Page 28 of The Dragon 2 (Tokyo Empire #2)

Chapter twenty-five

Where Kings are Uncrowned

Kenji

As soon as I stepped through the black door, it shut behind me with a hush that felt final.

I stood in a small room, no bigger than a prison cell, painted in the same matte black as the exterior. Black walls. Black floor. Black ceiling with a red-light bulb, casting a sensual glow.

I exhaled slowly, adjusting my grip on the gift box.

The scent hit me next—rich, smoky, and slow, like something coaxed into flavor over hours, not minutes.

Mmm. What is cooking?

The smell didn’t match any menu I knew. Not French. Not Japanese. Not Italian. No hints of miso, no delicate citrus, no truffle or foie gras. This was heavier. Earthier.

My brow furrowed as I inhaled again.

Whatever is cooking. . .I want to eat it.

My stomach growled in anticipation.

She definitely cooked for me.

My heart ached.

I tried not to get my hopes up—but it was too late. I’d already turned into a spoiled kid in a toy store. If she cooked for me. .God, I would lose it.

The only woman who ever had was my mother.

And I didn’t realize how much I missed that until now—the simple grace of someone making something warm just for me.

Not a chef.

Not a servant.

Not a paid-for performance.

Just her.

Just butter, heat, and care.

That kind of gift?

It would undo me.

Just as I was adjusting my stance, a soft click echoed through the tiny chamber.

What was that?

I tensed.

A seam in the back wall I hadn’t noticed before—one disguised perfectly in the matte black—began to glow faintly red along its edges.

Then, a hidden door appeared, and with a soft hydraulic hiss, it opened inward.

Warm, golden light spilled from the other side, diffusing the red hue in the cramped room like a sunrise pushing through fog.

Framed in the glow stood a woman.

Regal.

Poised.

Her presence alone altered the air.

This is not my Tiger. Who is this?

The woman stepped in and recognized me first.

"M-Mr. Sato?" The voice, while composed, held a note of surprise—maybe even awe.

I studied her.

Aww. Hiroko Watanabe. Now things are making sense.

Tonight, she wore a rich kimono of crimson, gold, and obsidian black. Her hair was pinned. She was elegant as always and radiating feminine power.

This is the so called “old woman” the guards saw having tea with Nyomi? They made a foolish mistake.

The last time I’d seen Hiroko, she was negotiating a man’s fate with a smile and a whip—poised, merciless, and glittering with venomous charm. He’d been a corporate tyrant with generational wealth and a god complex.

He thought he could possess her.

He was wrong.

When he began to stalk her—threatening to buy the building her club was housed in and take it away unless she surrendered to him —she didn’t fold.

Hiroko came to me.

Not in tears.

But with fire in her eyes and pride in her spine.

She asked for my assistance, and I obliged.

Hours later, I had the man dragged into my office—stripped of his suit, his power, and his delusions. He knelt on imported marble, sweat clinging to his skin as I carved the lesson into his flesh.

It all spilled out.

Blood.

Spit.

Broken sobs of apology.

Hiroko stood next to me, holding her whip and smiling the whole time.

He never returned to bother her again.

Since then, Hiroko served as my Eyes in this district. She cultivated secrets with silk gloves and tea.

Her club was my listening post for the kinky elite. The kind of place where politicians lost their inhibitions, heirs revealed addictions, and foreign diplomats whispered betrayal into the mouths of their mistresses.

She reported it all. Without ego. Without embellishment. Always with names, dates, and—when needed—photos.

Last year, it was Hiroko who warned me of a Chinese shipping magnate smuggling weapons through the Gilded Port under false emerald manifests. No one in my inner circle had caught it. Customs was paid off. Officials swore ignorance.

But Hiroko?

She’d spotted the truth by scent.

Literally.

“His bodyguard wore Bleu de Chanel,” she told me at the time, sipping from a teacup. “But his luggage reeked of gun oil, sweat, and salt. You should probably look into it.”

Hiroko’s instinct was right. We intercepted the cargo two nights later. Twelve crates of unregistered rifles. Two of them engraved with a former Yakuza clan’s insignia.

I rewarded her with an old ochaya estate on Kuroyama Hill—a discreet, elevated property that overlooked the city but sat cloaked in privacy.

Now, here she was, staring at me like I’d walked into the wrong book.

Her lips parted delicately. “I’m so sorry, Kenji, but did we. . .have a meeting this evening? I apologize if I forgot. However. . .I do not see how I would have forgotten a meeting with you .”

I raised a hand. “No. I was invited here. For a date.”

She blinked.

Once.

Then again.

“A date?”

I nodded.

