Poisonous Kiss: Chapter 3

“I should have told you, Fumi-chan.”

After leaving the hospital, where they stitched up Dad’s hand, there wasn’t a chance in hell I was going back to our apartment with the kicked-in front door and the terrifying memories of guns and a fucking samurai sword. So “home” tonight is a room at the Marriot in Midtown.

I’ve never seen my father cry. Ever. So when the moisture beads in the corners of his eyes, and his good hand lands on one of mine, something in my chest breaks a little.

“Dad—”

“I’m not that man anymore, Fumi,” he says quietly, squeezing my hand. “I⁠—”

He looks away, his jaw tightening as he chokes back emotion.

“She saved me, you know. Your mother.”

I’ve heard the story before. How my father, who was still living in Japan and working a brutal job he hated, traveled to San Francisco for work. How he stumbled across a little jazz bar in the Outer Sunset area, and was captivated by Mom’s voice crooning from inside.

That’s the night my Korean-Italian mother, Bella, stole his heart. Three months later, they were married. A year to the day after he first walked into that bar, they had me.

Two years later, his job brought him back to Kyoto, and Mom and I followed. Three years after that, after Mom died in the car accident, Dad and I moved back to the US, to Seattle.

The story is a familiar one. But something horrible in the back of my mind whispers I’m about to hear a version I’m not sure I want to know.

“That man…”

My dad’s mouth tightens. “Takato Ito.” His eyes swivel to mine, hardening a little. “His uncle is Orochi Ito, head of the Hato-kai Yakuza based in Kyoto.”

I swallow a lump in my throat, along with the question I’ve been dreading asking: how do you know that?

Dad worked in shipping logistics in Japan. He always said that the job was soul-crushing, and that the only good part of it was driving the delivery trucks. So after he left, and we came to Seattle, that’s what he did: drove delivery trucks for a Japanese bakery. It’s one of the few happy memories I have from that time, when I was five and still heartbroken from losing my mom and leaving Japan. As sad as I was, whenever he came home and picked me up from our neighbor Mrs. Kim across the hall, he always smelled like the most delicious castella cakes, dorayaki, and mochi.

By the time I was twelve, Dad had tired of the gloominess of Seattle, and we moved across the country to New York. Dad ended up getting another delivery driver job, this time for an Asian candy company.

When he got home after that job, the smell on him was too sweet now. Saccharine. Manufactured. I never said anything, because he was so much happier in New York than in Seattle. Honestly, eventually I was, too. But I really missed his job at the bakery with the castella cakes and mochi.

“Dad…” I squeeze his good hand, our eyes locking. “How do you know that?” I whisper. “About his uncle being a Yakuza boss?”

“Fumi…”

“Why did he call me Ms. Mori?” I can feel the panic rising in my voice. “And what the hell was with the five million dollars?! Where did you get⁠—”

“Because that’s your name, because I stole it from his uncle, and because I never worked in shipping logistics!”

The admissions tumble from his mouth one after the other, half snarled, half choked out. The second they land, the room falls incredibly silent. I gulp, my pulse skipping.

“You…” I shake my head. “What are you saying?”

Dad looks away, taking a deep breath. “I was a very, very different man before I met your mother, Fumi-chan,” he growls quietly. Slowly, he pulls his hand from mine and sits up. His legs swing over the edge of the bed.

“Dad, you need to lie down⁠—”

“What I need to do is beg your forgiveness, Fumi,” he says quietly. He holds my gaze fiercely before he stands and turns. He lifts the back of the Yankees hoodie he’s been wearing since we left the hospital, and my hand flies to my mouth.

Holy. Shit.

I caught a glimpse of the tattoos at our apartment, through his ripped shirt. But in the hospital, they changed him into a gown, and I haven’t seen them since.

But now, I’m staring at them from a foot away.

What the fuck.

Dad’s entire back, from his shoulders down to his waist, is covered in an ornate, beautiful, terrifying tapestry of tattoo ink. Cherry blossoms and a koi-dragon wind down the left side, while a warrior, water, and another dragon fill the right. In the middle, uniting the whole thing, is an intricate design of two crossed samurai swords and a fearsome Oni mask right in the center of his back.

“Dad…”

He exhales heavily, pulling the hoodie back down. He turns, sitting on the side of the bed and rubbing the stubble on his chin before he pushes his hand through his silvered hair.

“You have a family legacy I am not proud of, daughter.”

