Well. . .they were trying to kill me so. . .
Part of me wanted to go out there. To see. To understand what was happening in the shadows of this house.
That truth settled over my skin like molten wax.
God, I’m changing so much. . .how much more will I change?
Thankfully, the larger most logical part of me—the part that was still trembling from everything that had already happened tonight—needed to stay right in this bedroom.
I stood there for a long moment, staring at the empty space where the bag now sat deflated.
My hands were shaking.
I pressed them flat against my thighs. Counted to five. Let the breath out slowly.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Who is that?
I crossed the room and picked it up, expecting Kenji. Maybe an update. Maybe him telling me he was on his way back.
But it wasn't Kenji.
It was Grandma.
Calm washed over me.
I swiped it open.
Grandma:Kyoya taught me how to do voice text. So, let’s see how this goes.
I widened my eyes.
Who the hell is Kyoya?
Grandma:Baby, look at my new friends! They painted up everything fast, so I had them come over for lunch, and I fed them REAL good.
Below the message was a photo.
I stared at it, and then I laughed out loud. The kind of laugh that burst from my chest without permission—bright, startled, and full of pure joy.
The picture showed my grandma's dining room—the same one I'd eaten a thousand meals in growing up. The oak table with the lace runner. The China cabinet in the background with her "good plates" that only came out for special occasions.
And seated around that table were six yakuza soldiers.
Six.
Tattooed, massive, muscular men in rolled-up shirtsleeves. Their suit jackets were draped over the backs of chairs.
In front of them were plates piled high with soul food. Collard greens. Mac and cheese. Fried chicken. Cornbread. Sweet potato pie waiting on the sideboard.
And they wereSMILING.
Not polite, restrained smiles. Not the stone-faced expressions I'd grown used to seeing on Kenji's men.
These were real smiles.
Genuine.
