Poisonous Kiss: Chapter 1

In one chilling instant, the room plunges into darkness.

“Goddammit,” Cassidy swears from somewhere to my left.

I squeeze my eyelids shut, blinded by the overhead lights flickering back on, trying to calm my racing heart. With a groan, I slowly open my eyes again, refocusing on the mountains of legal files strewn over the table in front of me.

“Okay, seriously, fuck this,” Cassidy mutters. She stops waving her hands frantically to turn the sensor-activated lights back on. With a scowl, she slams the file in front of her shut. “That’s a sign. We’ve officially been down here way too long.”

The break in concentration from the automatic lights turnings off is like shattering an evil spell. I groan, rolling my shoulders as I realize how sore I am from sitting hunched over for God knows how many hours. My eyes burn from scouring deposition transcripts, and I make a face as I drop my pen and crack the knuckles in my cramped-up hand.

Cassidy is right: if the motion sensor lights down here in the overflow file storage room in the sub-basement turn off while you’re down here, it means you’re been in one statue-like position for way too long.

Across the ancient conference table from me, Felix shoves his hands up his face and through his sandy brown, slightly tousled hair. He glances at his watch and groans. “Fucking hell. It’s eight.”

“I say we call it,” Cassidy sighs.

“Agreed,” Felix nods. He lifts his brows toward me with a grin. “What do you think, Fumi?”

I wrinkle my nose. “I think we haven’t found what we were supposed to find yet.”

I know, captain buzzkill. Instantly, both of my coworkers’ faces fall. Cassidy groans as she flops the legal file back open in front of her. “And that, class, is how you make equity partner,” she mutters, glaring down at the papers.

Felix makes a face, rubbing his jaw as he sinks back in his chair and eyes me. “That’s a point. It’s shitty enough that Cass and I pulled a bullshit job like records deep-diving, but that’s literally why paralegals exist. Who the hell did you piss off to be saddled with this?”

I roll my eyes. “It’s part of the job, Felix. The partners want everything airtight for the Marshall case. Which means crossing every T, dotting every I⁠—”

“And cross-referencing all twenty-one hours of deposition transcripts to make sure our pathological liar of a client actually told the truth for once in her life,” Cassidy mutters, glaring at the pages in front of her. “Seriously, Felix is right. How did you wind up down here in the trenches?”

“Because my last name isn’t Crown or Black?”

My friend grins. “Fair.”

On one hand, yes: it is kind of bullshit that I’m pulling late night cram sessions again like I’m some junior partner fresh out of law school. But that’s just how it goes sometimes. Even at a terrific firm like Crown and Black. Even when you’ve recently made equity partner in that firm.

Unless your name is on the building, you do what you have to do.

Sure, on the surface, it sounds—and looks—amazing to be named an equity partner at one of if not the most prestigious law firms in New York at twenty-seven years old. But, unfortunately, my recent promotion has only made me even more stressed.

It’s more work. It’s more attention on me from the name partners. It’s more chances to screw up. Also, being an equity partner means you share equity in the firm itself—as in, when the firm makes money, you do too. But it’s not an ATM.

For one, I don’t even start seeing any of this “equity” until the next freaking fiscal year. But for two—this is the big one—becoming an equity partner means buying in to the firm, like a co-op.

You want to talk stress? I make pretty great money at Crown and Black. But two months ago, I cut the biggest check of my life, by far, to my employer. It was roughly for every single cent I had saved.

No pressure.

So yes, when the powers that be say “hey, we want you to do dumb grunt work poring over old depositions looking for instances when our client perjured herself”, you don’t ask questions, and you certainly don’t complain.

“Still, I though you and Taylor were tight.”

Cassidy means Taylor Crown, aka the Crown in Crown and Black. And sure, Taylor and I are friends. But she’s still my boss.

“She’s not the one who exiled us down here,” Felix mutters darkly.

I make a face. No, it’s not Taylor who sent us down here to the salt mines to slave away all night at a job usually dumped on interns. Boss or not, if this was her decision, I would have definitely called in some friend favors to get out of it.