I shudder, and the question falls from my lips, even if I’m pretty sure I know the answer after seeing that tattoo.

“Were you in the Yakuza?” I whisper.

“No.”

I start to exhale.

…“I was the Yakuza.”

My face drains of color. Dad’s face twists with emotion as he takes my hand.

“I was directionless as a young man. Angry. Impulsive. I grew up very, very poor, Fumi. But there was a way to rise above it all. I started small, and worked my way up until I was a wakagashira, like a lieutenant. When the Oyabun I worked for died, I made my play. I had the loyalty of his men, and the knowledge of his empire. I took both of those things and made them my own.”

His face is stony as he looks away.

“Yamaguchi was my mother’s maiden name. My birth name was Mori. The empire I ran was the Mori-kai Yakuza, and Kyoto was entirely mine.” He turns back to me, and his face softens as his eyes tear up again. “But then, I traveled to San Francisco. I took a walk to clear my head after a business meeting, got lost, and then was found, by your mother and her voice.”

He smiles broadly, despite the sadness in his eyes, and reaches for my hand again.

“I was different after that night. Before, all I knew was violence and death. Your mother showed me something more. I married her, because of course I did. And then when you came along, little Fumi-chan…” He squeezes my hand. “I was done. I wanted to give up the whole thing—the money, the cars, the big houses, all of it—to have a normal life with you and your mother.”

I swallow, my pulse thudding.

“I took aside my top wakagashira and told him my plans to exit. He would take over, I said, and I would walk away from the whole thing. What I didn’t know was that he was already plotting to stab me in the back. He told my rival, Orochi Ito of the Hato-kai, about my intentions. Orochi saw his opportunity made his move.”

I flinch when my father swears viciously and turns away, his jaw locked.

“Your mother was on her way to pick you up at school when they ran her off the road. I heard what happened, knew that she was dead, and picked you up myself. Orochi and I had been in the middle of some business dealings to purchase property together, despite our rivalry. I suppose he forgot that we both had access to the account.”

Dad looks me in the eye and takes my hand again.

“It takes money to disappear, Fumi-chan. To get new identities. To grease the wheels with US Immigration to start a new life. I emptied that account with the equivalent of five million US dollars, and you and I left Japan two days later with just the clothes on our backs.”

My heart breaks as a tear slides down his cheek.

“I tried so hard to give you a new life, Fumi,” he chokes. “I tried to leave the past behind and be a new man.” He slowly shakes his head as he starts to cry. “But now that past has caught up with us.”

“What do we do now?” I murmur quietly.

My dad raises a grim face to me.

“I find us five million dollars.”

“Fumi? Earth to Fumi?”

I blink and shove away the fog that’s been circling my head all weekend. My gaze raises to Elsa, who’s smiling quizzically at me as she leans on the counter in the Crown and Black break room.

“You gonna leave any room for coffee in that cup?”

I blink slowly, still coming out of my haze as I drop my eyes to the mug that’s almost full of half and half.

Fuck.

“Sorry, I’m…” I shake my head. “Case of the Mondays, I guess.”

More like a “case of having the entire narrative of my life altered in radically jarring ways this past weekend”. A case of finding out my mother was murdered twenty-two years ago. That my father used to be a vicious, ruthless crime boss—and I do mean ruthless. There wasn’t much, but I poked about online and found some old news articles about the Mori-kai in Kyoto thirty years ago.

When I realize I’m staring at the floor between Elsa’s feet, I try to shake off the fog again.

“Sorry,” I mumble. “It was…a weird weekend.”

My friend nods, her face sad and sympathetic as she steps closer to me and lays a hand on my shoulder. “How’s your dad?” she says quietly.

Part of me wants to snap “Just dandy for a former Yakuza boss, how’s yours?” But that would be in extremely poor taste. First, because Elsa’s father was a monster, and second, because he’s dead.

But he was a Bratva avtoritet. Honestly, if there’s anyone who would actually “get” what all of these revelations about my dad is doing to my head, it’d be Elsa.

But I don’t say anything about any of that, or the five million dollars I somehow need to find.

“He’s okay,” I smile wanly. “Treatments are going well. They’ll run his numbers again in a few weeks to see if there’s any improvement or if they need to up his meds.”

“I’m so sorry, Fumi.”

I shake my head again. “He’s gonna be fine.”

“Attagirl,” she smiles, giving me a hug.

