Chapter 13 Bento Box Politics
Chapter thirteen
Bento Box Politics
Nyomi
Back in the kitchen, I stopped and really looked at the space.
It was massive—professional-grade appliances, marble countertops that gleamed under pendant lighting, copper pots hanging from a rack above an island that could seat eight people. Everything was pristine and organized with military precision.
This was clearly a high-end chef's domain.
"Hey," I turned to Hiro. "Where's the chef? He surely has a staff and everything here."
Hiro leaned against the counter. "He was in here earlier, bored because everyone was asleep. I told him to get out because I wanted some peace."
I laughed at Hiro’s audacity, but also made a mental note not to mess anything up in this beautiful kitchen. Whoever ran this space deserved respect.
I turned to my guards. "Are you guys hungry too?"
"Absolutely not," Hiro said immediately.
I tensed. "What?"
"You can't make stuff for your guards."
“Why not?”
"Because if you do that, then the Dragon's guards are going to be upset that they didn't get anything to eat."
"Oh my God." I pressed my hand to my forehead. "This is becoming a thing."
"Yes. A very big thing."
I thought for a moment, running through options in my head.
Then it hit me.
"Alright. I got it. I'll make banana bread. That way I can do slices for my guards and slices for the Dragon's guards."
Hiro considered that for a few minutes and then bobbed his head. "That will work."
“Can you get the stuff?”
Hiro touched his chest. “Me?”
“Yeah. That would be a big help.”
“Okay. I’ll do it. What will I need?”
I rattled off the ingredients—overripe bananas, flour, sugar, eggs, baking soda, vanilla, walnuts if they had them.
“I’m on it.” Hiro looked genuinely excited as he headed back into the pantry.
I turned to another guard. "We need music. How can I get music in here?"
"I can get a small device," he said, already moving toward the door.
"You like music when you cook?!" Hiro called from the pantry.
"Absolutely. I can't cook unless I have music. Additionally, I can't write unless I'm playing music too."
With a sigh, I made my way toward the cupboards, running my fingers over the cold marble countertop. The feel of the chilled stone beneath my fingertips was reassuring, grounding.
I wondered which cabinet held the mixing bowls and baking pans.
I opened one.
Rows of shiny copper pots and pans greeted me.
The second cabinet revealed a variety of baking dishes, each meticulously arranged by size.
“This works.” I pulled out a loaf pan and set it on the counter.
Next, I needed a large mixing bowl. I found them stashed in another cabinet.
Like everything else in this kitchen, they were perfect. White ceramic, heavy and sturdy.
I picked the largest one.
The utensils came next. There was a separate drawer for them, everything from spatulas to balloon whisks organized neatly. I grabbed a wooden spoon, and it fit comfortably in my hand.
Setting everything on the counter, I took a moment to admire the layout. It was like a well-orchestrated symphony, every item having its place, ready for the performance.
Now the stage was set, all waiting for the main actors.
Hiro emerged with the cloth bag full of banana bread ingredients. A curious smile spread across his face. "What kind of music do you listen to?"
"Everything. But when I cook? Reggae. Or old-school R&B. Something with soul."
"I like reggae." He set the bag on the counter. The exhaustion in his eyes seemed to lift.
As I began preparing everything, I noticed Hiro continued to stand and watched me move around the kitchen, not sitting despite the fact that he'd been sleeping in a chair moments ago.
I quirked my brows. "Do you want to help me cook?"
He blinked. "I don't know how to cook."
"You know how to cook anything?”
“Nothing?”
“No way."
"Never learned."
I put my hands on my hips. "Oh, no. You gotta come over here. My new buddy needs to know how to make one or two dishes for himself."
He chuckled as he walked over—this huge, dangerous man suddenly seeming like a kid about to learn something new.
It made me think he was kind of cute.
"We're going to make a side of potatoes with the Eggs Benedict," I pulled the bag of russet potatoes over. "We’re doing this because I like to dip the potatoes in the poached egg and the hollandaise sauce. It's just so delicious that way."
I set a cutting board in front of him and placed a potato on it. "So. Since you're so good with a knife, why don't you cut these potatoes?"
