Chapter 11 Laughter Before the Blade
Chapter eleven
Laughter Before the Blade
Nyomi
My stylist’s voicemail played.
"NYOMI! Girl!” Deja sounded frightened. “I’ve got a whole SQUADRON of Japanese men here at my house! WITH GUNS! Big tall men in suits with GUNS on their hips like this is some mob movie! What is GOING ON?! Did I tell you that they got GUNS?!"
Oh my God.
I could picture it perfectly.
Deja's brownstone in Bed-Stuy. Her living room where she did hair—the folding chair by the window, The Young and the Restless playing on the TV, her cousin Nika probably mid-gossip about somebody from the neighborhood.
And then the door opens and in walks a squad of yakuza soldiers.
In suits.
Tattooed necks and wrists.
Scarred faces.
Colorful hair.
Armed.
Probably bowing politely while Deja's client is sitting there with half a head of goddess locs and the other half of her hair standing straight up in a mess.
Shit. I should have warned her.
Deja continued, "They talking about I need to pack my things so I can come do your hair! PACK MY THINGS, NYOMI?! Are they crazy?!”
I heard a man’s voice speaking in the background.
It must have been one of Kenji’s men explaining to her that this was urgent.
“I’m not doing no shit like that! I got clients scheduled! I got Keisha coming in at three for feed-ins! I got Mrs. Brewster's touch-up tomorrow! And these men. . .what the hell is that?!”
Noise sounded.
Women gasped.
I squinted as if that could help me figure out what was going on.
“Oh shit, Nyomi. These men got briefcases full of money! Now what type of illegal shit have you brought to my house?!”
The message shut off.
I had to stop walking because my shoulders shook with laughter.
The guards glanced at each other but said nothing.
In the next message, Deja's voice went up another octave.
"They said they need me to come to Japan!
TO JAPAN, NYOMI! Girl, I don't even got a passport that's current!
And they said don't worry, they'll handle it! HANDLE IT HOW?! Who ARE these people?! Why they got so much CASH?! Girl, you better call me back and explain this before I call the PO-LEECE! Not the fucking police, but the PO! LEECE! I’m not going to jail for nobody else’s shit.
You got me all types of fucked up. Call me back! "
The message ended.
Laughing some more, I wiped my eyes, trying to compose myself.
Behind me, I heard the younger guard clear his throat. "Nyomi? Is everything alright?"
"Yeah." I waved my hand, still grinning. "Just. . .my hair stylist met your colleagues."
The scarred guard's mouth twitched. "Ah. I understand."
I burst out laughing and headed off.
We passed a group of cleaners pushing carts of fresh linens. All three of them stopped, turned, and bowed deeply. "Tiger-sama. Good morning. It's an honor."
“Thank you. Good morning to you too.” I nodded back, still smiling from Deja's message, and kept walking.
The third voicemail started, and this time Deja's voice was completely different.
Calm.
Almost dreamy.
"Hey, girl. . .so. . .I'm on a private plane right now."
I grinned wider.
"Nyomi, I don't know what type of journalist work you got going on over there, but baby, you need to PUT ME ON. These men came back with a PASSPORT—a real passport, expedited, everything official—and they said the plane was leaving in two hours."
I could hear the smile in her voice.
"My cousin, Nika is with me. You know we go together. We're wearing fur coats they GAVE us. Girl, GAVE. Didn't ask for them back. Just handed us FUR COATS and said, 'for the journey.' Who DOES that?!"
I heard Nika on the side, “And they’re not getting these coats back either. I’m taking these champagne glasses too.”
“Girl, you don’t need to take the glasses. It’s the plane’s glasses.”
“Shit. These are nice.”
I chuckled.
A staff member was coming down the hallway toward us carrying a tray of fresh fruit.
She saw me, quickly moved to the side, and bowed her head. "Tiger-sama. Would you like anything? Tea? Coffee?"
"Oh, no. I'm heading to the kitchen now, but thank you."
She smiled warmly. "Of course. If you need anything at all, please let us know."
I nodded, and she walked away, still smiling.