I turn to dump out my mug of cream and pour some actual coffee into it.

“How was your weekend?”

“Oh, just fine. Hades took Nora to some big car show over in Jersey on Saturday so I had all the alone time I could ask for. Then on Sunday Nora disappeared into Teenagerland, so Hades and I had the house to ourselves. It was great.”

I grin as I turn back to her and lean against the counter. My social life—especially my love life—might be trash. But until that changes, I live vicariously through the fairytale world of friends like Elsa.

Elsa, with the amazing marriage to a guy who fits her perfectly. Okay, Hades Drakos is technically speaking Greek Mafia, for anyone trying to nitpick what the dictionary definition of “perfect husband” is. But he’s perfect for her, and it’s almost sickening how in love they are. Plus, bonus points that Hades gets along with Elsa’s much younger sister Nora like peas in a pod.

The glass door to the break room opens. Elsa and I both turn as Cassidy walks in.

“Hey,” I smile. “How was your weekend?”

“Oh, you mean after Mr. Roboto banished us to Siberia?”

Elsa makes a face. “Ouch. Yeah. I heard you guys got stuck with that deposition duty. How was it?”

“Twenty-one hours of Devin Marshall lamenting the state of her trust fund, bemoaning her dad’s refusal to buy her a castle in England, and whining about all the rich, snobby douchebags she sleeps with who turn out to be—wait for it—rich, snobby douchebags. Seriously riveting stuff, Elsa. You missed out.”

She giggles. “Yeah, sounds like it.” She snorts. “Mr. Roboto, huh?”

“Do. You. Like. My. Nick. Name. Hu-man. Wo-man?” I blurt mechanically, jerking my arms around in a robot dance.

Elsa and Cassidy crack up.

“That’s gonna get you in trouble,” Elsa snickers. “Well, I need to get to work.”

“Later, lady,” I say as she takes her coffee and walks out of the break room.

Cassidy arches a pointed brow at me. “You never replied to my text on Friday night asking if you got home safe, and now I’m worried about any decisions you may or may not have made…”

I frown. “Sorry, I must have missed it. My dad…” I clear my throat. “Weird weekend.” I yank out my phone and click on her unread text from Friday night.

My face turns scarlet as I yank my gaze up to her grinning face.

“Cassidy!” I admonish.

“Well?!” She giggles.

“No,” I mutter, making a face. “No, times a hundred.”

“So…that’s a no.”

“That’s a hell no—no offense to Felix.”

She smirks. “Well, some offense to Felix. If you could kiss him once⁠—”

“Cass, c’mon,” I mumble, glancing past her even though there’s no one even close to the break room.

“All right, I’m dropping it.” Her face suddenly changes. “Oh, shit! I forgot to ask!”

“What’s up?”

“Remember that pro bono case Crown and Black took on like a year ago? Representing a group of CSA survivors against Salvatore Avella?”

I shudder. “The private school admin. Yeah,” I grimace. “I remember that case. The creep walked, didn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Cassidy spits. “Well, in other news, guess who was killed in his apartment in a botched break-in this weekend?”

My jaw drops. “You’re shitting me.”

“Nope. Karma is a bitch, girl.”

I whistle low, shaking my head. “That’s insane.”

“It gets crazier. I’ve got that source inside the NYPD, so I called him this morning to ask about it. He told me they’ve already pulled matching prints and hair samples from the scene.”

“Damn, that’s fast.”

“Wait until you hear who the suspects are.”

I frown. “Who?”

“Jimi Hendrix, Tennessee Williams, and Christian Dior.”

My brow furrows. “Wait, what?”

“Right?! There were exact prints of theirs all over the apartment. Plus hair samples from Brad Pitt, Jason Patric, Ron Eldard, and Billy Crudup.”

“Like the Brad Pitt, Billy Crudup⁠—”

“Yup, the actors. Who are now, according to the DNA evidence, suspects in the murder of a piece of shit.”

The wheels start turning inside my head. “How did Salvatore die?”

She makes a face. “Strangled. Gruesome, right?”

A smile curls the corners of my lips. Cassidy gives me a weird look. “Okay, I think you’re enjoying this way too much. You need to lay off the true crime⁠—”

“Someone’s got a sense of humor.”

She frowns. “What?”

“Jimi Hendrix, Tennessee Williams, and Christian Dior all died by asphyxiation—choking. And those actors were all in the movie Sleepers. They played men who’d been sexually abused as kids by a predator who’d walked.”