The same goes for Alistair Black, the second name partner of the firm. He and I aren’t close like I am with Taylor, but he is engaged to my good friend Eloise. And again, I would have absolutely used that to weasel my way out of this.

Except the banishment to the Siberia of the sub-basement storage stacks wasn’t decreed by Taylor or Alistair.

This would be his doing.

Gabriel Black.

The three name partners of Crown and Black all seem to fit very specific roles. Taylor is the warm and welcoming one. She’s the lawyer who’s going to hold your hand and guide you across that finish line while the crowd cheers.

If warmth and compassion isn’t your style, there’s Alistair, who’s more of a mad dog on a short leash type of attorney. Aggressive, loud, and supremely cocky, Alistair will come out swinging like Mike Tyson when he’s in your corner.

That brings us to Gabriel, and he’s the tricky one to define. I say that because there seems to be two distinctly different opinions on Gabriel Black.

Opinion number one, which is held by almost every person on earth who ever meets him: he’s a golden god. He’s Atticus Finch come to life—a champion of the underdog. A fighter for the people. Charming but reserved. Surgical and precise in his understanding of the law, with an ability to win almost every case he’s ever had.

But then there’s opinion number two, which is⁠—

“He creeps me out.”

Cassidy rolls her eyes at Felix. “That’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever said. Never repeat that.”

“What?” Felix shrugs. “The guy’s a control freak. No one is that precise with life. Dude’s a psychopath. Back me up here, Fumi.”

As a rule, I make a point of not “siding” with Felix on anything if I can help it. At least, not publicly. But in this case?

…I mean, he’s not entirely wrong.

I feel like a lunatic for even thinking it. But there’s something about Gabriel that makes the back of my neck tingle. It’s like he’s too perfectly in balance. Too in control. Too⁠—

“He’s hot as fuuuuuck,” Cassidy giggles. “Don’t be jealous now, Felix.”

Felix scowls. I pointedly ignore the way his eyes swivel to me.

Like I said, he’s not entirely wrong. There is something about Gabriel that drags a cold blade down my spine, especially on the few occasions we’ve been alone together, even if it was just riding the elevator up to the office.

He intrigues me. He speaks to me, even if he doesn’t ever actually literally speak to me. It’s like there’s this darkness behind his charm and good-guy persona that sneaks over my walls and sinks dark claws into my most private thoughts. And yes, a lot of that is definitely because⁠—

“Hot. As. Fuck,” Cassidy groans. “Y’all, I would let that man do unspeakable things to me. Right, Fumi?”

I don’t say anything, partly because I can still feel Felix’s eyes on me and I’m not that heartless. But I do feel the corners of my lips curl up.

Yeah, no arguments here.

He might be a cold, calculating legal machine. And he might be so much of a robotic control freak that we have a little nickname for him behind his back. But I’m on Team Cassidy with this one: Gabriel is gorgeous.

And rich. And successful. And, of course, my boss. As such, he remains and will forever remain a forbidden fantasy. Even though he might…okay, does… give me a little dose of the shivers.

“Fumi,” Felix grins at me. “Do the voice.”

I wrinkle my nose. “I… Nah, I’m good.”

“Oh, come on!” Cassidy laughs. “It’s fucking hilarious!”

It started as something I just did in my head, or to myself when I was alone; especially if I’d had a “Gabriel run-in” that day. Because of his coldly robotic surgical precision and his control freak ways, I started mocking him in private using a robot voice which I dubbed “Mr. Roboto” in a hat tip to the old 80s song.

Then I got drunk at happy hour one night with these two and accidentally let it out. Since then, they hound me all the time to hear it.

“I don’t like doing it at work, guys.”

Felix rolls his eyes and grins. “C’mon, Fumi. It’s not like we’re up in the break room in the middle of lunch. It’s almost nine at night, and we’re in fucking Siberia. Do the voice!”

“Mis-ter Ro-bot-o! Mis-ter Ro-bot-o!” Cassidy chants, drumming her fists on the table.

Finally, I relent, sighing. “Okay, okay!”

