one
. . .
The phone rang at exactly eleven thirty-seven on a Tuesday morning, cutting through the cottage silence like a funeral bell. Which, as it turned out, was pretty appropriate.
I knew it was bad news before I even answered—good news didn’t come on the ancient landline that served as my only connection to the outside world, and it definitely didn’t come with that particular sharp, insistent tone that screamed “someone important is about to ruin your day.”
I stared at the cordless phone vibrating against the kitchen counter like an angry wasp, contemplating whether ignorance really was bliss. Aunt Akiko had gone into town for groceries, leaving me alone with my thoughts and a stack of books I’d been pretending to read while actually staring out the window at the same thrilling view I’d been enjoying for the past eight years.
Pine trees. More pine trees. A glimpse of the security fence through the branches, because nothing said “loving family home” like razor wire and motion sensors. The ankle monitor around my left leg felt heavier than usual today, its weight aconstant reminder that even at twenty-two, I was still daddy’s little prisoner.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I muttered, grabbing the phone before whoever was calling could give up and leave me wondering what fresh hell they’d been planning to drop on my perfectly miserable existence.
“Yamamoto residence.” The words felt like chewing glass. I’d been answering the phone this way for years, but it never felt right. This wasn’t my residence—it was my cage, decorated with cheerful curtains and the illusion that I lived here by choice rather than paternal decree.
“Leo Yamamoto?”
The voice was crisp, professional, speaking with the precise diction of someone who’d spent their life in boardrooms where people’s lives were bought and sold like commodities. I recognized the tone if not the voice—yakuza business, delivered with the kind of formality that preceded someone’s world getting turned upside down.
“Speaking,” I said, though my voice carried that faint uncertainty that always crept in when dealing with my father’s associates. The half-breed disappointment who never quite fit into either world—too American for the yakuza traditionalists, too Japanese for everyone else.
“This is Tanaka Hiroshi, your father’s—” He paused, and I could practically hear him recalibrating. “I’m calling to inform you that Yamamoto-sama passed away a week ago.”
Well. That was certainly one way to start a Tuesday.
“A week ago,” I repeated, my voice coming out flat and strange. “You’re just telling me now?”
Because apparently even in death, dear old dad couldn’t be bothered to keep me in the loop. Why start now, right? Twenty-two years of treating me like a shameful secret, might as well maintain consistency from beyond the grave.
“The arrangements took time. The funeral is this afternoon at two o’clock.”
Arrangements.Like my father was a hostile corporate takeover rather than a human being. Though given how he’d lived his life—and more importantly, how he’d treated his inconvenient omega son—maybe that was more accurate than I wanted to admit.
“I’ll need transportation,” I said, already calculating logistics in my head because that’s what you did when your brain refused to process emotions properly. “This place is hours from civilization.”
Another pause, longer this time. When Tanaka spoke again, his voice carried that particular brand of uncomfortable formality that meant he was about to deliver news that would make my day even more spectacularly shitty.
“I’m afraid that won’t be necessary, Yamamoto-san. Your father’s final wishes were… specific. He requested that you not attend the service.”
He didn’t want me at his funeral.It wasn’t a question. Because of course he didn’t. Why would death suddenly make him want to acknowledge his genetic disappointment?
“Your father felt it would be… inappropriate. Given the circumstances of your birth and the sensitive nature of the families who will be in attendance.”
Inappropriate.
There it was. The word that had defined my entire fucking existence, served up one last time from beyond the grave. Too inappropriate to attend family gatherings. Too inappropriate to be seen in public. Too inappropriate to be acknowledged as anything more than a genetic mistake that my father had been forced to hide away from his precious yakuza world.
“Of course,” I said, surprised by how steady my voice sounded when everything inside me felt like it was cracking apart. “Wouldn’t want to contaminate the sacred ritual with my inconvenient existence. Dead or alive, he’s still ashamed of his disappointing omega son.”
“Yamamoto-san, I don’t think?—”
“No, you’re right,” I cut him off, because I was done listening to polite euphemisms for ‘your father couldn’t stand the sight of you.’ “Can’t have an omega disrupting the solemnity of the occasion. What would the other yakuza families think if they knew the great Yamamoto Kenji had produced something so… defective?”
The word tasted like poison on my tongue, but it was the truth. In a world where alpha sons were the only currency that mattered, where strength and dominance determined your worth, I was living proof that even the most powerful men could father complete disappointments.
Tanaka cleared his throat uncomfortably. “There are other matters to discuss regarding your father’s estate and your… situation. Representatives will be calling to arrange a meeting in the coming days.”
