Chapter 4
Chapter four
Party Planning
Nyomi
The next morning, I woke up reaching for Kenji, but my hand only found the ghost of his warmth lingering in rumpled silk.
Fuck. When did you wake up?
His absence was a physical thing, and the cruelest part was that his scent still coated his pillow. That smoked sandalwood rose like incense from a temple hidden deep in the mountains and then chased with candied ginger crystallized in fire.
His scent. . .was starting to feel like home.
Like forever.
Like the last page of a romance novel, written in ink that would never dry.
Like a man whose soul was mine to keep, yet it burned slowly and was dangerous to hold.
Sighing, I opened my eyes, breathed him in, and sat up.
You should have woken me. I wanted to make sure you were okay. . .I wanted to hold you and have you hold me.
I spotted a note on the nightstand, reached over, and picked it up. His handwriting was intensely sharp with angled letters pressed deep into the paper, almost cutting and slicing it away.
I grinned.
Even his handwriting is violent.
I read it.
Tora.
You looked so beautiful and peaceful. I didn’t want to wake you. My queen deserves to rest and so much more.
I love you.
I'll be in my office if you need me.
Enjoy the day.
I read it three times, held it against my chest, and still hated that I'd missed him.
Like me, Kenji was carrying grief mixed with insurmountable stress for the battle to come and. . .he wouldn’t say that he needed my help, but his dragon-shadow had shown that he did.
I wanted to help him carry it all, to sit in the dark with him and say, “Give me half.”
Wasn’t that what people did for those they loved?
Didn’t they share the burden of pain, grief, and fear?
Didn’t they take the time out to heal each other?
But I'd slept.
And he'd left.
And now the sun was pouring through the windows in warm gold sheets, and the day was already moving without me.
Fuck. Let me get dressed. I’ve also got that Claws’ party tonight.
I spent the rest of the morning getting ready. I showered, pulled on black yoga pants and a simple black top. I gathered my goddess braids in a high ponytail so I could easily move around the kitchen and cook.
Once done, I hurried down to the kitchen, telling myself that I would just make sure everything was started and then go check on Kenji.
When I got to the kitchen, so many things hit me before I even crossed the threshold. Savory warmth first.
Then sound. Miles Davis moved through the speakers like he owned the room.
Next, the smell of caramelized onions soft and dark in their own sweetness, garlic catching the edge of the flame, and meat slowly braising.
Three new sous chefs were already deep in their stations, locked into their own private wars with the food.
The first was a compact man with a shaved head and tattooed forearms. He had a shallow pan tilted at a precise angle over an open flame. He was reducing wine, swirling it in rhythmic rotations.
The second woman stood over a wooden board, chopping herbs. She was working through a mountain of them—shiso, green onion, basil, and thyme.
The third was barely older than twenty and had flour dusting his forearms. A full tray of dumpling wrappers rested in front of him. Perfectly pinched and pleated, they appeared more like origami than hors d'oeuvres.
I stood in the doorway a minute.
Alright. This party is definitely happening tonight.
Chef Bunzō had the range going. Four burners lit with blue flames dancing beneath heavy pots. Steam rose toward the vaulted ceiling.
"Good morning, Nyomi." Chef Bunzō looked up from his station. He had his sleeves rolled past his forearms. A wooden spoon was in one hand and a small ceramic dish of green sauce was in the other. “I brought my top people in today. That’s why we have new faces.”
“Okay.” I said, as I entered.
“Are you ready for the big day?”
“I am. I think we’re going to give the Claws a good time.”
“So good that the Fangs will want a party too.”
I blinked. “No. . .”
He chuckled.
“They better not.”
He shrugged and set the dish with the green sauce by the stove. “By the way, Reo gave me a note an hour ago.”
“Oh really?”
He pointed to the other side of the kitchen. “It’s on the counter over there. I thought you should read it for yourself.”
I walked over and didn’t even have to pick it up to see the message.
Heart,
Macaroni and cheese.
Please and thank you.
If you oblige, I will cut out my soul and hand it to you.
Your loyal and devoted Roar.
“Hmmm.” I shook my head. “I wonder if Reo wants some cheese.”
Chef Bunzō stirred the sauce. “It will forever be a mystery.”
I chuckled. “Alright. Let’s make sure we take care of the Roar. He’s offering his soul and I would love to hold another soul.”
