Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 104141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
I checked my watch. "What time?”
“In two hours.”
Damn. This is moving fast.
I nodded. “Sounds good.”
"They'll have your recipes and they'll go over everything. Run through each drink."
"Good. I want someone to taste every single cocktail on that list." I pointed at him. "But not me. I'm not getting drunk before my own party."
“I can’t either.” He held up his hands. "I'll find someone. No problem."
“Perfect.” I leaned against the counter and looked at the kitchen. At the steam and the blue flames and the people moving through it with purpose.
Miles Davis played and the light through the windows was gold and warm and the whole room hummed with bright energy.
This is going to be a good day. We all need this.
The kitchen doors swung open again.
I glanced up.
Three people stepped in.
Who’s this?
The first was a tall woman dressed head to toe in purple—wide-leg trousers, sleeveless blazer, and even purple highlights in her long hair. She carried a tablet in one hand. “Good morning, Nyomi.”
The second wore a gray suit. He gave no greeting and simply bowed.
The third was younger. Maybe mid-twenties. Lots of street energy. She wore a cropped jacket with camouflage jeans. Her nails were painted a deep chrome and her hair was in two high pink puffs.
Chef Bunzō cleared his throat. “This is your decoration team approved by Hiro.”
I smirked. “Approved by Hiro?”
The street smart woman nodded. “Yes, Tora. Hiro woke us all up at five in the morning and told us to get ready.”
I frowned. “He has some nerve bothering people like that. I’m sorry.”
“Hiro woke us up too.” Chef Bunzō laughed. “However, I found it pretty exciting.”
Miles Davis’s trumpet rose again, smooth and confident.
I returned to them. "Okay, so I’m sure Hiro told you this is a party for the Claws.”
They bobbed their heads.
“We'll start with cocktails and hors d'oeuvres in one space. Then we move to another room for a proper sit-down dinner."
The man nodded. "Where do you want the staff to set up?”
I thought about the war room and loved what Kenji had done— the miniature Tokyo, the candles, the way he'd transformed that violent space into a romantic venue.
But they were probably in that room right now.
Planning.
Strategizing.
Mapping out the next battle.
No. This party is about escaping death and the war.
I swallowed. "Let's use the ballroom. I want it transformed."
The woman in purple tilted her head. "What's the vision?"
“Hmmm.” I closed my eyes for a second and let the music guide my thoughts. The trumpet, bass, and piano painted pictures behind my eyelids.
I opened my eyes and smiled. "The Great Gatsby meets In the Mood for Love."
While the first was a proven classic of decadence, I'd watched In the Mood for Love ten times. It was a film from the early 2000s about two neighbors in 1960s Hong Kong discovering their spouses were having an affair with each other.
And instead of these two falling apart, they fell toward each other. They never even touch for most of the film.
The whole thing lives in what they don't say and don't do.
And every single frame—the wallpaper, the heroine’s dresses, the stairwells, the rain, the noodle shop at night—was just so heartbreakingly dreary and beautiful it hurts. Deep reds, emerald greens, warm shadows. The camera holding on them too afraid they would disappear.
Gatsby was the spectacle—diamonds and champagne and everyone feeling larger than life.
In the Mood for Love was the quiet intimacy underneath.
I wanted both, for the Claws to walk into that ballroom and feel grand yet fully seen at the same time.
Ms. Street Smart grinned. “Oooo. Elegant and breathtaking.”
“Yes.”
Ms. Purple began making notes on her pad. "Gatsby is diamonds, crystals, champagne towers, and gold everything.”
“Yes.” I nodded. “Excess so beautiful it almost makes you cry, but In the Mood for Love. . .that's the soul underneath it. The intimacy.”
The man tapped his chin. “Rich colors like reds, dark greens, and deep shadows.”
Ms. Purple widened her eyes. “That’s my favorite movie. Slow, yet every single minute matters because someone might leave and never come back. Two people who can't look away from each other."
The man turned to her. "I'll make some calls. We'll need crystal installations, lighting design, floral. I know people."
She nodded. "Whatever you need. Whatever it costs."
Ms. Street Smart looked at me. "And the dress code?"
"Luxury black."
We were still carrying grief, but we would carry it in style.
We went over more plans, and then the team left.
The kitchen kept moving. New assistants came in to help.
The sous chefs chopped, plated, tasted, and adjusted. I joined the preparation and stayed busy.
Miles played on too, shifting into Blue in Green, then later Flamenco Sketches.
Hours passed, and then the kitchen doors swung open, and Zo walked in, tall for no damn reason at all, slightly disheveled, and definitely still wearing yesterday's clothes.
His hair was a mess and his smile was enormous. "Good morning, beautiful people. Where’s Nyomi? Aww. There you go. I just wanted to give you a quick hug and kiss before I venture off to Hiroko."