Chapter 24
Twenty-Four
M y stomach aches from the constant, belly-deep laughter that echoes through the room. Vanya has a contagious sense of humor, and even Gia, who is currently handcuffed to a chair, is surprisingly good company. Apparently, my husband’s friend Vitali, whom I’ve only met briefly, took Gia from her home in the middle of the night as leverage against her brother.
I’m not quite sure how I feel about that, but he hasn’t harmed her, and she doesn’t seem bothered by it at all, so, for now, I’ll let it be.
Lizzie smiles politely from her chair next to me. She’s been rather subdued since the wedding. Quiet. I don’t know what happened after I was escorted back to my dressing room, but I imagine whatever it was didn’t sit well with my friend.
“Never visit Italian beaches during that time.” Gia howls with laughter. “You’ll see more cringeworthy dicks than you ever wanted to.”
Another burst of laughter erupts from us.
“Adrian would never,” Vanya adds in with her own howl. “He’d blindfold me before taking me to the beach.”
I can’t help but smile at their playful banter. Kenzo would never allow me to go to a crowded beach where I would have to wear a bikini and be seen by other people. Knowing him, he’d rent out the entire place and take out anyone who dared to interfere.
We definitely need therapy. Well, Kenzo does. I mean, I have my own issues, but he has some deep-rooted ones.
Reaching across the table, I grab a succulent grape and some cream cheese from the charcuterie board Jean put together for us. He also brought out several pamphlets for patisserie schools in the area that he highly recommends. Apparently, he went to each one personally to verify their proper techniques and guidelines. It was such a thoughtful gesture that I really appreciate.
“What’s that comb in your hair?” Vanya asks between bites of juicy raspberries. “It’s so beautiful.”
I reach up and gently touch the intricate comb holding back the left side of my hair. It was a gift from Kenzo’s mother on our wedding day, and I haven’t worn it since. She asked to take me out later today and requested that I wear it.
“Oh.” I turn slightly so they can see it better. “It’s a family heirloom from Kenzo’s side. His mother gave it to me.”
Gia furrows her eyebrows. “That’s certainly an interesting family heirloom,” she remarks. “It looks like a Medusa comb.”
“What’s a Medusa comb?” Vanya asks curiously.
Gia leans forward in her chair and grabs a glass of wine. “During World War II, Japanese female spies in other countries used to wear Medusa combs in their hair so that German and Japanese forces could identify them as spies for the homeland.”
Taking a sip of her drink, she tilts her head toward my comb. “If you noticed, the dips look like snakes. The jewels are their eyes.”
I had noticed that, but it never occurred to me that it came from Greek Mythology. I thought it was some kind of family symbol or just something nice that had been passed down through generations.
“After the war ended, the Japanese government had no more use for their spies, so most of them were left on their own,” she continues, leaning back. “Abandoned by the government, many of the women joined the ranks of the Yakuza. The combs became a symbol of status for the women. They were married to high-ranking officials within the organization or to government officials so that they could spy for them. The combs were how they were identified.”
An uncomfortable sensation churns in my stomach, a feeling akin to nausea, only more bitter and acidic. The realization hits me like a punch to the gut—the women in my husband’s family were used as sex spies for their organization. My mind reels at the thought, and I hastily make a mental note to discuss this with him later. It doesn’t sit right with me, and I won’t have it if they are still carrying out such practices. No one should be forced to use their body as a weapon against another person.
But as much as I am appalled by the idea, a sliver of doubt creeps into my mind. What if these women were willing participants? What if they saw it as a way to gain power or advantage in their own lives? It’s a delicate line that I don’t want to ask my husband to walk. If they are indeed voluntary, then who am I to judge them? But if they aren’t…
Suddenly, I am interrupted by one of the guards, Niko, calling out my name from the main hallway. “Mrs. Nakamura’s car is here for you,” he informs me. Grateful for the distraction, I smile at him and stand up from my seat.
“Thank you both so much for spending time with me today,” I say sincerely to the two women sitting across from me. “I really appreciate it.” They both smile and nod in response.