“You are. . .Nyomi’s guest?”

“Yes.”

Another pause came as if she was still not quite believing what was going on. “You?”

“Yes.”

A third blink. Then, “Oh my.”

A dark chuckle slipped from me.

“When I saw your Roar earlier and walked him through the back halls, I assumed it was some corporate associate that you all were dealing with. Maybe a liaison from Beijing or a tech heir from Seoul. Not. . . you .” She shook her head, but she recovered instantly.

“Had I known it was the Dragon himself, I would’ve worn sapphires or diamonds. ”

“You do not need jewels. You are stunning without them.”

She let out a nervous chuckle. “Please, follow me, Mr. Sato.”

Nyomi. Nyomi. How the hell do you know Hiroko?

I followed, my footsteps matching Hiroko’s slow, regal pace as we entered the hallway beyond.

The walls glowed obsidian. A deep red carpet ran beneath our feet, plush as wet velvet. Every few meters, ornate sconces bloomed warm golden light.

Even though we had business dealings, I had never been to Hiroko’s club before. I’d heard whispers. Rumors. But I’d never stepped inside.

That had been a mistake.

Because now, walking beside Hiroko, I realized I was in enemy territory. Not in the sense of danger—but in the sense that I really would have no control here.

This was her world.

Her rules.

Her suites.

A place where kings were uncrowned.

And made to beg.

And tonight, this place had somehow been gifted to my Tiger.

A dark thrill twisted in my gut.

What kind of date requires Hiroko Watanabe to be the gatekeeper? Tora, you are blowing me away. No wonder Reo likes you.

Hiroko curated presidents' secrets and criminals’ confessions like art. She was the very definition of a woman in power—unflinching, unrepentant, and unforgettable. Her club was known for two things—exquisite design and exquisite surrender.

Only the most discerning souls were allowed in. And even then, most men walked out completely ruined.

A shiver slid down my spine.

Not from fear.

From anticipation.

Fuck. Tora. . .I can’t believe this.

I was excited.

So excited I was losing my goddamned mind.

In fact, I wanted Hiroko to walk faster. I wanted us to sprint. My palms itched. My heart beat faster. I had no idea what Nyomi had planned—but if Hiroko were involved, it wouldn’t be soft.

It wouldn’t be safe.

It would be designed to disarm and delight me, and I would love every second of it.

Oh, Tora. I’m moving you into my mansion tonight. You will never sleep on that fucking futon again.

I glanced sideways at Hiroko, studying the slight curve of her smirk.

She knew exactly what I was feeling.

She didn’t rush.

She only slowed, as if savoring my torment.

Damn it, Reo. You could have warned me. No wonder you had on those damn glasses.

I swallowed hard and my adrenaline licked at the edges of my nerves.

No part of me wanted to turn back.

Soon, we stopped in front of double doors so dark they absorbed the light. But it wasn’t the doors that held my attention.

It was the ceiling above. A fresco stretched across the space—hand-painted, baroque in detail, and coated in carnal power. At the center of it sat a woman lounging on a red throne carved with roses. Her expression was regal and unbothered.

She wore nothing.

At her feet, a collection of men knelt. Strong men. Pale men. Older men. Each of them sculpted in agony and awe. Bodies contorted into living footstools. One man’s lips kissed her toes. Another’s back arched beneath her heel. They weren't bound, but they looked utterly possessed by her.

Oh my.

I tilted my head to take it in more.

And, I shouldn’t have, because then I began to imagine Nyomi up there—on that throne. That same lazy smile on her lips. Her foot pressing into my chest. Her eyes half-lidded, knowing I would never leave her feet unless she told me to.

My cock twitched.

Fuck. Do I want that? Even more. . .Tora. . .do you want that?

I put my view back on the doors and noticed that to the left, set into an alcove beneath a lantern carved with angels and vines, sat a shallow obsidian bowl.

Steam curled from its surface.

I caught a floral perfume coming from the liquid.

Beside the bowl, a silk red cloth lay folded.

Above the door was a sign covered in flowing script that read, Enter not to dominate, but to be undone.

I stared at it and then turned toward Hiroko.

She didn’t meet my eyes. She only nodded at the bowl and spoke, “This space is sacred, Kenji. Please cleanse your hands.”

I looked down at my hands, fingers that had broken men, and then stepped forward.

A sacred space? Is it now?

Smiling, I dipped my fingers into the water.

Heat kissed my skin.

The perfume clung to my flesh.

Then, I lifted the cloth and dried my hands slowly. It was softer than any linen I’d known.

“Thank you.” Hiroko turned and opened the double doors.

So close. . .so fucking close. . .