Page 22 of Kotori

I position myself behind the kneeling boy, who tries to crawl away on his one good leg.

My hand moves to my pocket, drawing out the tantō I always carry—a blade passed down from my father, its edge honed to surgical perfection.

With practiced efficiency, I grab his hair, yanking his head back to expose his throat.

"Shine," I whisper in his ear. Die.

The blade moves in a single, precise arc.

Blood sprays in a crimson fan across concrete as his carotid artery opens under my steel.

His body spasms, hands clutching futilely at his throat, eyes wide with the sudden certainty of death.

Within seconds, he goes still, life pouring out onto the warehouse floor.

"Who's next?"

They beg. They cry. They offer money, loyalty, servitude.

"Urusai!" Shut up.

I offer only death.

When I'm finished, five bodies lie cooling on concrete, their blood forming patterns like macabre artwork. The sixth—the youngest—left alive but broken. A messenger to carry word of what happened here tonight.

I crouch beside him, my face inches from his terror.

"Tell them who did this," I whisper. "Tell them why. Tell them what happens when you interfere with Matsumoto business."

He nods frantically, clutching his broken arm.

"Oboetenasai." Remember. "The feeling. The helplessness. The certainty of death. The moment you understood your life was in my hands."

I straighten up, checking my watch. Blood has soaked through my shirtsleeve where the bullet grazed me. Blood spatters my hands, my face, my clothing.

"Takeshi," I call toward the doorway. "Call for cleanup. Make sure the workshop family understands their security is guaranteed now."

"Hai, Aniki." He surveys the carnage with approval. "And the survivor?"

"Hospital. Eventually." I check my watch—only thirty minutes since we arrived. Efficient evening's work. "Let him explain to doctors how he learned about respect."

But the lesson is complete. Five dead gang members, one traumatized survivor, their territory claims demolished along with their lives. Word will spread through Kyoto's underworld: Matsumoto protection is absolute, and testing our authority carries consequences beyond imagination.

"Kuso gaki-domo," I mutter, looking at the bodies. Fucking kids. "They made me late for dinner."

Takeshi hands me a clean handkerchief as we walk to the car. "Your shoulder, Aniki."

"It's nothing." I press the cloth to the wound. "Have the doctor meet me at home."

"Shall I tell him to be discreet? For the sake of the American woman?"

I smile thinly. "No. Let her see."

The drive home gives me time to consider the night's events. The interruption. The blood. The way killing those men felt like release.

How fitting that my little bird's first attempt at flight was today—the same day I had to demonstrate the consequences of defiance to others. Perhaps she should understand what kind of man holds her cage key.

I dismiss Takeshi at the entrance and make my way to my private rooms. The wound isn't deep, just a graze that tore through skin and muscle. I've had worse. Much worse.

In my bathroom, I strip off the bloodied shirt and clean the wound myself with practiced movements. Antiseptic stings, but pain is merely information. The bullet left a clean furrow across my deltoid. It will scar nicely.

I wrap a bandage around the shoulder, pulling it firm but not tight enough. No matter. A little blood won't ruin dinner.

After changing into a fresh white shirt, I examine myself in the mirror. The bandage is already showing a faint red line where blood is seeping through. Perfect. Let her see it. Let her wonder.

The dining room glows with warm light when I slide open the doors. My daughters sit around the table, chattering quietly while Hayashi clears empty dishes. And there, beside my empty cushion, sits perfection itself.

Paige in the black dress I chose for her. Modest neckline, knee-length skirt, fabric that stretches when she turns toward my arrival. Her blonde hair catches lamplight, her blue eyes hold uncertain hope, and her posture speaks of someone waiting for approval she's desperate to earn.

She wore it. My gift, my command, my vision of what she should become. The sight of her compliance sends satisfaction racing through my bloodstream.

"Okaeri, Papa!" Aya bounces slightly on her cushion. "You missed dinner! But Paige-sensei helped me eat all my vegetables, and we saved you the good parts!"

"Did you?" I settle onto my cushion beside Paige, close enough to catch her scent—jasmine bath oils and nervous anticipation. "How thoughtful."

She turns toward me with careful politeness that doesn't hide her relief. "I hope your business meeting went well, Matsumoto-sama."

Business meeting. If she only knew what "business" looked like tonight—five corpses serving as messages to anyone who thinks they can disrupt my schedule.

"Very productive," I tell her, studying the way black dress frames her throat, emphasizing her neck. "Some problems require personal attention."

Her eyes catch on the spreading red stain on my white shirt, where blood is seeping through the hastily applied bandage. I see the moment she registers what it is—her breath catching, pupils dilating slightly. Good. Let her wonder. Let her understand the duality of the man who owns her now.

"You look very pretty, Paige-sensei," Mizuki observes with approval. "That dress suits you perfectly."

"Thank you." Color rises in her cheeks at the compliment. "It was provided for me."

Provided. Such careful language, acknowledging my choice without admitting surrender. She's learning the delicate balance between compliance and dignity that will serve her well in our household.

"Papa," Aya says, leaning against my arm. "Paige-sensei was worried you wouldn't come home for dinner. I told her you always come home!"

Always. The certainty in my youngest daughter's voice makes me momentarily forget the darkness I've just executed. Home. Where I belong, where my family waits, where beautiful women wear dresses I select and worry about my absence.

Where five men lie dead because they dared interrupt my evening.

"I apologize for the delay," I tell Paige. "Urgent matters sometimes require immediate attention."

Hayashi appears silently to serve tea, but I wave her away with a gesture. My eyes find Paige's, holding her gaze with quiet expectation.

She hesitates long enough for the silence to stretch, for my daughters to notice, for the weight of my attention to settle around her shoulders.

Then she reaches for the tea service.

"Of course," she says softly, pouring with the technique I taught her. "I understand."

I study her profile as she serves my daughters with growing confidence. "Tell me what you understand, Paige-san."

The question is loaded with layers of meaning my daughters can't detect but she feels in her bones. What she understands about duty, about consequence, about the price of belonging to this family.

"I understand that some things can't wait," she says carefully. "That responsibility comes first."

"Wise." I nod. "And what else do you understand?"

She meets my eyes directly, and I see the moment she chooses honesty over safety. "I understand that this family takes care of what belongs to it. And that belonging requires commitment."

Perfect answer. Acknowledgment without surrender, understanding without complete submission. She's learning to navigate the currents of our world with intelligence that makes my interest in her sharpen to hunger.

The black dress was just the beginning.

And tonight's violence is just a preview of what awaits anyone who tries to take her from me.