“Three of our crypto accounts have been compromised.”
There’s emotions warring in me and the first - happiness - makes me feel guilty as hell. But I am happy, he’s trusting me enough to share his problems. Happiness is rapidly smothered by worry. “Both on the same day? Does it feel like whoever’s behind this mess is ramping up?”
“Possibly.” He stands up and paces in front of the windows, Tokyo a backdrop to his rage. “Given the range of security breaches, this is someone in our inner circle. There’s no other way this could happen.”
“When you say inner circle…” I walk closer, like this can only be said if it’s whispered. “Do you mean family? Like, immediate family?”
His gaze is bleak. “I… dinnae what to think.”
I don’t go on my helicopter tour of Mt. Fuji and the shrines, to the deep relief of Ian and Torin who also did not want to split up the security force. I stay in the suite with Michael, bringing himlunch. Filling up his glass of whisky. As the afternoon bleeds into evening, he lets me remove his prosthetic and rub his thigh.
Somehow, that feels more intimate than anything else we’ve done together.
Michael is forced to stop working as our dinner meeting with Matsumori Yakuza draws closer. I can tell he’s unhappy about it because he showers and changes without requesting my presence to “scrub his back.”
“What do I need to know about tonight?” I ask, turning my back so he can zip me up. Because I refused to leave him and go shopping, he had the manager, Miss Yamada, send up ten dresses to choose from. I pick a sleeveless, silvery gray silk one that matches my eyes in the right light.
“We’ll be meeting Ren Matsumori,Oyabunof the Matsumori Yakuza,” he says, calloused fingers brushing my neck as he zips me.
“He’s essentially the Chieftain, then?”
“Exactly. He’s vicious and cunning, but he’ll be all courtly grace tonight. Inviting us to his home is an honor. Minato, his son, is his father’sWakagashira, the second in command. He’s greedy, he wants his father’s position.”
Michael kisses me, slow, a gentle slide of his tongue, just enough to make me sway toward him when he pulls back.
“Tease…” I whisper.
While we’re waiting for Ian and Torin to assemble the vehicles, I call Mom. We talk every day, but it was too late to call at our regular time yesterday when we landed. No answer.
“Hey Mom, just checking in. Tokyo is beautiful. I’ll sample some desserts here and see if there’s anything you might want to add in on the bakery menu. Love you.”
As we drive out of the city and into the hills above it, the searing glow behind us refuses to fade, all blazing light and neon. A smear of brilliance. No doubt it could be seen from space. As we drive deeper into the hills though, the aggressive modernity of Tokyo fades into a timeless sense of elegance; beautifully sculpted trees that must be hundreds of years old, mansions tucked into their private enclaves and barely seen from the road.
We're nearly at the top of the hill when we finally go through two sets of massive iron gates, with grim-faced guards checking the car at both points. As we head up the winding drive, Michael squeezes my hand.
“The Matsumori castle is stunning,” he says. “It was constructed nearly four hundred years ago. Remember, the greeting is‘Konbanwa,OyabunMatsumori.’ Rank is important. We are considered equal status, so a bow of your head is appropriate.”
“Khon-bahn-wah,” I murmur, trying to get the pronunciation down.
“In the yakuza culture, women are expected to be silent, unless addressed,” he says. “My apologies in advance, dinnae feel slighted, aye?”
“Understood," I say. “Tradition is very important here and I want to make a good impression for you.”
“I know ye will, my sweet lass." He kisses my hand with a smile.
We round the corner and there it is… the castle soars up to the night sky, multiple stories with the beautifulChidori-hafugables, curving up like bird’s wings. Unlike the searing light of the city, the castle is all soft. Golden lights illuminate thewalkways and shine warmly through the windows, and the effect is timeless. It feels like we could be in any century… aside from the very modern Bentley that is depositing us at the front door.
There are security men in dark suits, lining the perimeter of the house, moving silently through the trees and in a couple of higher vantage points, there are guard towers. More security, cradling rifles in their arms.
I can feel it again, that sense of the ice cracking under my feet and childishly, I hold my breath.
It will be fine. Nothing will go wrong here.
Michael's hand is firm on my lower back, but I think he senses it too as we climb the long flight of stairs to the entryway. His handsome face freezes into a forbidding expression as a uniformed servant opens the door.
“Welcome, my friends!” A man in his mid-forties is there, spreading his arms wide, inclining his head respectfully. The son, I’m thinking. “Welcome to our home.” He’s wrapped in an expensive suit, his wildly colorful tattoos creeping up his neck and over the collar of his white dress shirt.
He smiles as we are introduced, Michael’s expression a sudden mask of affability.
