they were trying to destroy our beautiful family.”
By the third month, I didn’t argue.
I just packed my bags.
Eventually, she signed the forms and I moved down to South Carolina to live with my grandmother.
There, I finished high school in silence. No friends. No prom. No distractions. Just shadows, church, soul food and the slow, steady ache of finding comfort in being invisible.
Graduation day came and went. I didn’t walk across the stage to get my diploma.
I didn’t want to be seen.
Instead, my grandmother made deviled eggs, mac’n cheese, greens, ribs, and cornbread, invited a few of her church ladies, and we sat by the river with red solo cups and bellies full of her bourbon-glazed pound cake, laughed about everything and nothing at all.
I wore a sundress and sandals.
She wore her best church dress and pearls.
It was the best celebration I ever had.
But here I was again.
Back in my high school’s hallway.
Back in the war of vile whispers.
Except now I wasn’t the ashamed daughter of a scandal.
I was the woman standing outside the Dragon’s war room.
I was stronger now and while I wouldn’t slap maybe-baby mama, I would knock out her crew if they kept it up.
Lord, please help me not start a brawl out here in this hallway.
I hated how my body betrayed me. My nerves flickered under my skin, itchy and tight. My hands curled into fists at my sides. My lips ached from the pressure of keeping them still.
If Reo came out and told me I couldn’t go in—especially in front of her —I didn’t know what I would do.
Unfortunately, it would feel like losing.
I knew it was childish. This wasn’t some high school hallway. This was a Japanese mafia compound on a private island with murderers, assassins, and men who turned cities into ash.
But still . . .something in me whispered that if I had to turn around and walk away. . .I would be surrendering my crown.
Behind me, the maybe-baby mama giggled again and began speaking in English.
“Really. . .” Her voice was honey-laced venom. “You might as well turn around.”
I didn’t.
“No woman has ever entered the Dragon’s war room,” she continued. “Not on this island. Not even the one in his Tokyo stronghold.”
I gritted my teeth.
She sighed, “The Dragon’s rule is no women and children in the war room. None. Even if a woman holds a high position—as his Ear.”
The pause after Ear was deliberate.
I didn’t move.
Then came the chuckle. The low, calculated mutter to her court: “She probably doesn’t even know what an Ear is.”
That got them going.
The tall man in the cream kimono howled with laughter like she’d just told the greatest joke in history. “She knows nothing of our ways.”
They laughed like I wasn’t there.
Like I was some poor, lost girl in a pair of borrowed heels pretending to belong.
I kept my spine straight.
My chin high.
But inside?
My heart was slamming so hard it felt like it might bruise my ribs.
And then the door opened.
Fuck.
Reo stepped out.
Everything in me tightened. My vision tunneled. My pulse surged like I was about to leap off a building and hope the wind caught me.
His expression was unreadable.
Behind me, the court went quiet.
Waiting.
Watching.
I stood perfectly still.
Reo, hook me up. Please. Don’t let me lose in this hallway. Not like this. I might fight somebody.
Reo stepped through the doorway as a myth come back from the dead—taller than I remembered, broader too. One muscular arm was tucked in a black sling, and a bandage sat high on his cheekbone—a war medal stitched into his skin.
Even banged up, bruised, and clearly running on fumes. . .Reo was mafia nerd fine. The kind of fine that knew complicated calculus algorithms and also where to hide a body.
Reo’s dark eyes locked on mine.
And then to my utter surprise, slowly—deliberately—he looked down. His gaze tracked my white sheer blouse, the delicate flash of black lace beneath it, the black pencil skirt that hugged my hips like a second skin, my legs, and then finally the red Louboutins.
Then—like he remembered where we were—Reo snapped his eyes back up to mine, cleared his throat, and straightened slightly. “Nyomi.”
Just my name, but there was something behind it. A beat of acknowledgment. Maybe even respect. Maybe more.
I smiled, soft and polite. “I don’t want to disturb you all. I just wanted to check on Kenji. For a quick minute.”
Come on, Reo. These bitches are hating on me. Let them know who I am?
He tilted his head. The bandage on his face shifted slightly when he smirked. “You want to come in? Or do you want the Dragon to come out?”
“Come in.”
The royal court snickered.
Reo paid them no mind. “That’s fine, but only if you promise me this.”
Behind me, someone gasped . The sound was almost cartoonish in its disbelief—like royalty had just been insulted in church.
Oh shit. . .am I going to be the first woman to enter Kenji’s war room?
I raised a brow. “O-kay. . .what do you want me to promise?”
Reo’s smirk deepened, just a little. “Please, convince the Dragon to go to bed. We’re all exhausted, and he won’t listen to us. At this point I believe that only you can help us.”
From behind, one of the Royal Court huffed —loud and sharp.
I fought the smirk threatening to crack across my face. “I’ll do my best.”
“Thank you.” Reo nodded once, and then stepped aside.
That tiny shift of his body—the space he made for me—was all I needed.
Permission granted.
And just like that, I crossed the threshold.
Chaos erupted behind me.
The maybe-baby mama snapped something in Japanese, her tone gone shrill and angry. Her court joined in—a cacophony of sharp syllables and disbelief.
Reo didn’t flinch. In fact, he appeared absolutely annoyed.
I didn’t look back. But God, it was hard not to turn around and stick out my tongue like I was back in high school.
Instead, I walked inside.
And behind me, their fury only got louder and made the moment even sweeter as I heard more movement and now Reo responding in annoyed bursts of Japanese.