Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 66993 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66993 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Unmarked vials that could drop an elephant in ten seconds.
Heroin so pure it sparkled.
Cocaine that moved through veins like liquid lightning.
Dozens of men patrolled the space with Uzis slung over their shoulders and pistols tucked within their waistbands.
We moved forward.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead.
Then we reached the back wing.
Hiro pushed open the reinforced door and entered what he loved to call the Candy Room.
Warmth hit me first.
Here, the scent of narcotics was overwhelming—earthy heroin, gasoline-laced cocaine, chemical dust from crushed pills.
A dull ache bloomed in the back of my throat as it settled into my lungs.
The room itself was massive, maybe seventy feet wide. The floors were black tile, sanitized nightly. Long metal tables stretched across the space in clean rows, each lit from above by a single spotlight.
And the thirty women seated at the long tables were all naked, their hair pulled back into tight ponytails or sleek buns, exposing every inch of their bodies to the fluorescent light.
Breasts of all shapes—small and pert, heavy and swaying, round, flat, veined—moved subtly with each measured task. Some wore surgical gloves. Others didn’t. The softness of their bodies stood in stark contrast to the hard-edged drugs in their hands.
Thin fingers broke down bricks of coke, carving white lines with practiced grace and pressing the powder into smaller packets, each one stamped with the Dragon’s logo in red foil.
Others weighed heroin into plastic capsules, their bare chests rising and falling with slow, methodical breaths as they counted out the grams.
Another group crushed pills and repackaged them into fake prescription bottles. The labels—Xanax. Oxy. Adderall—were indistinguishable from the real ones, printed to perfection. From the neck down, they looked like soft machines built for one thing: speed and precision.
Their nudity wasn’t sexual.
It was strategic.
No pockets.
No hiding places.
No temptation to tuck a gram beneath a lace bra or slide a capsule into a waistband.
I didn’t let any men patrol this room. All the guards were women—deadly, silent, and clean. They stood at the corners. Their eyes never stopped moving—scanning hands, gestures, breath patterns. Watching for twitches. Lies. Theft.
I’d learned early that the naked workers—many of whom had clawed their way out of hell—felt more at ease under the gaze of women.
They worked faster.
As we passed, a few of the women glanced up.
One nodded—just a small tilt of the chin.
Another gave Hiro a tiny smile. He didn’t return it but something shifted in his jaw. Softened for a fraction of a second before hardening again.
We moved past a table where three women were sealing coke packets with small red wax stamps. Each stamp bore the kanji for “fire.”
I leaned Reo’s way. “Did the French give us a clean batch?”
He nodded. “It was triple tested. 98% purity. We’ll push it into Sapporo by Monday.”
“Price?”
“Sixty thousand per kilo. Maybe less once the Vietnamese flip their route to us.”
I hummed low in my throat. “We’re saving a lot of money this way.”
Reo adjusted the cuffs of his suit. “Correct. The Lion charges seventy-five thousand. Eighty, if you count the security fee.”
I snorted. “That damn security fee. For what? A few Bratva boys in leather jackets and bad cologne?”
“He calls it ‘operational integrity’,” Reo smirked. “But it’s just extortion with a receipt.”
Continuing forward, I watched one of the women flick a bead of wax onto a finished packet then press the seal. “Now we’re saving twenty thousand per kilo and moving three times the product.”
Reo nodded. “That’s a lot of fucking money.”
“It’s smart to remain with the French.”
“It is, but it’s also dangerous, Kenji.”
I tilted my head his way.
He didn’t blink. “The Butcher may not charge a security fee now but if we become dependent on his route—”
“He’ll raise the price the moment he tastes our hunger.”
Reo nodded slowly. “He’s not running a favor. He’s watching the numbers. And once the French route becomes the only artery we’re using. . .he’ll clamp down the vein.”
“We’ll keep our options open.”
Reo raised a brow. “You think the Vietnamese will flip to us?”
“They’re smart. They fear the Lion but they fear stagnation more. And men like us—we don’t just offer money. We offer evolution.”
He grinned faintly, his eyes still scanning the operation. “You sound like your father when you talk like that.”
I didn’t respond.
Because I knew he was right.
And that scared the shit out of me.
We passed another table. This one with pills—long white lines of them in neat trays, waiting to be bottled. A woman with burn scars across her chest reached forward to twist a cap onto a container. Her fingers moved with steady grace.
I wondered who she’d killed to get here.
Because no one worked in the Candy Room unless they were vetted.
And no one stayed unless they had nothing left to lose.
Hiro’s voice sliced through the silence. “Who’s the girl over there?”
I followed his gaze.
Near the back wall, a new face sat quietly at a workstation lined with rows of compressed MDMA tablets. She moved like she didn’t want to be seen but her hands didn’t hesitate—sorting, weighing, sealing—fast and clean.