They both grin in anticipation as I clear my throat.

“I. Am. Mr. Roboto,” I drone in a mechanical monotone. “I. Am. A. Legal. Ma-chine. Do. Your. Job. Or. You. Will. Be. Ter-min-ate⁠—”

I stop when I see the cold, pale expressions on both of their faces and the horrified looks in their eyes—eyes which are no longer looking at me, but rather past me.

Oh shit.

I feel the cold sensation dragging up my spine even before I turn around. And when I do, pure dread pools in my stomach as my eyes drag up to his gorgeous, stoic face.

Fuck. Me.

Gabriel looks at me coolly, his chiseled jaw set tight and his perfect lips unsmiling. His eyes, hazel-green flecked with gold, shimmer in the overhead lights of the sub-basement as they focus sharply on me. His usual uniform of an expertly tailored Tom Ford suit hugs his broad shoulders, firm chest, and strong biceps.

The whole basement falls silent. I swallow thickly.

“Mr. Black.”

“Ms. Yamaguchi.”

His voice is like velvet and whiskey—somehow both rough at the edges and exquisitely polished all at the same time. It’s a voice that signifies power and prestige—a voice that commands a room without once being raised.

“We’re just…” I swallow again. “Scanning for discrepancies in Ms. Marshall’s deposition.”

He doesn’t vocally respond. He just dips his strong chin slightly in acknowledgment.

“So far, we…” I try again. “So far, so…”

I trail off.

“Good?” he murmurs.

I nod.

“Excellent,” he growls quietly. “Stick with it. If there’s something in there, Sorenson and his team will find it. So make sure we find it first, so we’re not caught with our pants down.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Black,” Felix blurts, a forced cockiness in his voice that shows, badly. “We’re on it.”

Gabriel ignores him, his eyes still hooked into mine.

“I’m heading out. But call me if you find anything.”

The three of us nod mutely. Gabriel lets his eyes settle on me another second or two. Then he’s turning on his heel and walking with a casual and yet commanding stride back to the elevator none of us heard a minute ago.

It’s not until the doors close with a ding that all three of us exhale.

“Unspeakable things,” Cassidy sighs.

Three hours later, we’re finally breathing fresh air as we step out onto Madison Avenue.

Cassidy rubs her eyes and cracks her neck. “Well done, team,” she sighs. “Now, I’m going to go home and crash so hard. Night, y’all.”

Felix and I say goodnight to her as she hails a cab and slides into the back seat. I’m not surprised when Felix turns to me with what I’m sure he thinks is a suave and mysterious expression on his face.

“So…” he shrugs. “You wanna grab a drink?”

Yeah. We’ve danced this dance before.

Felix is a nice guy and all. And he’s not unattractive. He’s actually pretty cute, in a way. But he’s really not my type. Plus, he’s my coworker.

Unfortunately, six or seven months ago, in a moment of alcohol-fueled loneliness and self-pity, I agreed to go home with him after a night out. It was probably the fourth time he’d asked, and that evening he got me at just the right low point.

Nothing much happened. We made out, and I was almost immediately turned off.

Because I’m broken. Ultimately, there’s something wrong with me.

Felix is a nice guy. He’s cute, he’s a junior partner at Crown and Black, and he’s a genuinely good person.

But.

He also kissed me like he was asking permission with every furtive stroke of his tongue, and touched me so lightly it was as if he worried he was allergic to me.

And neither of those things “do it” for me. What “does it” for me is the exact opposite. The things I want in a man and crave from him are…dark.

Not okay.

Something to be kept hidden, and never admitted to.

Bad.

I ended up leaving Felix’s apartment roughly seven minutes after I arrived, without having removed any article of clothing but my shoes. I apologized, and I swore to him it was just because we’re coworkers. But there’s been this awkward shuffling dance between us ever since.

“I would…” I venture, smiling. “But I should get home to my dad.”

He nods quickly, and his brow furrows. “How’s he doing?”