Deja's message continued: "And Nyomi we are eating LOBSTER on this plane. LOBSTER! With that melted butter and everything! Nika over here crying, girl. Literal tears. She said she's never going back to Bed-Stuy."
I snorted.
"They got champagne. CHAMPAGNE, NYOMI! The expensive kind! And these seats? These seats recline all the way back into BEDS. BEDS ON A PLANE! I took seventeen pictures. I'm posting them all to the Gram, Bitch! I don't even care if people think I'm bragging. THIS IS MY MOMENT! Hate if you want."
The message ended and I had to pause in the hallway, yet again due to my laughing so hard my stomach hurt.
The guards waited patiently, but I caught the scarred one smiling slightly. “We must get back to the Dragon.”
“Yes. I’m sorry. It’s just these messages.”
We continued walking.
I pressed on the final message.
"GIRL!" Deja's voice was pure joy now. "I am in JAPAN, Biittttchhh!
And we got a VILLA! Not a hotel room—a whole VILLA!
Nyomi, it's right on the water! I can see the ocean from my BEDROOM!
There's a private BEACH, Bitch! Nika and I went down there and put our feet in the water and she started crying again! And she took that damn champagne glass too. If these people complain to you, tell them that Nika did it. Deja didn’t do that shit. "
I grinned, shaking my head.
"And baby, we got a butler. A BUTLER! His name is Takeshi and he brought us tea this morning on a silver tray.
SILVER, NYOMI! With little cookies! And he bowed!
He BOWED and called me 'Deja-sama' and I almost passed out! I don’t know what that means, but now everybody got to call me that shit back in Bed-stuy, bitch! "
The kitchen was just ahead now.
I could see the door.
"They said your appointment will be sometime this week, but girl, take your time. Take ALL the time. This is a VACATION for me now. I brought all your stuff—the pre-stretched braiding hair in colors 1, 1B, 2, and 4 like you like. I brought my good rat-tail combs. My edge control. Everything. But honestly? I might just stay here. Nika already asked Takeshi if we could extend the villa for a month. He was looking at us like he don’t understand English.
You heard me. We trying to live in this motherfucker. Alright, bitch. Sayōnara and what not."
The message ended with Deja's laughter fading out.
I stopped just outside the kitchen door, smiling at my phone.
My chest tightened with affection for Kenji. Even my hair stylist—someone he'd never met—was being treated like royalty because she mattered to me.
The last voicemail played.
My editor Janet's professional voice, tinged with concern.
"Nyomi, I saw the news about the bombings in Tokyo.
Please call me when you can to let me know you're safe.
Also, when you get a chance, I'd love an update on your progress with the sex industry book.
Hope you're taking care of yourself out there. "
I closed my eyes.
The sex industry book. Janet had no idea that my research had taken a turn that involved falling in love with a crime lord, passing tests with his inner circle, and now writing a completely different book about a dominatrix who rose from nothing.
I'd have to call her back and figure out how to explain everything.
But first, tea and maybe. . .something to eat.
I pushed open the kitchen door, and the guards positioned themselves just inside, flanking the entrance but giving me space.
And that's when I saw him.
Hiro.
An empty sake bottle sat near his elbow.
A glass, still half-full, rested near his right hand.
He'd been drinking.
Hard.
He was slumped over the kitchen table. Shirtless. His head rested on his crossed, muscular arms. His long dark hair fell forward like a curtain, obscuring half his face.
But it was his body that stopped me cold.
Oh my God.
Hiro was. . .beautiful.
Devastatingly so.
His bare back was a canvas of ink and muscle, every line of his body carved with the kind of definition that came from years of brutal training. Broad shoulders tapered down to a narrow waist, and even in this collapsed position, I could see the power coiled beneath his skin.
But it was the tattoos that held my attention.
His entire back was covered in an intricate masterpiece that made my breath catch.
At the top, spanning across both shoulder blades, cherry blossoms bloomed in delicate shades of pale pink and white. But these weren't gentle blossoms drifting peacefully.
These were blossoms in a violent storm, petals being torn from their branches, some whole and some shredded, scattering downward across his spine in a cascade of destruction.
Beautiful.
Brutal.
