Her assurance quieted the uncertainty floating around in his chest. She gave him the hope he needed to believe that they would all come out of this ugly scenario safely. He nodded his acquiescence to the older man, and relented to Zion’s plans.
“She’s my only living parent, Mr. Sampson. Please, keep her safe.”
“Do the same for my baby girl and everything will turn out fine,” Zion answered as he pulled a small pad of paper from his inside jacket pocket. “Write down your mother’s information, then give me your phone or any electronic devices you have with you. We’re going old school for this one. Completely off the grid.”
9
O shun stood in front of the mirror inspecting her healed wounds. Six weeks later, the once smooth skin that she took pride in lathering every night with coco butter, was replaced by raised lines where the surgeon’s scalpel had cut. No amount of moisturizer would conceal the scar. For the rest of her life, she would be marked by the events of that night at the diner.
She heard a slight tap against her door, and quickly pulled her shirt down into place. She knew her need to conceal her wound from Masaki was silly. He’d been there when she was shot. He’d changed her bandages and taken care of her after the private physician left every night. Masaki knew what the jagged marks on her flesh looked and felt like. Strangely, as her ability to walk and independently take care of her own needs grew, so did her shame about those marks.
“Come in,” she called as she smoothed the cotton fabric of her t-shirt down, and faced the door.
“I made breakfast.” Masaki stepped inside, watching her carefully as she stood in the middle of her room. “You okay?”
She nodded her head and watched him respond in kind, as he stepped back and closed the door behind him. This had become their usual. This awkward dance of not knowing what to say for fear of crossing some imaginary boundary. It was as if learning the truth about the other’s identity had imprisoned them in this unnatural habitat of nice that neither of them dared to rail against.
Wasn’t the truth supposed bring freedom?
Apparently, that was a lie. She’d never felt more caged than the moment she’d learned Masaki Yamaguchi, her lover, was the head of the Canarsie Yakuza.
She took a deep breath and headed for the kitchen. No need in delaying the uncomfortable meal they would have. Getting it over with so she could get on to the next awkward communication between the two of them seemed like as good a way as any to start her day.
Up until six weeks ago, she'd been a boss, the leader of the Brownsville Council. She'd been ruthless and exacting in her dealings with anyone who crossed her the wrong way. Fear had no place in her life until Masaki showed up.
Masaki, the man she'd run from in a failed attempt to protect him from her lifestyle, was her enemy. Too bad he'd never needed protection. She chuckled at that realization. Oshun had managed to avoid dangerous entanglements until she'd met Masaki. But now, things were messier than she could've imagined. Not only had she fucked around and slept with the leader of her most notorious rival yet, she'd also managed to care about him too.
Her life was a comedy of errors as of late. One moment her path was clear and definitive, the next, she was standing in front of a mirror wondering how to be herself again. She needed to figure out how to regain enough of her confidence so she could navigate this emotional land mine she and Masaki were carefully stepping through.
She took one last look at herself in the mirror, running her fingers through the intricate twists of her brown locs with the chestnut tips.
“You have no choice but to hide in this house until the two of you come up with a plan. You will not be complicit in hiding from Masaki too. Get your shit together, Oshun. You can do this.”
Once she made it downstairs, she found Masaki in the kitchen holding two coffee mugs in one hand and a coffee pot in the other. He smiled when he saw her, easing some of the tension pulling at her insides. He quickly poured a cup, then handed her the ceramic mug.
“Cream and sugar are on the table. Help yourself. I'll be back with the food in a sec.”
She added cream and sugar to her mug and smiled as she took the first soothing sip. Masaki was in his caretaker mode, busy making certain she didn't have to lift a finger while he buzzed around the room plating their food.
“Mas, you know I can cook too. Why don't you let me help?”
He said nothing as he walked over to the table carrying both their plates. “I know you can cook,” he answered. “But, you're recuperating.”
She held up a finger. “No, I'm already recuperated. Now I need to get back to business at hand.”
Masaki paused slightly before he walked around to the other side of the table and sat down to eat. “I know you're healed, Oshun. But, I need you to humor me. It's hard for me to shake that image of you helpless, almost lifeless on the ground.”
She noted the worry etched into his face. It was as if the memory of her shooting alone brought him physical pain.
“Mas, I get it,” she countered. “But, we didn't come up here for a leisurely vacation. We're here to regroup. We need to talk about this.”
Masaki put down his fork and stood up, moving toward the island in the center of the kitchen. She wasn't surprised by his pacing back and forth. Whenever Masaki was angry, or contemplating something significant, he moved. The fact that she'd catalogued that bit of information away was another reminder that she was more attached to Masaki than wisdom allowed.
“You lied to me for months, Oshun. You moved into my home knowing who I was.”
She turned slightly toward him as she watched him fight for control of the anger simmering just beneath the surface.
“I didn't know who you were Mas until our meeting at the diner. I only became aware of a possible connection between you and the Yakuza when you showed up at the fire.”