My dad, Hideo, has stage two lung cancer thanks to a lifetime of Lucky Strike cigarettes. He also lives with me, as I’m his primary caregiver these days. I make very good money at Crown and Black. But cancer treatment costs a fortune, and our insurance is a nightmare. Plus, I’ve just given almost every cent I had back to Crown and Black to buy the equity shares. So for the last year, he’s been living with me while he goes through treatment.

“He’s good,” I smile. “Thanks for asking.”

“No problem.” Felix’s brow furrows. “Fumi, I…”

“I need to go, Felix,” I say quietly.

“Yeah, no, for sure.” He shrugs too casually. “See you tomorrow, then.”

I smile and wave down a cab. I’ve been taking the subway after work to try and trim my costs a little. But it’s late. Let’s call it a luxury I can afford. It also gets me away from the awkward tension between Felix and I quicker than walking the block and a half to the 6 train.

“Night!”

Slipping into the cab and giving the driver directions, I pull out my e-reader and open up the latest Emily Shiner thriller.

“Free time” is not a luxury I have much of, between the demands of work and taking care of Dad. But when I do have a minute or two, this is usually what I do for escape: lose myself in thrillers and true crime books.

Taylor loves to give me shit for it. So does Dad. But whatever. I like being slightly creeped out sometimes—when it’s on my own terms and conditions.

I manage half a chapter as the cab weaves its way east into Alphabet City. When I made junior partner at Crown and Black, I splurged on this insanely gorgeous place in the West Village. I was even occasionally touring even swankier places in anticipation of making equity partner. But then Dad got sick and the bills started piling up and I moved into a much more modest—i.e., affordable—place in the much less glamorous Alphabet City, on the eastern edge of Manhattan.

I thank the driver and step out, shouldering my bag. Then I frown when my gaze lands on the front door to my building, which is ajar, and the lower glass panel cracked into a spiderweb design.

Fucking kids.

I scowl at the door as I step inside and lock it behind me, making a note to call the super tomorrow morning. I trudge up the four flights to the two-bedroom apartment I share with my dad. Just as I reach for the door, my blood runs cold.

Like the one downstairs, the door to my apartment is also ajar.

Fear stabs into me as I reach for my phone.

“Dad?”

I nudge the door open, my thumb hovering over the emergency call button.

“Dad, where⁠—”

It happens so fast I barely register it. One second, I’m staring at my dad in shock and horror, trying to figure out why he’s on the floor on his hands and knees, and where all those tattoos on his back came from. The next moment, I’m being yanked inside. I gasp as I go sprawling to the floor next to my father.

“Fumi-chan!”

My father lunges for me, as if to shield me, then grunts when a booted foot kicks him hard in the ribs. I scream and try to grapple my way toward him, heedless of the hands yanking me back and the different male voices barking English and Japanese.

Suddenly, I go still, when I feel the cold metal blade touch the side of my neck.

“Fumi!” My dad chokes, fear in his wide eyes. “Fumi! Don’t hurt her⁠—”

“Stop.”

With a clarity almost as sharp as the blade resting against my throat, my eyes focus as the whole apartment goes quiet. My gaze slips up the long, slightly curved blade of the sword, to the rounded hilt, and the tattooed hand adorned with rings holding it. My eyes drag over the black leather of the man’s jacket sleeve, all the way up to his handsome but cruel face, split by a wicked smile, with his black hair slicked back.

“Konbanwa, Yamaguchi-san,” the Japanese man purrs, his lips curling devilishly.

My throat bobs, my heart thudding.

“There’s a lockbox behind the blender in the cupboard above the refrigerator,” I whisper quietly. “There’s five thousand dollars cash in there⁠—”

The man begins to laugh coldly. For the first time, I allow myself to focus on the entire room, and my heart sinks. It’s not just the man with the cruel smile and the fucking samurai sword against my neck. There are four other men with guns. I eye the tattoo ink on their necks, wrists, and the backs of their hands, and tense.

That’s Yakuza ink.

What the fuck is the Yakuza doing in my living room?

My eyes drop to my father. He’s wincing, and his face his bruised. But he doesn’t look badly hurt.

My brows furrow as my gaze slips to his shirt, ripped halfway off his body.