“One can never have too many souls in this life.” Chef Bunzō signaled to one of his assistants I hadn’t seen. She had a short red bob and green glasses. “Aya, help the Tiger. Get what she needs. Follow any instruction given.”
“Yes, chef.” Aya rushed over.
“Let’s see.” I thought of my grandmother’s recipe and how I had played with it over time. Additionally, I couldn’t give him what I’d made for Kenji because the Dragon was petty and possessive.
Aya pulled out a small notepad and pen.
“Alright.” I tapped my finger lightly against the counter, thinking through it like a strategy instead of a recipe. “We’re going to do four cheeses.”
“Okay.”
“First, Gruyère. That’s the backbone.”
She wrote that down.
“It melts like silk. And I want a lot so that when Reo lifts the fork, it stretches like it’s refusing to let go.”
Chef Bunzō gave a soft hum of approval without looking up.
Miles Davis’s trumpet slid low through the air as if agreeing with me too.
Behind me, the compact man with the tattooed forearms had finished his reduction. He was tasting it now — one small spoon, eyes closed, completely still. Like a man in prayer.
The herb woman hadn't stopped moving once.
I looked back at Aya. “Second will of course be sharp cheddar.”
Nodding, Aya scribbled that.
“This is the bite, and the part that will make him stop chewing for a second because it will hit the back of his tongue and demand attention.” I held up my finger and recited what my grandmother would always say to me.
“Grate it. Fine. I don’t want clumps. It’s supposed to melt into everything else. ”
“Got it.”
“Third, fontina.”
“Interesting.” Chef Bunzō looked up at me.
“Is it too much?”
“Oh no. The Roar loves indulgence.”
“Good because. . .I want him to feel hugged from the inside.”
Some of the sous chefs chuckled near their stations.
Chef Bunzō returned to his work. “I’ll have to steal this idea from you. Adding the fontina will definitely make it decadent and keep the dish from being dry.”
The bass line of Kind of Blue rolled in steady, while the trumpet danced over it.
“Last, Parmigiano-Reggiano.”
Chef Bunzō nodded again. “Excellent.”
Aya wrote that down. “Will that go in the sauce?”
“Exactly.” I bobbed my head. “We can put some on the top too to give it a crust that cracks just slightly when the fork goes through it.”
“By the end of this dish, Reo will be your Roar.” Chef Bunzō winked.
I smiled.
This dude is funny.
It was nice to be around someone who was thoroughly enjoying their day and excited. It was the perfect escape I needed out of the grief of Hiroko’s loss.
“I’ll get everything and start working on it.” Aya headed off to the pantry. “I should have samples in a few hours.”
“Perfect.”
Miles’s trumpet climbed higher now, stretching, aching, chasing something just out of reach.
I exhaled softly and went over to my notebook of ideas that Hiro and I had gone over days ago. “Okay, chef. Catch me up.”
"The oxtail stock is reducing. I wanted you to taste three different preparations."
“Three? Wow. I’m excited.”
He gestured to three heavy pots on another counter. Each one held braised oxtails.
I picked up a fork and touched one. The tender meat fell right from the bone. “That’s what I’m talking about.”
Reo ate those burnt oxtails. When he tries these, he’ll really understand how they were supposed to taste.
I tried the first and tasted—soy, mirin, and ginger. “This is nice.”
The second was bolder—a miso base with black garlic and yuzu. “Mmmm.”
The third was mine with the soul food Bourbon base. “Wow. My grandmother would curse you all out for mimicking her style down to the exact flavoring.”
A few of them laughed.
Bunzō smirked. “So the third?”
“Must go for the third.”
“Good. Everyone else agreed.” He set the spoon down. "The bartender and staff will be in the kitchen later to test out your signature drinks.”
I checked my watch. "What time?”
“In two hours.”
Damn. This is moving fast.
I nodded. “Sounds good.”
"They'll have your recipes and they'll go over everything. Run through each drink."
"Good. I want someone to taste every single cocktail on that list." I pointed at him. "But not me. I'm not getting drunk before my own party."
“I can’t either.” He held up his hands. "I'll find someone. No problem."
“Perfect.” I leaned against the counter and looked at the kitchen. At the steam and the blue flames and the people moving through it with purpose.
