Chapter 8
Eight
“ C hicken shoyu ramen and takoyaki,” the chef murmurs as he sets the bowl of noodles and the octopus balls in front of me. I lick my lips greedily as I grab my chopsticks and soup spoon to dig in. I haven’t eaten this well since I ran away from home three years ago. My life became about remaining under the radar and living as frugally as possible.
My father shakes his head, disgusted, as I slurp my noodles from the bowl, devouring the delicious meal like it is my last. With the look both my parents are giving me, it could very well be. Or it could also be the fact that my husband’s assistant is the one sitting in the seat directly on his right, instead of me. Tradition states that the wife of a society man sits at his right-hand side while his highest associate sits on his left. However, when I came down for dinner, the spot meant for me had already been taken.
A shame, really.
My father threw many obvious pointed looks, his gaze bouncing back and forth between me and Ai, but instead of making a fuss, I simply sat down next to her, ignoring her smug look.
“I see that your clothing taste has improved, Eve,” my mother says critically, eyeing my long black pants and blue blouse. “Where is your makeup? Couldn’t you have put in a little bit of an effort? Honestly, you shouldn’t be entertaining with such a bare face.”
It’s funny how my mother is able to pair a compliment with a set of insults and still make the compliment sound like an insult as well. Charity LaMontagne is a lot of things—vain, selfish, out for her own regard—but she isn’t known for her generosity. Which means if she is giving you a compliment, she doesn’t mean it. It is always paired either with an insult or a favor. I guess I’m lucky she doesn’t need any favors from me. She just likes to drag my self-worth through the mud.
Good times.
“I had a designer make a house call for her today,” my husband tells them. He smiles down the table at me, amusement twinkling in his eyes. I didn’t know cold, dead eyes could twinkle. “How did that go, by the way? I’m assuming you got everything you wanted?”
The ramen I’ve been consuming suddenly sits like a stone in the pit of my stomach.
“Oh, yeah. He was a great help,” I say somewhat sarcastically, setting my chopsticks to the side, no longer hungry. My control over my life is slowly slipping away. My father and mother were always strict, but I still had a modicum of control over what I wore and did, as long as it didn’t affect them publicly.
“What stylist did you get?” my mother asks curiously.
“Peter Marks,” Ai responds with a tight smile. My mother claps her hands in delight.
“Oh, he’s a wonderful designer,” she gushes. “The Montgomerys hired him to redo Adelaide’s entire wardrobe, you know, since her mother couldn’t afford to clothe her properly. I’m so glad you’re finally elevating your style, dear.”
I make a noncommittal noise of agreement. If Ai has anything to say about my wardrobe choices, I won’t be getting anything I picked out of the catalog.
“You don’t sound so enthused, wife.” Kenzo eyes me curiously. “I thought you would be excited to have one of the city’s up-and-coming stylists design your wardrobe.”
“Yeah, sure,” I deadpan. “Except, I’m not really sure whose wardrobe it’s going to turn out to be. Mine or your personal assistant’s, since she had more say in it than I did.”
Kenzo’s jaw clenches. He’s probably mad that I am calling him out on him having his assistant make me into a mini version of her. Stick up the ass included.
“Stop being a petulant child,” my father chastises, pushing his plate away. “You aren’t a child who can go around dressing in whatever she wants. I’m sure whatever Ai picked out will help you to represent Mr. Nakamura as a wife should and not whatever backstreet clothes you’ve been wearing for the past three years.”
And there it is. What the problem always comes back to with my father. He’s the one who sold me before I was even born. He’s the one who arranged for me to marry a complete stranger, the leader of a criminal empire, all for a few more dollars and a higher social standing. Yet, I am the spoiled, entitled child because I refused to accept the fate he threw at me. I’m the petulant one because I want something for myself instead of constantly being thrown around like a puppet or dressed like a doll. I want to be more than just a pretty piece of China that comes off the shelf a few times a year at holiday get-togethers.
Hindsight tells me that it is better Kenzo found me before my father. Who knows the hell he would have put me through before handing me back to Kenzo to be put under lock and key like Rapunzel in her great tower. I wonder how long it will take for my hair to grow out enough for me to scale twenty floors. Forty years? Maybe more, if it’s even possible.
I remain quiet, refusing to engage with him. My father is looking for a fight. I can tell. Looking for a reason to put me in my place, and I won’t give it to him. Instead, I push my chair away from the table and stand, my hand accidentally knocking over my ramen bowl and spilling it.
Ai nearly screams in panic as the now lukewarm broth spills onto her two-thousand-dollar skirt.
“Oops.” I shrug my shoulders, feigning innocence before excusing myself from the table. Instead of taking the stairs, I head straight to the elevator and press the button for the roof. The door closes quickly, but not before I see Kenzo gripping my father’s neck in his hand, a storm cloud crossing over his face. I can’t hear what is being said, but my father’s frightened look tells me everything I need to know.
He is defending me.
And suddenly, my heart warms a little toward the man who forced me to be his wife.
Or it might just be indigestion.
Yeah, that sounds about right.
No fluttering feelings of warmth here. The man kidnapped me and is holding me hostage in his penthouse. That isn’t romantic, even if he is standing up for me. The elevator dings, the doors open, and I step out onto the roof. The scene leaves me breathless.
