Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 154368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 772(@200wpm)___ 617(@250wpm)___ 515(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 772(@200wpm)___ 617(@250wpm)___ 515(@300wpm)
"Food, Nika. Not silverware. Every time we go to a nice restaurant, I got to check your purse before we leave."
Zo shrugged. “In Nika’s defense, these are nice forks.”
"They’re real silver—"
"Put. Them. Back."
Nika sucked her teeth so hard I thought she'd pull a muscle. She opened her purse, took out all four forks, and set them back on the table with the attitude of a woman being forced to return a winning lottery ticket.
One of the kitchen staff stepped forward. "She can keep them if she'd like. We have plenty."
Nika's eyes lit up like Christmas morning. She snatched all four forks off the table and shoved them back into her purse before anyone could change their mind. "See? They said I could have them. Thank you, baby."
“Sorry, Nyomi.” Deja sighed. “My cousin isn’t a thief. She’s just so goddamn cheap.”
I grinned. “No worries.”
“I’m almost done, Nyomi.” Zo held a large plate and began placing food onto it. My throat felt tight. Crazy or not, Zo was taking care of me. Deja was doing my hair. Nika was laughing. The movie was about to start.
And somewhere in Tokyo, Kenji was walking into a war.
I checked my phone again.
Nothing.
I kept a strong face. Because I knew my worry wouldn't keep Kenji safe.
All I could do was stay here. Stay safe. And hope that the blood I'd smeared on those guns was enough.
Please, God. Let it be enough.
Chapter thirty-three
The Descent
Kenji
I had my phone out.
The screen glowed in the dim light of the helicopter, showing a live camera feed from the theater box back on the island.
Nyomi sat in a chair with her stylist behind her.
I couldn't hear what they were saying over the roar of the helicopter blades, but I could see Nyomi laughing. Her whole face lit up, and the stylist was saying something animated with her hands moving expressively.
I stared at the screen and tried to memorize every detail. The way Nyomi's shoulders relaxed as the stylist worked. The way my Tiger tilted her head slightly when the stylist sectioned off a piece of hair and started braiding.
I found myself wondering what style she would choose. What Nyomi would look like when it was done.
And then the darker thought crept in.
I was watching my Tiger through a screen because there was a chance I might never see her in person again.
This feed might be the last time I ever watched her laugh.
The last time I saw her tilt her head like that.
The last time I studied the curve of her neck while someone's hands moved through her hair.
If I died today, this would be the final peaceful image. My Tiger in a chair. Laughing. Safe. Not knowing I was watching her like a man trying to burn a woman into his memory before the world went dark.
I love you, Tora. Do you understand how much?
I pressed my thumb against the screen, right along her lips.
Hiro glanced at me from across the helicopter but said nothing.
Good.
Because if he had, I wouldn't have been able to keep my voice steady.
I watched her laugh again.
Get back to her. That's the true mission. Everything else is just the road between here and her.
I locked the phone and slipped it back into my pocket.
My jaw tightened, and I felt the shift happen inside me. I had to focus now.
On my right, Hiroko caught it.
I turned to her. That gaze went to my pocket and then back to my face. She didn't say anything, but there was understanding in her expression. She knew what I'd been looking at and knew what it meant to me.
She put her gaze forward.
Instead of turning away too, I looked at Hiroko properly since we'd boarded the helicopter.
This was the first time I'd ever seen Hiroko look normal.
Today, she wasn't wearing one of her elaborate kimonos with the silk and embroidery. She wasn't in any of the leather BDSM gear either.
Instead, she wore black tactical pants, black boots, and a black long-sleeve top like us. The biggest difference was that a bulletproof vest was strapped across her chest, and her hair was pulled back into a tight bun at the base of her neck.
And there was a small red gun holstered at her side.
I wondered if she knew how to use it and then immediately assumed she probably could. Hiroko had lived through more violence than most of my men. She'd survived the red-light districts, the yakuza wars, and decades of navigating a world that chewed up women and spit them out.
Of course she could use a gun.
Two men sat on the other side of her. Reo had picked her personal security detail, assigned specifically to stay with her in the tunnels.
Both were experienced.
Both were loyal.
Both had explicit orders: if things went wrong, their only job was to get Hiroko out alive.
The helicopter banked slightly, and I felt the familiar lurch in my stomach.