Page 22 of The Dragon 2 (Tokyo Empire #2)

Chapter nineteen

Brainstorming

Nyomi

There, standing beside the elevator, was a large, muscular man in a black suit so sharp it probably had its own sword license. He was death in couture—hands folded, chin tipped, and a faint smile on his face that didn’t reach his eyes.

Yakuza.

We walked slowly forward.

He saw us, inclined his head and without a word pressed the elevator button for us.

Zo whispered. “That’s one of his men. The Dragon. . .”

“I’m aware.”

“Do I bow? Do I curtsey? Should I go back in the apartment to offer him the kimono?”

“Stop it.” I elbowed him, trying not to laugh again as the elevator dinged. “No one wants that kimono. Only God knows what’s on it.”

“Well, it did get dirty.”

We approached the elevator.

The man stared forward and didn’t look at us.

Zo whispered. “I feel like I’m about to get invited to a very exclusive funeral.”

The elevator dinged.

The doors opened.

We stepped inside.

So did the guard.

O-kayyyy. . .

The doors closed us three in and the elevator lowered.

The guard stood perfectly still, not speaking, not even blinking. He just remained in the elevator like an expensive statue that could kill.

Zo tried not to breathe.

I, on the other hand, was growing far too used to this level of Kenji’s absurdity.

Alright. Apparently, I now have a personal guard. Got it.

Once the doors opened at the bottom, we stepped out into the warm Tokyo sunlight. The air smelled of espresso, Chanel No. 5, and secondhand ambition.

Outside, the building pulsed with curated wealth. It was Tokyo’s indie elite doing what they do best.

On one balcony, a woman in oversized sunglasses exhaled smoke in slow motion, like it was part of her brand to be dope as fuck.

Across the street, two men debated minimalist fashion in matching Comme des Garcons blazers. Their laughter slipped between beats of lo-fi jazz leaking from another’s cracked window above.

On the sidewalk, a woman’s glossy yellow designer heels clicked against the pavement.

And right in front, Kenji’s black sedan was already waiting at the curb.

Glossy.

Sleek.

Probably armored.

The driver stood beside it. Every crease in his charcoal uniform appeared hand pressed. His hat sat perfectly centered, and his chin was lifted just enough to catch the sun on the gold trim. He waved his gloved hands at me.

I waved back. “No. Thank you.”

He frowned.

Zo gave a low whistle. “Now that is a car that says, ‘fuck around and find out.’ This is the one Kenji had waiting outside for you?”

“I think so.” I couldn’t help but wonder how long the poor man had been standing there. Minutes? Hours? Waiting like a statue while we argued over earrings and brunch drama.A flicker of guilt crept up the back of my neck.

Then irritation followed.

Would it have killed Kenji to ask before sending a full-blown security sedan like I was some secret mistress of state?

In the end, I felt bad for the driver. He looked like he took this job seriously—like standing there all morning was a sacred duty.

But I needed to send a message to Kenji.

Dude. I am not yours just yet. You need to calm down.

As the thought crossed my mind, the door was opened for me—gloved hand sweeping with quiet elegance, the interior glowing with stitched leather, chilled water, and scentless air.

Of course it was perfect.

The Dragon didn’t make plans, he orchestrated them.

I shook my head again and called out to him. “I really appreciate it, but we’re going to take the train today! You can leave now! Please tell Mr. Sato thank you for me!”

The driver opened his mouth in shock.

I hurried along.

“What?” Zo followed. “Why aren’t we taking the driver? We can go in style!”

“I’m proving a point to Kenji.”

“What point? That you like being poor? What the fuck is that about?”

“I’m telling Kenji that he can’t own me.”

“But he can. We all have a price, and he’s figuring out yours. I mean seriously.” Zo gestured to my clothes. “Your price is not a lot.”

“Boy, if you don’t come on. . .” I headed off and glanced over my shoulder.

The driver had jumped inside, pulled the car away from the curb, and was now following us several feet behind.

Zo laughed. “Your trip to Tokyo has become a soap opera. I just keep running out of popcorn.”

Then came more.

Two other guards appeared from seemingly nowhere—one eating onigiri like he wasn’t also carrying a gun under his jacket, the other pretending to scroll through his phone. By the time we reached the end of the block, there were four more guards trailing us.

Nonchalant.

Talking softly.

Laughing even.

Wow, Kenji. Just wow.

We continued toward the station.

Omotesandō shimmered in the morning light, all soft gold and architectural flex.

Glass storefronts sparkled mannequins posed in couture worth more than my student loans.