My father never shows his bare torso to me. Not once, not ever. When he was young, he was burned badly in a fire, and he’s always told me the scars make him feel self-conscious.

But right now, it’s not scar tissue that my eyes are locked onto.

It’s the fact that his entire back is covered in traditional Japanese tattoos.

The fuck?

“Ms. Yamaguchi⁠—”

“My watch!” I choke out, my eyes dropping to the Rolex Taylor bought me as a gift when I made equity partner. “It’s a Datejust 36⁠—”

“No,” the man growls quietly.

“It’s a ten-thousand-dollar⁠—”

“I am not interested in robbing you,” the man snarls with sudden viciousness. “I’m here to take back what was stolen from me.”

My face pales. In confusion, my eyes dart to my father’s. I don’t see terror in his gaze. Weirdly, I see a sort of dark fury. Fury, and something else that takes me a second to place.

Remorse.

“I—” I drag my gaze back to the man looming over me. “I don’t know what you⁠—”

“My name is Takato Ito,” he mutters. “Is the name familiar to you?”

My brows knit. “No?” I answer truthfully.

Takato smiles. “Then perhaps you know my uncle, Orochi⁠—”

“I don’t know who you are!” I scream. “But whatever you want, just take it! I can get you more money⁠—”

Takato starts to laugh heartily. The men around him join in as I shrink under their venomous looks.

“Oh, I know you will, Fumi. Or else…”

I gasp, and my father makes a move to lurch toward me before he’s yanked back as Takato lifts my chin with the tip of his viciously sharp samurai blade.

His lips curl into a smile.

“No…” he muses. “Not you. Too proud. Too brave,” he chuckles. “No, it won’t be you.”

My face turns white as he turns and touches the blade to my father’s neck.

“No!”

I try and scramble across the floor toward my father. But the men behind me grab my arms and yank me back.

“He’s sick!” I plead. “Don’t hurt⁠—”

“Be silent,” Takato hisses sharply. He sucks on his teeth, his cheeks hollowing and giving him an even more sinister look.

“Please,” I choke quietly. “Please! Whatever you want, I’ll give it⁠—”

“What I want,” Takato snaps, “is the five million dollars your father stole from mine twenty-five years ago.”

My mouth falls open.

“I—what? My father was a truck drive⁠—”

“Fumi.”

My gaze snaps to my father’s. He’s still looking at me with this haunted expression in his eyes, his mouth grim.

“Dad?” I whisper quietly.

“That’s what I want, Ms. Yamaguchi,” Takato growls. “Or should I say, Ms. Mori.”

What?

“You have one month to get it to me. If you don’t, I’ll come back here and cut off your father’s hands. Then his feet. Then his head—one piece for every day after the month you don’t have that money.”

My entire body goes numb as I stare up at him in horror.

“And when I run out of pieces of Hideo…” Takato grins darkly.

He slowly drags the sword away from my father, ignoring the way he roars and tries to fight the men holding him, and holds the razor-sharp tip of the sword an inch or two from my exposed throat as his dark eyes glint.

“…I’ll let my blade taste pieces of you until you pay me. Do we understand each other?”

I shudder. “Please! I don’t know what⁠—”

Takato spins, turning the sword in his hand. In one motion, just as the blood-curdling scream rips from my throat, he slams the sword down…

Right through the back of my father’s hand and into the floor.

I scream over and over as Takato slides the blade out again, letting blood spill onto the hardwood floor. I shrug off the men gripping my shoulders and rush to my father. He groans in pain, cradling his bleeding hand as I sob against him and blindly press my hands to his wounded one.

“Do. We. Understand. Each. Other?”

My pulse thuds like lead in my veins. I turn, my chest heaving as I stare in horror and fury up at the man.

“Five million dollars. You have one month.” He smiles, grabs a folded blanket from my dad’s favorite chair, and wipes his blade clean before sliding it back into a lacquered sheath.

“It was so nice to see you again, Fumi.”

All I can do is shake in fear and hold my father’s bleeding hand as the men grin at me, turn, and silently file out of the door.