I demonstrated—showing him how to hold the knife properly, where to place his other hand, how to create even cuts. "This is how you do it. See? Firm grip, fingers curled under. Smooth motion."
He watched intently.
“Now you try.” I gave him a new potato and the knife.
He attempted.
His first cut was uneven. “Fuck.”
"That's okay. Try again. Let the weight of the knife do the work."
He adjusted, and the next cut was better.
"There you go! Now keep that rhythm." I talked him through it, and he listened like I was teaching him strategy for war instead of basic cooking.
Minutes later, the guard returned with a small speaker device. "I was told that there are different stations on the device’s app."
"Is there a reggae station?"
"I believe so.”
“Perfect. Can you hook it up for me?"
“Yes.” The guard went to work, and I continued to monitor Hiro’s potato cutting.
However, the irony of all this did hit me. This morning, I'd left the Dragon to outline book chapters, make some quick tea, and slip back into Kenji's bed before he woke.
Simple.
Quiet.
Productive.
Now I was standing in a chef's kitchen about to make Eggs Benedict and banana bread with the Dragon's brother—the same man who'd held a knife to my throat while half-asleep.
The same man whose back was covered in tattoos that told stories of drowning and struggle.
The same man who smelled like sake and exhaustion and looked at me like I was the first kind thing to happen to him in weeks.
I should have been back in Kenji's arms by now.
Instead, I was here.
Choosing this.
And the strangest part?
I felt at home.
My hands moved automatically, reaching for the mixing bowl, checking the oven temperature, organizing ingredients. This was my element. Words and food—they were the two things I'd always understood, the two ways I knew how to connect with people.
I'd interviewed strangers over shared meals. I'd cooked for sources who wouldn't talk until they trusted me and had my specially baked donut in their hands. Food was a language I spoke fluently, and right now, I believed that Hiro needed that language more than he needed anything else.
The knife at my throat was already becoming a story I'd process later.
Right now, I was cooking.
And somehow, that felt exactly right.
Soon the guard connected the radio, and Bob Marley's "Three Little Birds" filled the kitchen.
Hiro's face lit up. "I love this song."
“Hell yeah. How could you not? This is a classic.”
We smiled at each other, and I started swaying slightly to the beat as I gathered the rest of the ingredients.
The guard who'd helped in the pantry stepped forward. "Do you need me to do anything?"
"Absolutely." I gestured to the bananas. "Take off your jacket, roll up your sleeves. You're on banana bread duty."
He looked genuinely excited as he shrugged out of his jacket and rolled his sleeves to his elbows. "I'll do anything you need, Tiger."
I blinked at his using my nickname and then slowly walked him through mashing the bananas, measuring flour, and the importance of not overmixing.
Meanwhile, Hiro was getting into a rhythm with the potatoes. His cuts became more even with each slice.
Some time passed.
Once I was sure the guard had everything on point with the banana bread, I headed back over to Hiro. “How are we doing?”
“Almost done.”
“Good.”
"You know," Hiro said, not looking up from his work, "you're going to have to make Kenji something to eat too."
"Of course. Kenji is going to have the biggest plate, the biggest portions, everything. I know he's asleep, but—"
"Wake him up when you're done." Hiro's voice was serious. "Because if he doesn't get food before everyone else, and it's not the biggest and the best. . ." He paused. "Forget about the war in Tokyo. There will be a war on this island."
I laughed.
"I love my brother, but his temper is insane. I do not want to upset him."
I thought that it was saying a lot being that Hiro had just defended himself in his sleep. That made me not want to ever witness Kenji’s temper.
I winked. "Got it, also. . .I don't want to get in any more trouble either when it comes to handing out food."
He snickered.
“Speaking of that, what do you think will be good for you and the Claws?”
“What do you want to do?”
“I was thinking a nice sit-down dinner.”
“That might be tricky.”
“Why?” I went and turned on the oven. “The Claws would be happy.”
“They would but then the Fangs and Roar would feel slighted because an extravagant dinner is much more than bento boxes.”
“True. So then, I invite them.”
“Which puts the Claws back into our grievances because it isn’t equal.”
