Page 4 of The Dragon 1 (Tokyo Empire #1)

Chapter two

Velvet Death

Nyomi

What did he mean by very naughty?

The words echoed long after they slipped past his lips.

He had said very naughty and it wasn’t an observation.

It was a verdict.

My instinct was to snap back with some quirky comment but instinct didn’t belong here. Not in a country where I didn’t know all the customs and traditions. Not to forget the fact that this man was clearly Yakuza. I damned sure didn’t want any problems with them.

I pressed my damp palms to the sides of my jeans and tried to breathe through it.

Mr. Sato stared at me.

No smile now.

Just a heavy, bone-melting gaze.

Then he turned his face slightly and glared at Jun. A low, yet fluid string of Japanese left his lips. The words carved through the room, slicing the thick silence open.

I couldn’t understand a thing he said but every syllable pulsed with warning.

Oh shit. Is Jun in trouble? Am I about to get kicked out of here?

Zo got to my side.

I leaned his way and whispered. “What is he saying?”

Zo tilted his head toward me and kept his voice hushed. “Mr. Sato said ‘why didn’t you tell me she was so beautiful?’”

My eyes widened.

Zo continued. “Jun told him he didn’t think it mattered. Mr. Sato responded with, ‘of course it matters. Any man with a dick and a pair of eyes will be all over her.’”

My skin prickled.

Men didn’t typically describe me as beautiful, upon meeting me.

Wacky.

Nosy.

Talented.

Bitchy, if you asked the wrong ex.

But no one had ever called me beautiful.

I didn’t know what to do with this information.

“And then Jun said—” Zo froze mid-translation, probably realizing the entire room had turned toward him.

Most notably, Mr. Sato, who now pushed off the desk and prowled our way.

Oh no.

The man didn’t walk. He stalked, moving like a panther that didn’t need to roar because the world already feared his silence.

Oh shit. Oh shit.

Mr. Sato stopped right in front of Zo. The top of his slick black shoes barely brushed the tips of Zo’s designer oxfords.

He stood just two inches shorter than Zo’s six-foot-four frame, but that didn’t tip the scales in Zo’s favor—not even close.

In fact, it did the opposite.

Mr. Sato didn’t need height. He didn’t need size, volume, nor theatrics. He had presence—pure, distilled dominance that seeped into the air.

Everything about him demanded attention. The way his shoulders stayed perfectly aligned, the unhurried violence in his movements, the command in his stillness.

And then there were his eyes.

Solid.

Centered.

Unshakable.

Zo fidgeted under his gaze while Mr. Sato didn’t even blink.

Then, he spoke in English—smooth, clear, and laced in a velvet-soft Japanese accent. “If I wanted her to know what I was saying, I would’ve said it in English.”

Zo backed up and bowed immediately. “I’m sorry.”

Sato’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”

“I’m. . .Zo,” another bow. “It’s not short for anything. Not spelled with an ‘e’ either. My mother loves to be different. It means life, you know. Have you ever read J.D. Salinger’s novel Franny and Zooey ? My mother—”

I nudged his side.

His face flushed. “Just Zo. Sorry.”

Mr. Sato’s frown deepened. “Why are you here with her ?”

Why the hell do you care?

I wanted to ask but kept my mouth closed.

Zo answered. “I’m helping her around the city. Escort, translator, moral support. . .we used to date.”

I blinked.

“Now we’re just friends,” Zo rushed on. “The dating part was terrible. I’m not a one-woman man. She’s not really—”

I cleared my throat.

“Thank you, Zo-without-the-e.” Mr. Sato turned to me and then stepped into my space.

Only a few inches separated us.

Every nerve in my skin went on high alert. My lungs tightened, unsure whether to inhale or hold still.

But I did.

Breathed him in.

God, he smells good. . .

Smoked sandalwood and candied ginger.

Fiery and warm but sweet.

Wood left to smolder.

Sugar just starting to burn.

He consumed me with a single, profound inhale—slow and utterly devastating.

His eyes drifted shut as he leaned in—not quite touching yet the warmth of his breath slipped along my cheek.

Ummm. . .

And for one dizzying second, I swore a dragon stood in front of me. A real one. Massive and ancient, with flared nostrils dragging in the scent of me and testing the air before baring its fangs.

I couldn’t move.

Didn’t dare breathe too deep.

I felt preyed upon in a way that didn’t make me want to run.

It made me want to burn .

Just when I thought he was going to open his eyes and step back, he fucking loudly inhaled again, even deeper.

It was a growl half-buried in his chest.

And I felt that sound.

Between my thighs.

In the base of my spine.

In the racing pulse behind my ears.

His lips parted, just barely, like he might speak—but nothing came.

Just heat.

Just want.