Cassidy stares at me. “Are you fucking for real right now?”

“Uh, yes?”

“Wow.” She shakes her head. “That’s…” She gives me a look. “That’s seriously impressive, Fumi. I don’t even think my guy at the NYPD had connected those dots when he told me earlier.”

“Well, feel free to pass it on.”

“I…” She trails off, biting her lip and blushing as her gaze shifts past me to the hall outside.

I turn. Instantly, I feel my cheeks heat.

Oh my.

As if being wildly successful, rich, and ludicrously handsome wasn’t enough, Gabriel Black also has the audacity to look insanely good in a suit. I mean, most people look good in suits. Even an average guy can seriously up his game with a well-tailored one.

But some men just seem to be able to take it to another level. Some men wear them in a way that’s pure porn for those of us who find hot men in good suits attractive.

Some men like Gabriel.

“God, can you imagine fucking him?”

I roll my eyes as Cassidy rips me from my impure thoughts about our boss. I turn to her and sigh. “Dude, do you need some water?”

“Oh, I got a thirst, girl, but it ain’t for water,” she giggles. Then she waves it off. “Nah, I’m just being weird. I mean, he’s hot as fuck, but it’d be like screwing an actual robot. Can you even imagine that man in bed?”

She grabs me, and I shriek with laughter as she starts to hump my hip with super awkward, jarringly mechanical thrusts.

“You are legit insane,” I snort, shoving her away as my face reddens. At the same time, as ridiculous as it is to get dry-humped by my friend in full view of half the office, what with the big glass break room walls and all, it feels good to laugh.

If nothing else, it takes my mind off the fact that a psychopath with a sword is threatening to kill me and my dad unless we magically come up with five million dollars.

“I hope I’m not interrupting a tender moment, ladies?”

I cringe, my face crumpling in embarrassment. Turning, I smile weakly at Taylor, who’s standing in the doorway looking half-amused.

And I can tell she’s being generous there.

“No… My apologies, Ms. Crown,” Cassidy mumbles, her face ashen. “Just…inside joke.”

Taylor smiles. “Well, let’s maybe keep the sexual harassment lawsuits at bay for the morning, shall we?”

“Of course, Ms. Crown,” my friend mutters, dropping her gaze. “I should get back to work anyway.”

Taylor smiles at Cass as she shuffles past her out of the break room. “Oh, Cassidy? Thanks for the late work on Friday. I really appreciate you going over those deposition transcripts.”

That puts a pleased little grin back on Cassidy’s face as she slips out and heads back to her office.

“Sorry about that,” I mumble. Taylor just shakes her head. “Don’t worry about it.” Then she grins. “Can I assume that was imitating who I think it was?”

“I plead the fifth.”

She guffaws. “Well, unless you’re swamped right now, care to plead an early lunch? I’m sitting down with Christina Daniels at Per Se in half an hour. I’d love for you to join.”

Being invited to have lunch at a Michelin-starred restaurant with my boss-slash-career idol and one of the firm’s wealthiest clients?

Yeah, I can think of worse ways to take my mind off having to find five million dollars in my couch cushions.

“I’d love to,” I grin.

“Oh—before she arrives…” Taylor pulls her gaze from the front entrance of Per Se and to me, sitting next to her. “Are you still good for that meeting with Drazen Krylov tomorrow night at Venom?”

If you’d told me in law school that I would be asked by my boss to attend a business meeting with a former warlord-turned-Bratva-kingpin, at a kink club, no less, I’d have laughed in your face.

But that’s what I’m doing tomorrow.

Aside from being a huge presence in the Bratva world, Drazen is also a Crown and Black client. And the reason we’re holding our meeting with him at Club Venom is less salacious than you’d think.

A lot of our clients operate in a certain…less than legal world. As such, having sit-downs with them at the firm, or at a fancy restaurant the way we might with a regular client like Christina Daniels, is tricky. Venom, with its iron-clad security, strict dress code that literally includes wearing a mask, and zero cell phone policy, is actually a fantastic place to have such meetings.

As a result, Taylor, Gabriel, and Alistair all have memberships to the exclusive and notorious club. Not to play—at least, not that I’ve heard. Strictly for business reasons. Dante Sartorre, the owner of the club, has recently extended that “work membership” deal to a few others at Crown and Black—Elsa, Eloise, and myself, for example.

