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)
I narrowed my eyes. “I have not.”
Kazimir took another puff from his cigar and then slowly rose from his chair. “Be sure you never get to hear a lion’s roar. It’s fucking terrifying. Tokyo would be in ruins.”
I stood abruptly and my chair screeched behind me. “Is that a threat?”
Kazimir didn’t blink. “Put that twenty percent back where it belongs. I get one hundred percent of your drug shipments. Not eighty. Not even ninety-nine percent. One hundred. I see anything less than that again. . .”
His voice turned venomous. “. . .and I return. And it won’t be nice and gentlemanly like this visit.”
I frowned. “You think this is gentlemanly?”
“I think you should pray to your gods because you won’t get forgiveness from me. Due to your little. . .disrespect. . .the price for you, is now up to 90 thousand a kilo.” He didn’t give me a chance to respond.
Kazimir turned on his heel—sharp and final. His coat snapped behind him as he headed away.
His men moved in sync, chairs scraping back, suits shifting, hands brushing weapons.
“And now,” Kazimir called out without looking back. “Make it five women in my room within an hour. I’ve got angry energy to release.”
He flicked the whole cigar to the floor. The lit end hit the polished wood and then it rolled. A trail of smoke curled into the air.
Hiro growled low, quiet, and deadly.
Still, Kazimir didn’t look back. He just walked out, boots striking the floor like a countdown.
Just like that, the Lion was gone—leaving the discarded cigar on the floor, the smoke, the insult, and the tension to burn in his place.
Silence dragged in his wake.
I stood motionless, my pulse a quiet thrum of fury.
Reo and Hiro flanked me, still as stone.
I exhaled once.
Then turned to Reo. “Call the French. I want to meet with the Butcher. This week, not next. I can come to Paris, or he can come here.”
Reo glanced over, brows raising. “Are you meeting with him to end the shipments?”
“No, I want to discuss the possibility of getting rid of the Lion.”
Hiro let out a low, pleased breath—more exhale than laughter. That twisted smile of his finally bloomed.
Reo, however, shook his head. “Your father wants us aligned with the Lion. He thinks the Bratva will make us stronger.”
“My father,” I said slowly. “Lies sick in bed and uses me like a goddamn avatar. He doesn’t have to sit across from Kazimir and deal with that fucking ego. He doesn’t have to taste the poison that the Lion spoon-feeds. I do, and I’ve had an enough.”
Reo nodded once. “I’ll call the French.”
“Good.”
“Oh. I can’t forget this,” Reo reached into his jacket and then pulled out the thick red card the runner had given him earlier. “This is for you.”
I took it. “What’s this?”
“Your Tiger’s location.”
Thank God.
A smile flickered at the corner of my mouth. “Very good, Reo.”
While I was done dealing with lions, I was more than ready to tangle with a tiger.
Nyomi’s beautiful face flashed in my mind—brown skin with full lips.
Tora.
Stunning.
Reckless.
Unclaimed.
The kind of woman who didn’t bow to kings or monsters. The kind of woman who made even dragons burn.
Mmmm. Let’s see what you’re doing this evening.
Chapter eight
Lychee and Looming Death
Nyomi
Zo’s entire place was one-fourth the size of my apartment back home in Brooklyn and consisted of a kitchenette, micro-hotel sized bathroom, living room that held no space when the futon was spread out, and a bedroom that most westerners would call a walk-in closet.
Everything was divided by sliding doors and decorated in a white-on-white palette—cream-colored carpet, vanilla walls, ivory fixtures, and milky toned furniture that cost more than a month’s worth of my royalties.
A set of abstract white canvases hung above the futon, and they were barely distinguishable from the walls unless the light caught them just right. They were minimalist, super expensive, and probably done by some dead artist Zo worshipped.
That being said, I loved his apartment more than my own.
The only thing I didn’t like about his spot was that he paid over three thousand dollars a month due to its location.
It was in Omotesandō, the fashion district of Tokyo. All the top designers, modeling agencies, and foreign brands had offices here. Therefore, Omotesandō wasn’t just stylish—it was strategically ideal for networking and being seen.
Think paparazzi, client meetings, afterparties, and international brand visibility.
Being that Zo made his living as a fashion critic and freelance stylist for the rich, location won out over size. His neighbor on the left was a retired pop star. On the right, a designer who’d dressed Beyoncé for two different tours, and right across from his door, a woman who owned part of the Chanel brand.
From his window in the morning, I could always see a parade of Tokyo’s elite—actors, models, fashion editors, tourists with too much money—strutting down the tree-lined boulevard like it was a catwalk.