Miles Davis played and the light through the windows was gold and warm and the whole room hummed with bright energy.
This is going to be a good day. We all need this.
The kitchen doors swung open again.
I glanced up.
Three people stepped in.
Who’s this?
The first was a tall woman dressed head to toe in purple—wide-leg trousers, sleeveless blazer, and even purple highlights in her long hair. She carried a tablet in one hand. “Good morning, Nyomi.”
The second wore a gray suit. He gave no greeting and simply bowed.
The third was younger. Maybe mid-twenties. Lots of street energy. She wore a cropped jacket with camouflage jeans. Her nails were painted a deep chrome and her hair was in two high pink puffs.
Chef Bunzō cleared his throat. “This is your decoration team approved by Hiro.”
I smirked. “Approved by Hiro?”
The street smart woman nodded. “Yes, Tora. Hiro woke us all up at five in the morning and told us to get ready.”
I frowned. “He has some nerve bothering people like that. I’m sorry.”
“Hiro woke us up too.” Chef Bunzō laughed. “However, I found it pretty exciting.”
Miles Davis’s trumpet rose again, smooth and confident.
I returned to them. "Okay, so I’m sure Hiro told you this is a party for the Claws.”
They bobbed their heads.
“We'll start with cocktails and hors d'oeuvres in one space. Then we move to another room for a proper sit-down dinner."
The man nodded. "Where do you want the staff to set up?”
I thought about the war room and loved what Kenji had done— the miniature Tokyo, the candles, the way he'd transformed that violent space into a romantic venue.
But they were probably in that room right now.
Planning.
Strategizing.
Mapping out the next battle.
No. This party is about escaping death and the war.
I swallowed. "Let's use the ballroom. I want it transformed."
The woman in purple tilted her head. "What's the vision?"
“Hmmm.” I closed my eyes for a second and let the music guide my thoughts. The trumpet, bass, and piano painted pictures behind my eyelids.
I opened my eyes and smiled. "The Great Gatsby meets In the Mood for Love."
While the first was a proven classic of decadence, I'd watched In the Mood for Love ten times. It was a film from the early 2000s about two neighbors in 1960s Hong Kong discovering their spouses were having an affair with each other.
And instead of these two falling apart, they fell toward each other. They never even touch for most of the film.
The whole thing lives in what they don't say and don't do.
And every single frame—the wallpaper, the heroine’s dresses, the stairwells, the rain, the noodle shop at night—was just so heartbreakingly dreary and beautiful it hurts. Deep reds, emerald greens, warm shadows. The camera holding on them too afraid they would disappear.
Gatsby was the spectacle—diamonds and champagne and everyone feeling larger than life.
In the Mood for Love was the quiet intimacy underneath.
I wanted both, for the Claws to walk into that ballroom and feel grand yet fully seen at the same time.
Ms. Street Smart grinned. “Oooo. Elegant and breathtaking.”
“Yes.”
Ms. Purple began making notes on her pad. "Gatsby is diamonds, crystals, champagne towers, and gold everything.”
“Yes.” I nodded. “Excess so beautiful it almost makes you cry, but In the Mood for Love. . .that's the soul underneath it. The intimacy.”
The man tapped his chin. “Rich colors like reds, dark greens, and deep shadows.”
Ms. Purple widened her eyes. “That’s my favorite movie. Slow, yet every single minute matters because someone might leave and never come back. Two people who can't look away from each other."
The man turned to her. "I'll make some calls. We'll need crystal installations, lighting design, floral. I know people."
She nodded. "Whatever you need. Whatever it costs."
Ms. Street Smart looked at me. "And the dress code?"
"Luxury black."
We were still carrying grief, but we would carry it in style.
We went over more plans, and then the team left.
The kitchen kept moving. New assistants came in to help.
The sous chefs chopped, plated, tasted, and adjusted. I joined the preparation and stayed busy.
Miles played on too, shifting into Blue in Green, then later Flamenco Sketches.
Hours passed, and then the kitchen doors swung open, and Zo walked in, tall for no damn reason at all, slightly disheveled, and definitely still wearing yesterday's clothes.
His hair was a mess and his smile was enormous. "Good morning, beautiful people. Where’s Nyomi? Aww. There you go. I just wanted to give you a quick hug and kiss before I venture off to Hiroko."
Oh shit.
I froze.
I still have to tell him.