Below the falling petals and taking up the center of his back, was a massive wave—the Great Wave, like Hokusai's famous print—rendered in stunning detail with shades of deep blue and white foam.
The wave crashed and curled with terrifying power.
But within the water. . .
I took a few steps his way to look closer.
There are faces in the water. Dozens of them. Some peaceful. Some screaming. All drowning and being pulled under by the relentless current.
And at the bottom, near his lower back where the wave seemed to crash against his skin, koi fish swam desperately upstream through the violent water.
Black and gray.
Scales rendered in painstaking detail.
Their mouths open as if gasping for air.
Some were half-submerged and struggling.
Others leaped toward the blossoms above, fighting against impossible currents, trying to reach something beautiful that was already being torn apart.
The entire piece flowed together like a tragic story told in ink. Cherry blossoms—beauty and life—being destroyed. The great wave—overwhelming force, drowning everything in its path. The koi fish—fighting, struggling upward, even as everything falls apart around them.
This wasn't just art.
This was pain made visible.
Trauma made permanent.
And somehow, even possibly drunk, even passed out at a kitchen table reeking of sake, Hiro was one of the most striking men I'd ever seen. His face—what I could see of it beneath the dark hair—had the kind of sharp, elegant bone structure that belonged in photographs.
High cheekbones.
A strong jaw.
Lips that were full and soft even in unconsciousness.
The defined muscles of his arms pillowed his head, and I could see the strength in them—the kind of power that came from endless training, from being one of Kenji's most trusted Claws.
I stepped closer.
This didn’t seem like peaceful sleep.
His breathing was uneven, catching every few seconds like even unconsciousness wouldn't let him rest. His muscular shoulders rose and fell in stuttering rhythms, and I could see the tension even now—in the set of his jaw, in the way his hands were curled into loose fists, in the rigid line of his spine.
This was a man barely holding on.
The tattoos suddenly made even more sense. The blossoms being torn apart. The people drowning in the wave. The koi still fighting even though everything was falling apart.
My writer brain started jotting invisible interview questions.
What happened? Are the tattoos about your marking yourself with struggles you couldn't escape? Is the sake the only thing keeping you from drowning too?
My chest tightened.
Why wasn't he in his bedroom?
Why was he down here, passed out at the kitchen table like sleep was something he had to steal between swallows of alcohol?
I thought about the way he'd smiled in the war room and made all those jokes against Kenji’s Maybe-Baby Mama.
I thought about the lollipop in his mouth then and wondered. . .was that a small sign of him trying to cope with trauma.
Sugar to make the pain go down better.
Regardless. . .this was a man barely holding on.
I clutched my phone and notebook to my chest and moved carefully toward the counter where the kettle waited. I'd have to pass close to him and be very quiet, so I didn’t wake him.
I took a step.
Then another.
Almost past him now.
I would make my tea quickly and slip out quietly.
Let him sleep.
Let him—
Movement came from Hiro.
FAST!
One second, I was walking forward.
The next, everything exploded into chaos.
He moved. A blur of motion. His body uncoiled from the chair. His hand locked around my wrist, and then he spun me towards him.
My notebook jolted loose, pages scattering.
My phone slipped and clattered to the floor.
"Ah—!"
The world spun.
He yanked me sideways with brutal force, my feet left the ground for a split second before he slammed me back-first against the counter.
“Ahh!” The impact knocked the air from my lungs. Pain exploded across my spine as the counter edge dug into my back. My head snapped back, and my vision blurred for a second.
Cold steel kissed my throat, belonging to the knife in his hand.
What?! A knife! Oh my God!!
I screamed—a sharp, terrified sound that cut through the kitchen.
Behind me, the guards erupted into motion. Chairs scraped. Weapons cleared holsters. Boots thundered across the floor.
"STAY BACK!" one of them roared.
Another yelled, "Hiro-san! Yamero!"
Another guard shouted in rapid Japanese, words I didn't understand but the command in his voice was universal: Stand down.
But. . .Hiro’s eyes were still closed. . .and. . .a light snore left him.
What the fuck?! Is he still sleeping as he tries to kill me?!