23. The Softest Weapon
Chapter twenty-three
The Softest Weapon
Nyomi
The moment I stepped into the Dragon’s war room, the air changed.
It hit me like heat from an open furnace—dense, male, volatile. Sweat, cigar smoke, and the faint skunky twist of weed clung to the air.
Testosterone teemed in every square inch of the space.
And the room.
God.
It was massive.
A ballroom of war.
The ceiling arched high above with black beams like a ribcage. The walls were stone, slick and dark, broken only by mounted guns and a long line of crimson banners—each marked with a silver dragon curling in a circle and eating its own tail.
My gaze went to the wall across from me where there was a gigantic display of eight huge flat screens—two rows of four—glowing with late-breaking news footage. All were on mute, but the silence made it worse.
Tokyo burning. Smoke still curling into the skyline. Subtitles crawling across each screen.
But it was the center that stole my breath.
A giant 3D layout of Tokyo stretched nearly the entire length of the floor. Not flat like a map.
This was sculpture .
Towers rose up to my hips. Roads curved with chilling precision. I spotted Shibuya. Roppongi. Odaiba. Ginza. Ueno. Daikanyama. Akihabara.
Even the glinting shape of Tokyo Tower, scaled down to perfection, stood at attention beneath the low light.
Holy fuck.
It must’ve taken twenty artists. Maybe more.
Men moved along its edge, heads bent, murmuring to one another as they placed glowing tokens on key intersections or on top of roofs. A few painted huge black X’s on the front of buildings.
I wondered if those were the ones that had been bombed or would fall next.
Every now and then, I spotted small animal heads placed delicately on roofs too—some shaped like a fox, others carved into dragon heads with curved horns and gold-tipped teeth. I did catch a lion head here and there, but it was mainly dragons and foxes.
Territory markers?
It was too much to absorb. I was still cataloguing the sprawl when the sound of my heels clicked against the marble floor.
Everything slowed.
Conversations faded.
Cigars hovered midair.
Heads turned.
And then—all eyes found me.
Dozens of them.
Hardened men in designer dark suits and holstered guns. Some seated at steel desks with blueprints and open laptops. Others lined along the display, even bigger guns strapped to their hips.
And they were all now looking at me.
Alright. Here we go.
My breasts bounced with each step.
One guy’s cigar fell from his mouth and landed on the marble with a soft hiss.
I swayed my hips.
A few feet away, a man stood with his headset still clinging to his ears.
His eyes were glassy and open. . .but barely.
He swayed where he stood, blinking in slow, heavy drags like each second was a wave trying to pull him under.
But when he caught me walking by. . .it was like someone had shot expresso into his veins.
He sat up in his seat and damn near began to drool.
Another was seated on a crate of ammo, elbows resting on his knees, head down like it weighed too much to hold up. His lids fluttered, fighting gravity, and I could see the tension in his jaw as he tried—desperately—to stay awake. And the same response came, he saw me and suddenly came awake.
Not a single man in this room looked like they’d slept, yet when they got their gazes on me, they appeared fully rested.
Alright. Mission accomplished. I am definitely making an entrance.
I put my view back on the massive 3D display of Tokyo.
Another man spotted me and his hand trembled as he knocked over a tiny fox head he’d just placed on a rooftop. It clinked down and rolled into the miniature version of Shinjuku.
I didn’t falter.
I kept walking.
Every step I took sent echoes through that marble chamber—cutting across war talk, slicing through smoke, and disrupting everyone’s focus.
The hush that followed me wasn’t just awe.
It was uncertainty.
Maybe even craving.
Not one of those men had ever seen a woman in this room, especially not a Black woman. And damned sure not like this, sexy outfit, heels high, head held high.
I loved this feeling of erotic power over them.
It was chemical.
Utterly primal.
I could feel the shift ripple through the space—the way one man’s pulse jumped so hard he knocked over a stack of blueprints. Another dropped a clip of bullets.
These weren’t gangsters now.
They were horny boys in the presence of their Queen.
Now I get Kenji’s rule of no women and children in the war room. Especially for the female side of that rule.
Before I walked in, his men might have been planning the next phase of war, but now. . . they were memorizing the bounce of my breasts. I didn’t need to say a word.
I didn’t need a seat at the table.
I was the reason they couldn’t focus on the fucking table anymore.
But beneath all that illusion, I was thinking about something else.
Something softer.
Something scarier.
Looking sexy was fine, and making them turn heads was cool too, but how do I really make a difference during this war? How do I care for men who kill for a living? Who smoke through pain, gamble with death, and barely sleep between bomb strikes?
Even more important, how do I take care of the Dragon ?
Hiroko’s voice echoed in my head again:
“A room full of powerful men is just a room full of little boys who were never properly loved.”
Now that I was finally in the belly of the beast—this war room full of weapons, testosterone, and wounded pride—I finally understood what Hiroko meant.
I didn’t need to walk in here with battle plans.