Then he opened his eyes and the look in them pinned me to the floor.

Not with violence.

Not even lust.

But with need .

Dark, worshipful, dangerous need.

What the fuck is going on?!

The suited men along the wall stirred, telling me that this wasn’t their boss’s typical behavior. One of them looked at another and raised a brow. Another pair exchanged glances in silence.

Meanwhile, Zo froze beside me, completely still as if he sensed a ripple of something not meant for the living.

Mr. Sato whispered. “How. . .odd. . .”

My stomach flipped. “What?”

He blinked, just once, as if still shaken. “You smell like something I’ve been searching for.”

The words made the hair on my arms rise.

I don’t understand. What has he been searching for?

He watched me. “Do you know what it means to finally find something you’ve hunted in your dreams?”

I wanted to laugh it off and say something snarky or sarcastic. Instead, I froze. Not because I was afraid. But because some part of me—some reckless, aching part— wanted to know what it felt like to be the thing a man like him dreamed of.

My voice came out softer than I intended. “I. . .I’m just here to write.”

“Tell me something, Ms. Palmer.”

“Okay. . .”

“What do people usually do. . .when they finally find what they’ve been chasing?”

“Be happy. . .I guess. . .”

His eyes narrowed in curiosity. “What perfume are you wearing?”

“I’m not wearing any perfume.”

That seemed to shake him more than anything else.

He stepped back half an inch, enough for me to finally breathe, but not enough to release me from whatever hold had just wrapped itself around us both.

“No perfume,” his voice went deeper now. “That’s impossible.”

I shook my head. “I put on lotion this morning. Drugstore brand. Vanilla something, maybe. That’s it.”

His lips parted slightly but no words came.

Finally, he murmured more to himself than anyone else. “Black amber and ripe plum.”

O-kay. . .what the fuck is that?

He extended his hand. “Give me the device.”

Just four words.

But the way he said it—low, edged in command—sent a rush of heat low in my belly.

I looked down at my recorder, then back up at him. “Give it to you?”

He nodded.

I hesitated, not because I didn’t want to hand it over—but because I felt something shift the moment his palm opened toward me.

Like a trap being set.

Like I was about to place more than a recorder in his hand.

I gave it to him anyway.

My fingers brushed his.

That’s all.

Oh.

Warmth hit me first. Then, his rough skin. Callused fingertips that dragged against my own just long enough to feel intentional.

My breath snagged in my throat.

His fingers closed around the recorder— and mine— with a subtle press.

I trembled.

He didn’t take that hand away. Instead, he kept it lightly trapped in his grasp and then lowered his gaze to where our hands touched.

Damn.

The warmth of his palm didn’t just touch my skin—it pressed a thumbprint into my soul.

A second later, he raised his view to my mouth and then finally to my eyes.

“Your hands are warm. But your pulse is faster than it should be.”

“O-kay.” I tried to tug my hand back.

He didn’t let go. Instead, his thumb grazed the inside of my wrist.

One slow stroke.

Featherlight.

His velvet voice brushed against me. “Do I make you nervous?”

“Yes.”

“Hmmm.” He took his hand away and turned the little machine over in his fingers, assessing it. “This is old.”

“It is.” I held out my palm to get it back.

He put it in his pocket.

I blinked. “Are you going to give that back?”

“Probably not,” the corner of his mouth twitched.

“I need that back.”

“Maybe it’s time for a new one.”

“It has sentimental value.”

“Why?”

“My father gave it to me when I was ten.”

“Was he a writer too?”

“No. He was a judge.”

A few of the men by the wall shifted.

Mr. Sato studied me. “ Was a judge. Your father isn’t a judge anymore?”

“He isn’t.”

“Retired?”

“Something like that.”

“Ms. Palmer, I like clear answers.”

I sighed. “He lost his position.”

The topic of my father always hit like old bruises—faded but tender when touched.

“Why did he lose his position?”

“No disrespect, Mr. Sato, but I am only here to observe your soapland. Not breakdown my family history. I don’t want to cause any problems or—”

“An American judge’s daughter with a tape recorder asking questions in the most dangerous part of Tokyo—”

“Hold up. What I’m doing right now has nothing to do with my father in any way. I don’t even talk to him—”

“Why not?”

I held out my hand. “What?”

“Why not?”

“Because. . .we just don’t talk,” I let out a long breath. “Mr. Sato, respectfully, can I observe your business? If not, I will leave immediately.”

“But either way you don’t want to talk about your father?”

“I don’t think it’s necessary.”

That made him laugh.

God. Even his laugh is lethal.

It wasn’t loud or unkind. But it damn sure slithered under my skin and settled there, readying itself to explode.

He leaned in a hair’s breadth closer.

No further contact just yet.

But definitely the threat of it.

The possibility.