The rooftop of the penthouse is a world unto itself. A verdant oasis amid the city’s steel and stone. Its flora is a mix of exotic blooms and hardy natives, planted in harmonious disarray, animating the space with life. Potted plants, their fronds stretching skyward, sway rhythmically in the soft evening breeze. Creepers hang over the edges, their tendrils trailing down the rooftop’s structures like strands of green lace.
Flowering plants blossom with wild abandon, splashing colors haphazardly around with painterly expertise—fiery reds of geraniums, sun-kissed yellows of daffodils, ethereal purples of lavender. They fill the air with intoxicating aromas that fuse together to create a fragrance so unique it is almost tangible.
In the center of this blooming paradise is an azure pool. Its surface shines like a polished mirror under the moonlight, reflecting the multicolor lights of the buildings around us. The pool’s depths are sprinkled with mosaics shimmering beneath the surface. They are fashioned into intricate designs: mythical Japanese sea creatures and ancient symbols that morph and shift as ripples kiss their contours.
Most of the roof is covered in a soft, luxurious faux grass that tickles my bare feet.
If there is a way to describe heaven on earth, this is it.
“Genjirō Watanabe, a Japanese interior designer, designed it.” Kenzo’s smooth voice stirs the air behind me. I’ve been so caught up in the beauty surrounding me that I didn’t hear the dinging of the elevator announcing his arrival. “I told him I wanted a place that reminded me of where I came from. The place my roots are planted and secured. Even if I hardly get to travel there, it is still where I call home.”
Kenzo is first generation Japanese American. That I know for certain. His bio as CEO of Nakamura Technology is posted everywhere for people to see and fawn over. He was born here; his father left Japan with his wife with nothing more than the clothes on their backs and a dream for a better future.
It’s a generic biography that draws tears to the reader’s eyes and inspires the next generation to come and build their wealth like his family has.
But it’s a lie.
Most of it, anyway.
Kenzo was born into a world of power and wealth, thanks to his father, who arrived in America with more than just the shirt on his back. He brought an army of loyal followers and a well-crafted plan to establish one of the largest Yakuza trafficking rings in the country’s history. With legitimate businesses acting as fronts for his criminal empire, he was virtually untouchable.
Hikaru Nakamura was a force to be reckoned with. I only met him a handful of times before his untimely death when I was seventeen, but I remember the way his presence alone could make the strongest men tremble. He had graying black hair and piercing dark eyes that held a chilling intensity. Despite this, he was always kind to me, showering me with gifts such as Japanese nesting dolls that I still cherish to this day.
I turn to face him, admiring the intricately crafted artwork that adorns the wall the elevator is on. “It’s truly exquisite,” I state sincerely. “Your assistant’s description did not do it justice.” As he approaches, his footsteps are barely audible, but I can sense his powerful aura drawing near.
Kenzo is a formidable force, one that can bring even the mightiest of empires to its knees. The mere mention of his name strikes fear into the hearts of his enemies. It’s no wonder he has risen to become the head of the most powerful Japanese mafia in the states. You don’t attain such a position by sitting back and knitting gifts for your rivals. No, Kenzo has undoubtedly crippled other mafia empires with calculated precision in order to secure his own dominance.
This cutthroat game is the same one played by my father in his clean-cut, white-collar suit. Only Kenzo plays the game on the streets instead of in a boardroom.
A game I have no desire to be a part of.
“Do you want to tell me why you are up here throwing a temper tantrum instead of having dinner with your parents?” Kenzo asks, his tone dripping with near mockery. He knows exactly why I left, but like my father, he seems to be looking for a fight. And this time, I’m ready to fight back with my claws bared.
“Your assistant’s perfume was causing my allergies to flare up,” I reply, feigning stuffiness as I rub at my nose. “I’m deathly allergic to Desperate Pussy by Chanel.”
Kenzo lets out a deep, hearty laugh, and I instinctively step back, wide-eyed at the sound. He throws me a toothy grin that sends my heart fluttering wildly—figuratively speaking, of course. I may have a penchant for romantic storybook lines, but this is far from a fairy tale, and Kenzo is no Prince Charming. If anything, he resembles a beast on the prowl. But there will be no curse for me to break or happy ending awaiting us—unless he falls off this roof. Now there’s an idea.
“Plotting my demise already, dear wife?” Kenzo smirks as my cheeks flush red, caught in my not-so-subtle fantasy of testing whether he has the ability to fly like Peter Pan.
“Just wondering if I can make it look like an accident so I can collect on the insurance money.” I shrug nonchalantly, trying to mask my nerves. “Do I become head of your little gang, or do I have to have a ‘little pecker’ for that?”
Kenzo’s smile transforms into a dark, primal grin as his eyes darken and he strides toward me. The air around us crackles with tension and danger as he closes in. My heart thumps in my ribcage as he approaches, his strides graceful and quiet like a panther. A predator. I take an uneasy step back, but one arm is already wrapping itself around my lower back, pulling me flush against his chest.
“Does that feel like a ‘little pecker’ to you, wife?” he purrs, his hips grinding against me. My face flushes. I can feel the heat traveling down my neck as his rather large “pecker” presses against me. “I can guarantee there is nothing ‘little’ about it.”
My vagina is a traitorous whore. Need pulses through me, my core tightening greedily around nothing. There is no denying the wet spot in my underwear, even if I wanted to. My only saving grace is that he can’t find out for himself just how deep my body’s betrayal runs.
I shouldn’t be wanting the man who made a mockery of God’s sacred vows.
The man who kidnapped me.
Too bad my vagina isn’t getting the message.