I didn’t need to understand all the dragon/fox heads, the black X’s on the 3D buildings, or movement of his men.
Mafia strategy wasn’t my weapon.
I had other tools.
Things every Black woman I knew carried in her arsenal—sometimes in her purse, sometimes in her eyes, sometimes in her voice.
Weapons of softness.
Tools of healing.
Magic born in kitchens and braided into childhood hair.
So I continued forward through this ball room of testosterone, war strategy, and killers. . .and I thought about what I would do if these men were mine. What would go down if I was their boss.
First? Feed them.
Not just food—but nourishment. Soul food.
The kind that coated the belly and told the body and mind that it was safe to exhale.
Greens with smoked turkey. Mac and cheese with five cheeses and that crispy top.
Candied yams that melted in the mouth. Honey cornbread with a soft middle and crunchy edges.
That was how my grandmother fought the world—one pot at a time.
Oh yeah. I can do that with no problem.
From me they wouldn’t get blueprints.
They would get biscuits.
What else could I do? Hmmm.
If I continued with Hiroko’s theory about powerful men, then it would make sense that these men needed touch. Not sex. Not seduction. Just presence. Softness in the middle of steel.
A calm hand on a shoulder.
A warm towel wiped over a bruised face.
Fingers threading through thick hair and saying, you’re still human. You’re still here.
My mother used to do that when my father came home from court.
She never said, “How was that case or is everything okay?”
She would just rub his back, sit beside him, and say nothing.
As a little girl, I had learned that sometimes the deepest healing came from silence.
That’s it.
I imagined pressing a warm cloth to Kenji’s temple, wiping the blood-slick edge of his jaw. My fingers would graze the spot below his ear where tension always hid most. I wouldn’t speak. I would just be there—still, grounded. And he would lean into me like the war went quiet for us.
Third? Rest.
I could convince Kenji to sleep. And once he did, maybe the rest would follow. Perhaps, these killers would close their eyes and get the sleep they needed to truly win this war.
Alright. Is there anything else I could do. . ? Perhaps I could could remind them that they are still men .
Not machines.
Not monsters.
Men.
With lungs, hearts, and mothers who hopefully once kissed their foreheads goodnight. Men who needed warmth. Who craved softness but didn’t know how to ask for it anymore.
Kenji especially.
He would never say the words I’m scared. But already, I knew I would see it in the tension of his shoulders. In the way his breath stilled when plans went sideways.
In the way he drank coffee instead of sleeping last night.
I could care for him without making him weak. I could love him without making myself small.
Because Black women had been doing that for generations. Holding shit down without being thanked. Tending to wounds no one could see. Keeping empires running through casseroles, warnings, and silent, bone-deep prayers.
That’s what I could bring to this war.
Not firepower.
But firelight.
Not armor.
But aloe.
Not fear.
But fierce-ass love.
Yep. That’s it.
More confident in my being in the war room now, I continued forward, yet I still didn’t see Kenji in this massive space. But, I did feel him. The way heat tells you there’s a flame even before you see it.
Where are you? I already know you are watching me. You probably saw me right when I stepped inside.
And so I kept walking, eyes straight ahead. Men parted without realizing they had. The 3D display curved around and I went in that direction.
Then I saw him.
Oh.
All the way in the back of the room.
Kenji leaned casually against a large black desk scattered with guns, bullet clips, rope and what looked like three different bloodied knives.
Behind him, a curved screen glowed with security footage and maps, bathing his face in cold light. And his gaze was nothing but erotic fire.
Mmmm. Yeah. I thought you were watching me. Do you like this outfit?
He wasn’t listening to the man speaking urgently at his right—a tall, clean-shaven guy, dressed in all white. His hair fell down to his waist in one long braid.
Kenji wasn’t hearing a damn word from him.
His attention was pinned on me.
Those dark eyes roamed my body. From the sheer white blouse, to the skirt that hugged my curves, down my legs, to the red heels—and then back up , slow as sin.
I was still far away but I could feel hot lust pouring off him in earth-shattering waves.
My skin prickled under the weight of it.
Kenji shifted, like he was about to move. Like the weight of staying still was too much. But then he stopped himself. Muscles coiled. Desire caged. The Dragon didn’t move—but I knew he wanted to. Every inch of him burned with it.
And then I saw the man to his left.
Oh. That’s Lollipop guy.
I remembered him from when I first met Kenji. Lollipop guy had watched me as I raced away after kneeing Kenji in the balls. Tonight, Lollipop guy leaned against the desk, watching me with a lazy, unreadable expression. His mouth was curled around the stick of a blood-red lollipop.
And when our eyes met?
He slid the candy from his mouth in one slow pull, smirked at me, then leaned toward Kenji with a low whisper I didn’t catch— but it made Kenji loudly growl, triggering some of the other men around him to look his way.
Welcome to the war room, Nyomi. The rules just changed. And every man in this chamber knows it. But. . .can you make it worth it?