I’ve only been once for about ten minutes, accompanying Taylor. But holy fuck.

Think of the wildest, most X-rated scene you could imagine playing out in a situation like Eyes Wide Shut.

Now quadruple whatever you’re imagining, and you’re halfway to what Club Venom is really like.

Yeah.

“Tomorrow’s a go. I’m all set with the notes I’m going to go over with him.”

Taylor turns to flash me a grin. “Perfect—oh, she’s here.”

“Hi!”

We turn and smile at Christina Daniels as she swoops past the maître d’ and click-clacks her way across the dining room in sky-high stilettos. Christina is one of the firm’s “legitimate” clients. As in, she’s not mafia.

Actually, Christina isn’t much of anything, except for a thirty-year-old trust-fund socialite who sits on the boards of like a dozen charities.

I bite back the idea of straight up asking her if she might have a spare five million lying around in a drawer somewhere.

Honestly? She probably does.

“How are you, Christina?” Taylor smiles, supremely professional as she stands and shakes Christina’s hand. I do the same before we all settle into our seats.

“Good!” Christina beams. “Thanks for meeting me on such short notice.”

Taylor spreads her arms humbly. “We’re always at your service, Christina. Was there something specific you wanted to talk about? It sounded urgent on the phone.”

“Yeah…” Christina bites her lips, glancing around. “Can we talk business here? Like, confidential lawyer stuff?”

There’s only one other table here now, and they’re seated on the other side of the restaurant. Also, I already know Taylor’s secret signal when she’s talking business with a client at a restaurant who knows her. She keeps her water glass upside down on the table. The staff knows to stay away until it’s turned upright.

Because Taylor is a badass like that.

“Of course,” Taylor smiles. “What’s going on?”

“Well… I wanted to ask what you thought about this.”

Christina yanks a crumpled contract of some kind out of her bag. When she drops it on the table in front of her, I spot the “NDA” at the top of it.

“I got this through my publicist over the weekend. And since you work with him…”

Christina turns the NDA around and shoves it across the table toward Taylor and me.

“Is this legit?”

I glance at the NDA. Taylor instantly scoops it up and brings it close to her face.

“Asshole…” she mutters under her breath as her eyes fly over the page. “You crazy, stupid⁠—”

“Ms. Crown?”

Taylor bites back something sour in her mouth. She lowers the NDA and levels a practiced smile at Christina.

“It’s legit.” She clears her throat and glances at me. “And for the record, this meeting falls strictly under attorney client privilege.”

I’m still not sure who and what we’re talking about.

“Gabriel is really running for public office?”

My head snaps around, my eyes widening.

“It would…appear so,” Taylor says cautiously.

“And this contract…I mean…”

“Yes,” Taylor hisses through her teeth, looking pissed. “Yeah, it’s real.”

Christina giggles. “He’s seriously going to pay some girl four million dollars to marry him?!”

It’s like a record scratch as the music stops. My jaw drops as my eyes dart to the NDA in front of us. Before Taylor can pick it up again, I grab it and let my eyes slide over the words.

Holy. Fuck.

“I mean, it’s not like I need his four million,” Christina laughs. “But I mean…it could be fun?”

“Christina…” Taylor’s mouth thins. “I need to advise you that I haven’t read Mr. Black’s proposed contract thoroughly, and I don’t know how legally binding it is, or what sort of precedent there is. Not to mention the legal, regulatory, and moral concerns given that you are a client of ours.”

“Fair. Still,” Christina shrugs, “I think I’ll go to these tryouts of his or whatever he’s calling them on Wednesday anyway.” She grins as she turns to me. “Fun, right?”

“Totally.”

What. The. Actual. Fucking. Fuck.

Gabriel, my robotic, gorgeous boss, is holding fucking auditions for a woman to marry him for some sort of political race? And he’s going to pay this woman four million fucking dollars?

Every voice in my head screams how insane this is. How wrong, and that even thinking about it is a great way to torch my career.

Every voice in my head but one, that is. And that one little voice, however quiet and alone, makes a very, very good point:

I don’t exactly have to worry about torching my career if a psycho with a samurai sword comes calling and slices off my head.

When you think of it that way, suddenly, this terrible idea becomes a viable one.

Well, still terrible.

But…doable.

It’s crazy, but it might be crazy enough to work. And I’m desperate enough to try on crazy for a while and see how it fits…