Granted, I didn't think Misha cared about sitting on the throne anyway. The man had one foot in the Bratva and the other in the digital world, where he was far more powerful than any crime boss could dream.
One of the best hackers alive.
Maybethebest.
If someone hoped to hide from the Bratva, they prayed Kazimir didn’t get Misha to search for them.
We reached the bottom of the stairs and turned down the corridor that led toward the back of the mansion.
I glanced at Reo. “We go to my office first so you can change.”
My Roar nodded, understanding that I didn’t want the Lion to see that there had been a crack in our unit.
When we got there, my guards opened the door and Satoshi arrived with a towel and new shirt.
I entered my office.
The other Fangs took their positions without instruction.
Kaoru and Yoichi stayed inside the doorway.
Rin slid along the left wall, stopping short of the windows. Descended from Kyoto nobility, Rin moved through violence the way his ancestors had moved through tea ceremonies: with silence, restraint, and the understanding that death was simply another form of etiquette.
I found myself watching him longer than necessary.
The Emperor had fallen ill this month. The news had rippled through Japan like a stone dropped in still water, and I'd thought of Rin immediately. He was already a few heartbeats from the Chrysanthemum Throne. If the old man died, Rin's bloodline would shift dangerously close to the crown—close enough that his cousin would become an obstacle rather than a relative.
What would Rin do then?
Would he stay loyal to me?
Or would he return to Kyoto, slip something subtle into his cousin's evening tea, and claim what his ancestors had once held?
Rin caught me watching and tilted his head in a silent question.
I nodded and looked away.
Some answers, I wasn't ready to know.
Reo came in. His gait was steady, but his right shoulder lagged just enough to notice if one knew his body as well as I did.
Satoshi entered last, carrying the items with him and closing the door quietly behind him.
I went to my desk and leaned against it.
Reo took off his jacket and pulled off the bloodied shirt.
I noticed the damage to his body immediately.
His chest was built the way a fighter’s should be—thick slabs of muscle earned through years of discipline rather than vanity.
But the place where I’d driven my fist into him was darkening fast, a bruise blooming across his sternum and spreading outward like spilled ink beneath skin.
Purple at the core.
Angry red at the edges.
Satoshi winced a little and stepped forward with the towel. Reo took it and wiped any remaining blood from his face.