“We’ll see you when you get back,” Vanya adds, her tone warm and friendly. “I believe Adrian wanted to stay for dinner and poker tonight. And I thought it would be fun to do a movie night in your impressive theater.”
A genuine laugh escapes my lips at her suggestion. “That sounds like a great plan.” Grabbing my purse, I say one last goodbye before darting into the elevator. Niko follows after me.
“Here you are,” Niko says as he opens the door to the back seat for me.
“Thank you.” I climb inside, texting Kenzo that I am leaving the penthouse to spend time with his mother.
Kenzo
Have fun. Be good.
The car pulls out onto the bustling main road, leaving behind the charming French Quarter and heading toward the glitz and glamour of the shopping district. But before we make it a mile, chaos erupts. The screech of metal on metal fills my ears as our vehicle is T-boned from the side, sending me careening against my seat belt before being slammed back into the door.
I feel a bruise forming already.
Shattered glass rains down on me, disorienting me with its shards and dust. My body aches from the impact, my head ringing loudly. “Evaline!” Niko’s voice cuts through the chaos before our car is suddenly lifted off the ground, flinging me around like a rag doll. We roll two more times before finally coming to a stop, our car now overturned and scraping against the unforgiving concrete.
It takes a few moments for my senses to catch up with what just happened. I taste blood in my mouth and groan as I move my limbs to check for injuries.
“Niko?”
No response. Panic starts to set in as I crawl toward him, ignoring the pain from my right side, where something sharp must have dug into me during the crash. My heart sinks when I see his lifeless form slumped to the side, his eyes staring blankly ahead.
Oh no.
All thoughts of pain are forgotten as I scramble out of the wreckage, using whatever strength I have left to push myself up onto shaky legs. My vision blurs as I take in my surroundings.
We’re surrounded.
Please, please, please.
The driver lies several feet away from us, a bullet wound between his eyes indicating a deliberate attack. Someone targeted us.
As I look at the men surrounding me, dread swirls in my stomach. I recognize some of their faces from my wedding day. They were part of my husband’s security detail. His own men.
I press my back against the overturned car, trying to think of a way out. With trembling fingers, I use the blood from my wounds to write a message on the door, hoping someone will see it.
My husband needs to know what happened.
But as I look at the men in front of me, I can’t help but wonder—was this Kenzo’s doing? Is he capable of trying to kill me?
No. Don’t even entertain that thought .
I belong to him. I am his to protect.
He may never love me, but I love him. More importantly, at the moment, I have faith in him.
As the two looming figures step closer, I steel myself for their attack. My heart races with fear and adrenaline, but I refuse to go down without a fight. Three years of moving from place to place has taught me the importance of self-defense, and no matter where I ran, I made sure to take classes at local gyms. There were times when I had to sacrifice food in order to afford these lessons, but it was worth it to know that I could protect myself.
I refused to be a victim then, and I will not be one now.
With all my strength, I lunge forward, catching the first attacker off guard. The diamond on my ring leaves a deep gash across his cheek as I land a powerful punch.
The other man is clearly surprised by my swift retaliation, not expecting his target to put up a fight. Before he can react, I drive my knee into his groin, causing him to double over in pain. The sudden movement makes my stomach churn with nausea, but I push through it.
One of the men taunts the injured one in rapid-fire Japanese, goading him to continue the attack. Their words are a blur to me as they surround me, and I instinctively raise my arms to protect my face. Though I manage to knock some of them off balance and even break another’s nose with a headbutt, it’s clear that I am outnumbered and outmatched.
Despite my best efforts, one of the men grabs a fistful of my hair and slams my head against the side of the SUV. Pain explodes through my skull and overwhelms me as they pummel me mercilessly. With each blow, it feels like I am breathing through a straw, struggling to get enough air into my burning lungs.
But through all the agony, one thought keeps me going: Kenzo.
Just when I think I can’t hold on any longer, a shadow falls over me, and I see him.
Santiago Alvarez.
As he stands above me, looking almost disappointed, all I can think of is my husband.
I hope he knows I love him.
“You shouldn’t have resisted, querida. You’ve cost me so much. Things didn’t have to be this way,” he scolds before delivering one final blow that sends me spiraling into darkness.