“So. . .” I tapped my foot against the floor. “Alright. We still do a sit-down dinner because that would be fun, and all are invited—Roar, Fangs, and Claws—”
“And the Dragon.”
“Always the Dragon.” I held up a finger. “However, check this out.”
Hiro leaned his head to the side.
“We do a special Claws cocktail hour with hors d'oeuvres.”
Hiro’s brows lifted. “A Claws cocktail hour?”
“Yes. Right before dinner. Exclusive. Claws-only. Small bites. Crafted cocktails.”
“I like this.”
“For drinks. . .” I crossed to the drawer beside the stove and pulled out a small saucepan. “We start with something bold, strong, and a little dangerous. Maybe something like a yuzu old-fashioned. It’s citrusy, smoky, smooth—but it bites back at the end. That’ll be your drink.”
Hiro’s eyes sparked. “This is good.”
“Exactly.” I reached for a skillet next, placing it on the burner.
The cold metal clicked against the grate.
“Then, we do tiny shots in crystal glasses. Maybe a wasabi margarita rimmed with black salt. Or a matcha martini with white chocolate shavings. Something elegant, but with a kick. Everything should hit the throat like a threat, just like claws. Get it?”
He let out a low laugh, shaking his head. “I get it.”
To help out the guard, I grabbed a few eggs and cracked them into a bowl. The yolks slipped free with soft, golden plops. “Now food. The Claws can’t just have basic hors d’oeuvres. They need things that look beautiful but could double as weapons.”
“Weapons?”
“Obviously,” I moving to the drawer for a whisk. “Mini tuna tartare cones with gold leaf—sharp enough to pierce an ego. Spicy karaage bites served on skewers that look like daggers. Wagyu sliders with wasabi aioli, each one wrapped in edible rice paper.”
“Mmmm.”
Once done with the eggs, I pushed it over to the guard and pulled out an assortment of small cast-iron pans. Next, I lined them on the counter and drizzled oil into each—olive, sesame, avocado—letting the air fill with layered scent.
Hiro actually grinned—wide, boyish, incredulous. “This is going to be fun.”
“I think so, but what do you think about the Claws? Will they be happy?”
Hiro didn’t move for a moment. His knife rested against the cutting board, forgotten. He just watched me, and this mix of awe and sorrow lived behind his eyes. “I think they will feel loved and appreciated.”
“And no longer slighted?”
“Yes.”
“Awesome.” I reached past him to grab a clean towel.
Hiro returned to chopping and got back into a good rhythm with the potatoes, but then after a few minutes, he glanced at me and paused with his knife hovering mid-air. "What happened?"
“Huh?” I stopped what I was doing. “What do you mean, what happened?”
His gaze fixed on my shoulder.
I followed it and realized he'd spotted the Band-Aid peeking out of my shirt. There was also a smaller one on my lower neck too.
Heat crept up my face. "Oh. That’s. . .nothing."
His eyes narrowed slightly, studying the placement. "Those are new. You didn't have those Band-Aids on when you came into the war room yesterday."
I blinked, impressed with him despite my embarrassment. He really was good with details. Observant in a way that probably made him deadly in his line of work.
"Yeah, I didn't have the Band-Aids then."
He set down the knife completely and turned to face me. "My brother's not hurting you, right?"
"Oh, no! No, no." The words tumbled out quickly, followed by a nervous chuckle I couldn't quite suppress. "Actually, this is. . .I guess we can call this a love bite."
His eyes widened. "A love bite?"
I busied myself grabbing fresh herbs from the counter. "Yes. Just, you know intense little love bites."
"During sex?"
My face was absolutely on fire now. I started arranging the herbs with far more concentration than necessary. "Yes."
"Very interesting." Hiro went back to chopping, but I could hear the curiosity in his voice. "My brother typically doesn’t bite during sex. I've never seen him do that."
I pulled out the eggs for the Benedict, grateful for the distraction of preparation. "Well, it's not like you would know what he does intimately. Or would you?"
Hiro looked at me, completely unbothered by the question. "I've seen him have sex a lot. And during those times, he never bit a woman."
What?!