“Here in Tokyo, Ms. Palmer, you will find that when I ask a question, you answer me whether you think it is necessary or not.”

Oh shit.

I widened my eyes.

“Also,” he leaned away. “I’m not giving you back your device. It’s too old. I’ll get you a new one.”

What the fuck?

“I don’t need a new one.”

He shrugged. “Additionally, I expect you to stay out of my district.”

My pulse thundered.

I had to be very careful. Men like him didn’t threaten with words. They just tilted the world beneath your feet—and smiled when you fell on your ass.

I considered what Zo had translated to me earlier.

‘Any man with a dick and a pair of eyes will be all over her.’

I steadied my voice. “I don’t think banning me from your district is necessary. The way I look won’t interfere with my observations of your business.”

Mr. Sato tilted his head slowly, like a cat studying the precise point it planned to sink its claws.

“I’m a professional,” I swallowed. “I know how to stay out of the way.”

“Men pay a two-thousand-dollar monthly fee just to walk through those doors and never hear the word no . Not once.” He raised one finger.

“Not when they order a drink. Not when they touch a woman. Not when they whisper their darkest wish in her ear. Upstairs. . .downstairs. . .the entire experience is curated to be a world without refusal. The fantasy depends on it. Do you understand?”

“Yes. However—”

“I’m not done.”

I blinked.

He reached for one of my curls resting against my shoulder, his fingers grazing my skin first—just enough to make me hold my breath. Then he took a strand between his thumb and forefinger rolling it slowly, testing the texture.

Uh. . .

The audacity.

The sheer arrogance.

But what unsettled me most was how easily I let him.

The coil slipped through his grip and sprang back.

And I didn’t know what the hell was wrong with me but. . .I wanted him to touch my hair again. . .

That feeling irritated the hell out of me.

“Now imagine you,” He lowered his hand. “You’re walking through my world—rich chocolate skin, curls like spun silk, full lips, breasts that bounce when you breathe, and an ass that draws the eye from the front. You think these men will look away? Ignore you? Resist?”

My breath caught in my throat.

He raised his hand again and brushed his finger against another curl. When he did, his sleeve slipped up just slightly, and I spotted ink—black and bold against his skin. I couldn’t see the full design, just edges of it—sharp curves and flicks.

Damn.

I’d seen enough documentaries and police reports about the Yakuza to know about what their bodysuit tattoos meant.

They were history.

Hierarchy.

Blood oaths etched into skin.

How much of Mr. Sato’s body was covered in them?

How far did that ink go?

“I love your hair,” he put his hand back down. “Wild and soft at the same time.”

My gaze darted to his jacket, where my recorder sat like a hostage. “What does men not hearing no have to do with me being unable to do my study?”

“When men see you, they’ll crave you. They’ll follow you with their eyes. Their hands. Their hunger. They’ll whisper prices in my ear.” He pierced me with his gaze. “And I’ll have to tell them n o.”

"Mr. Sato—”

“That’s bad for business.”

“I can stay in the background.”

His lips quirked. “We Japanese like to try new things. You wouldn’t last five minutes before someone tried to purchase you.”

My throat dried.

I wanted to argue.

He grinned. “Do you want to work for me?”

“What? No.”

“What’s your first name?”

“Nyomi.”

He considered it. “No. Too gentle.”

Excuse me?

“I’ll call you Tora, instead.”

“Tora?”

“Tiger.” He stepped back a few more feet. “Sharp teeth behind a pretty mouth.”

Some of the men in the back of the room snickered.

Zo stirred. “I think Nyomi and I get the picture, Mr. Sato. We can go to another district or city. We’re deeply sorry, sir.”

“No,” the amused expression left Mr. Sato’s face. He didn’t even look Zo’s way. “You and she aren’t going anywhere else. You’re done with Japan.”

I did my best not to yell. “All of Japan?”

“Yes.” His tone didn’t rise. He didn’t shout. But it felt like someone had drawn a blade across the map.

I stared at him in shock. “Why?”

“Do I need a reason?”

Zo quickly spoke, “No, sir. Not at all.”

“Well. . .” I gritted my teeth. “It would be really nice if you provided a reason or even compromised with me so that I could do my observations—”

Zo loudly inhaled his breath, desperately trying to stop me.

Tension thickened the room.

“Naughty Tora,” Smiling, he raised a finger and wagged it at me. “I don’t compromise, but. . .”

I stood there desperately waiting on his next words.

Mr. Sato kept his gaze on me. “Everyone leave.”

What?

Swallowing, I edged away and tried to rush off with Zo as he left the office. But I wasn't so lucky. Mr. Sato seized my arm and gently pulled me. “Not you, Tora. We’re going to talk about compromises .”

Fuck. What did I get myself into?