The sidewalks teemed with Tokyo’s fashion elite—pastel-haired influencers, men in oversized suits and leather skirts, women gliding in stilettos that defied physics.

Avant-garde boutiques flanked the sleek sidewalks. Models smoked while leaning on expensive cars.

A man in a silver jumpsuit and neon pink heels posed by a koi fountain as a photographer crouched beside a vintage Vespa.

Basically, Zo fit right into this scene, while I looked like I was headed to a library protest.

And yet. . . I smiled.

Zo glanced over his shoulder. “Well. . .”

“What?”

“The guards. The driver tracking our moves. Surely, this is what Beyonce feels like.”

“I’m sure it’s on a bolder level than this.”

“Either way, we should discuss the fact that if this is how the Dragon acts before sex, then you should prepare for a nationwide blackout and a full kidnapping.”

I snorted. “What?”

“I’m serious. I probably shouldn’t tell you this but. . .you were good in bed when we had our thing, but now. . .” He looked me up and down. “Now you got that old woman pussy.”

“Oh my God.”

Zo shrugged. “The pussy has now aged. It’s marinated in wisdom. By now, you probably got a Michelin star on the pussy.”

I nearly doubled over laughing. “A Michelin star?”

“Hell yes. By your age, the pussy should be a culinary experience.”

“You are stupid.”

“Yes, but I’m right.” He held up a finger. “When a woman gets a certain age, they’re able to turn the average man out. Have him cooking dinner with their name carved into a carrot.”

“No one has ever carved my name into a carrot.”

“Still, we may need to put some protections in place.”

“Protections?”

“Yes. Safety protocols. Backups. A group chat for rescue. A burner phone. A GPS in your earrings.”

“Zo—”

“Look. If the Dragon gets a taste and your ass disappears, I want it on record that I tried to save you.”

“Save me from what? Orgasms?”

He grinned. “From being kidnapped, kept in a diamond cage, and fed caviar while a nude butler fans you with a peacock feather. Which, depending on how you look at it, might not be so bad.”

“Not a diamond cage though. And a peacock feather? What the fuck?”

“When the Dragon starts World War III over you, I will say I told you so. Loudly. Repeatedly. And I may even put it on a shirt.”

I chuckled as we approached the station.

The train entrance was subtle—modern lines of steel and tile descending underground like the mouth of a discreet luxury bunker.

Zo led the way down the stairs.

And, of course, the guards followed and got closer to us.

This is crazy.

We approached the ticket machines.

Zo reached for his card.

One of the guards beat him to it, slid his own card, paid for us both, and then bowed slightly.

Zo blinked. “I’ve never felt so insulted and pampered at the same time.”

“I guess we have to get used to this?” I took my ticket and walked through.

The turnstiles clicked.

The guards filed in behind us, moving smooth as shadows.

Down in the station, a few commuters stared at our ridiculous crew—one nerdy Black woman, one high-fashion white guy in gold glasses, and four-armed, tattooed yakuza men.

On the platform, things got worse.

The train arrived.

We got on.

So did the guards. They didn’t touch anyone. They didn’t speak. But they radiated danger in a language that needed no translation.

A group of schoolgirls near the door burst into a fit of giggles when they caught sight of Zo and me. Their giggles died fast when they spotted my guards’ inked wrists and necks. One of the girls whispered something, and they all inched away.

Five salarymen—clean-cut, in navy suits and lanyards—spotted us and immediately chose the opposite end of the train. One actually stepped back out of the car before the doors closed, muttering a quiet, panicked curse.

An old woman three seats down hissed under her breath and clutched her purse. Her eyes never left the guards.

In Japan, tattoos weren’t art. They were warnings. Centuries of symbolism etched in ink. Symbols of the underworld. Codes of violence and obedience.

Even the bathhouses posted signs banning inked guests like it was a biohazard.

This meant that no matter how polite, how perfectly groomed these men were, the stories on their skin broadcasted one thing— we kill for a living.

By the next station, the area around us resembled a quarantine zone. An entire third of the train car remained mysteriously empty.

People gave us side-eyes like we were riding with a bomb instead of bodyguards.

And honestly? They weren’t wrong.

This is really going to take some time to get used to.

The train rumbled beneath us—smooth but insistent. Every turn made the handrails rattle.

Overhead, a soft robotic voice announced the next stop in perfect Japanese and clipped English. I held onto the hanging strap and tried not to overthink the whole situation.

Across from me, Zo leaned against the wall and had one hand lazily gripping the overhead bar.

Further in the train, an old man dozed beside a briefcase, a high school girl chewed gum and scrolled her phone, and two friends whispered behind surgical masks.

One of Kenji’s guards sat three feet away, pretending not to watch me, but I knew better. If I tripped and fell, he would catch me before I hit the ground.

Wow.

Zo whistled a few stray notes from some sexy jazz number. “Have you thought of what your date is going to be yet?”

“I’m still thinking.”

“What do you need from me?”

“To help pull any powerful strings you have. I definitely need a space to have the date.”

“I bet you do.”

“It has to be private, but in my budget. Still, it should be beautiful. The kind of place where no one would expect a woman like me to take the Dragon.”

Zo chuckled. “I love it when you get like this.”

“Like what?”

“Plotting. Dangerous. Hot.” He winked. “You want to flip the dynamic, don’t you?”

“I do.”

The train picked up speed, humming beneath our feet.

The tunnel lights blurred in streaks of white and gray, flashing past the windows.

I got closer to Zo. “I want to shift the power dynamics between us.”

“In what way?”

“I want to make him kneel.”

“And you think I’m crazy?”

“I don’t think it’s crazy to want this.”

“You want the scariest man in this country to. . .kneel?”

I swallowed, then nodded slowly. “I want to be in control, so I want this date to say that.”

“And how are you going to do that?”

“You know. . .dominate him.”

Zo’s eyes widened. “Oh. You mean like. . .BDSM?”

I blinked.

He caught it. “What? Too far?”

“I don’t know if I want to go that far.”

“You either do or you don’t.”

“I kind of want to. . .but BDSM comes with rules and contracts and. . .I don’t know anything about that world.”

He tapped his chin. “Then maybe you two could learn together. I know people in the community here. It could be fun.”

“Oh my God.” I gripped the pole harder as the train swayed. “A BDSM second date? That would be crazy.”

“Why?”

“Because this whole time with him I’ve been all like, let’s slow down and take our time—”

“But you gave him your panties.”

“He sent a courier for them.”

“Of course he did, because you sent the picture of the panties.”

“He sent a dirty picture first.”

“Because you told him about the dream.”

“Well. . .he inspired the dream. So, it’s still his fault.”

Zo shook his head, grinning the whole time. “I think a BDSM second date would blow his fucking mind. There is no way he would suspect it from you.”

“Shoot. I don’t expect it from me.”

“He’s the one with the power, right?”

“Exactly.”

“So, flip it. Show up in leather and heels. Then, give him orders in candlelight.”

“Oh my God.”

The train pulled into the next station.

The brakes hissed.

The doors opened.

A few passengers got off. One of the guards nodded at a woman with a baby stroller. The woman flinched then darted away.

Zo grabbed my attention. “Should I make some calls?”

I stared out the window again as the doors slid shut and the train glided forward and for a few minutes, I let myself sink into the fantasy.

A BDSM second date. What would that even look like?

Candlelight dripping down long black tapers. My body wrapped in silk or maybe red leather with laces up the side.

A chair in the center of the room—throne-like but simple.

Bare.

Waiting.

Kenji would walk in and freeze.

No words.

No commands.

Just me . . .seated.

Poised.

Watching him with hooded eyes and slow breath.

I could picture the way his jaw would clench, the silent war that would ripple through his spine. That twitch in his temple like he was barely keeping it together.

God, what would it feel like to unmake a man like that?

To strip away his control and perceived traditions.

To touch him and say, Don’t move.

To have him obey me.

The Dragon, vulnerable.

A delicious shiver rushed over my spine.

The thought wasn’t just hot, it was terrifying. Because if I did this. . .if I opened that door, I would have to walk through it too. That meant more than lingerie and leather cuffs.

It meant trust.

It meant learning what I liked.

What I feared.

What I wanted when no one was watching.

Do I even know? And. . .the date has to be more than just sex and power.

There had to be space for softness too. Context and culture.

If I wanted to seduce him into surrendering, I also had to give him a window into me.

What would that even look like?

Maybe I’d cook for him. Something my grandmother taught me. Red beans and rice from scratch. Fried plantains the way she made them when I was sick. Sweet tea so strong it gives you cavities and therapy.

I chuckled.

Or maybe I’d play him my favorite music.

A playlist that told my story. Not just the sexy stuff. The Sunday-cleaning jams. The heartbreak anthems. The protest songs that made me cry in college when I was too broke to go home.

No. That sounds crazy.

Zo leaned over. “What’s the answer?”

“Could I do a BDSM date?”

“The best part of this life is that you can do anything you want.”

I let out a long breath. “Call your people.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. Let’s see.”

“Dear God,” Zo shook his head. “He really is going to kidnap you after this.”