Page 33 of The Dragon 2 (Tokyo Empire #2)

Chapter thirty

Sip. Sway. Sin.

Kenji

Soon, one waitress silently appeared, bowed, and began to remove the trays.

The other waitress returned and placed two cocktails in front of us.

Hmmm. My Tiger is pairing the meals too?

Each glass was a small work of art—delicate crystal, filled with something the color of fire. There was a curl of orange zest floating on top, and the glass was so cold it clouded near the base.

I studied it. "What is this?"

"It’s the Bronx Cocktail. Which is funny since it was invented in Philadelphia, not New York.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. A Bronx restaurateur discovered it in 1905 while visiting Philly.”

“What’s in it?”

“So. . .the cocktail is four parts gin, one part orange juice, and one-part Italian vermouth."

I stared at her. "You memorize cocktail trivia?"

"Only the ones that matter."

"And this one matters?"

She shrugged. "This was the first alcoholic drink I ever had."

I lifted the glass and swirled the liquid gently. "When did you have it?”

"My parents had this huge party at our house. Black-tie. Politicians. Business moguls. Basically, all these important people my father wanted to impress. I was thirteen. They told me to stay in my room. But I snuck downstairs in my pajamas and socks like a damn spy, and when one of the servers wasn’t looking, I swiped a glass of this. "

"You’re a thief."

"I would like to say I am sneaky when necessary.”

I took a sip. The taste was stronger than I anticipated, biting at the back of my throat with a tangy twist that left an aftertaste of sweet vermouth.

I quirked my brows. “You drank this at thirteen? How did that go for you?"

“I was fucked up for days.”

"I bet you were." I sipped more, enjoying the taste. Cold. Crisp. Citrusy with that vermouth depth curling through it. "This is very good."

“I’m glad you like it.”

“I do.” I lifted my glass toward her. "To rebellious tigers and stolen cocktails."

She clinked hers against mine. "To dragons with rose-pierced cocks."

I blinked. “Careful, Tora. I’m very close to taking it out.”

We both laughed.

Then she added, "your turn. What’s your first drink story?"

“No. It’s bloody.”

“I still want to hear it.”

“Yours is sweet and innocent—”

“I want to learn more about you, Kenji. That’s why people sit down together and eat.”

“Hmmm.” I leaned back in my chair and stared at the ceiling for a beat.

The lights were dim and golden. The whole club felt like it floated somewhere between sin and memory.

"I was fifteen. We were in Kyoto. A deal had gone sideways and my older brother, Jobon had to clean up the mess.

I was supposed to just watch. Be quiet. But things escalated. "

Her gaze softened. "Someone died?"

"Three people died. I didn’t pull any triggers, but. . .my hands and face were covered in blood.”

“Oh my God.”

“I told you it was bloody.”

“But then what happened?”

“I helped my brother clean everything up.”

“All the blood and bodies?”

“Yes.”

She widened her eyes. “Holy shit.”

“When we got back home, my brother drank from a whole bottle of whiskey but handed me a glass of lychee sake and said, ‘This is what men do. We bury one thing and drink the other.’"

“I’m shocked that he didn’t give you the whiskey.”

“Me too. Lychee sake is such an odd thing to have after something that crazy. A drink so sweet and delicious that smells like fruit treats.”

“Maybe that’s why he gave it to you. . .so that you could still have some sweetness left.”

“That could be true. Jobon was always protective of me in his own way.” I thought back to him. “Anyway. . .he passed out in his room, and I ended up stealing the rest of the bottle.”

“What did you do with it?”

“I hid it in my room and drank until I puked all over the place."

She winced. "Your poor stomach."

"My poor housekeeper."

Nyomi chuckled.

The jazz slowed to a crawl. Those five musicians began coaxing sin from their instruments. The saxophone crooned low—aching, stretched-out tones that slid across the space. The bass thrummed next, steady as a heartbeat. Hesitant and elegant, the piano offered minor chords that bloomed and faded.

It was all so soft, breathy, yet restrained.

I closed my eyes and let the music move through me. Strange—I’d never cared much for jazz. It had always felt too Western, too chaotic.

But this?

This was something else.

It was pain, refined.

Sorrow, shaped into structure.

In fact, many of the notes reminded me of the shakuhachi flute—those breathy, soul-deep notes the monks played in the mist-covered mountains of Mount Kōya and the remote forests near Kumano.

Music meant for silence, for stillness.

Some of the bass’s notes even resembled the koto—plucked slowly in old Kyoto tea houses and temple courtyards, each string telling a story older than war.

The melody was similar to the mournful cry of enka ballads drifting from radios in the back alleys of Osaka, never shouted, never loud, but aching all the same.

This jazz didn’t sound Japanese.

But it felt Japanese.

And because of that—the music, the food, and the way Nyomi’s eyes lingered on mine—I felt like I was in a new home.

One shaped from her laughter and the ache in her voice when she spoke about her past. One stitched together from the stories in her cooking and the scent of plum and amber that clung to her skin.

Home.

A place where nothing was asked of me but to feel.

I opened my eyes and turned to her. “You picked these songs?”

She nodded. “Yeah. This set felt right. I wanted us to be able to talk without distractions… but I also wanted us to groove a little, too.”

I smiled. “Do you play jazz a lot?”

“On rainy days when I’m just lying on the couch under tons of blankets and reading a great book. Or maybe at night, when I’m just sitting by the window, sipping a glass of wine.” She looked away then, toward the wall, but I could see she wasn’t seeing it.

Her mind was somewhere else.

Remembering.

“There’s this tiny spot in my apartment where I can see the Bruckner Expressway curve, all lit up like a golden ribbon.

And if the night is clear, I can just make out the Empire State Building glowing like a crown in the distance.

It's quiet from up there. Just the occasional siren, or a car stereo too loud. But when I light a candle and crack the window open—just a little—I feel like the Bronx wraps her arms around me.”

Something about the way she said it made my chest pull tight.

I thought about the cocktail. “You live in the Bronx?”

“Mmhmm. In Mott Haven to be exact. It’s a small one-bedroom apartment in a high-rise building. I don’t have tons of furniture, and I like it that way. Just me, my thousand books, notepads, and millions of pens I swear I’m going to organize someday.”

My lips curved. “Is Mott Haven a nice area in the Bronx?”

“Well. . .” Nyomi chuckled. “it depends on what you’re looking for—and who you ask.”

Enchanted, I slid my arm around her shoulders again, pulling her closer. The warmth of her body melted into mine, and I let my thumb brush gently across the top of her shoulder.

She nestled against me, and I knew that she didn’t even know what she did to me, how just leaning in made me feel tamed.

Oh, Tora.

I breathed her in. “Tell me more.”

“Mott Haven is a part of an area they used to call the Piano District.”

“Why?”

“It was home to numerous piano manufacturers. Now it’s changing. Lots of new wine bars, random art pop-ups.”

I could hear the fondness in her voice.

“I have lots of Afro-Caribbean neighbors, families that have been there for generations. And yeah, sure, the safety’s still hit or miss, but there’s soul. I don’t feel invisible there. I feel like I’m part of something still growing.”

“I like the sound of that.”

“It’s also right by the Harlem River, so I can see Manhattan if I squint hard enough.”

I savored more of the cocktail.

“There’s a mix of old brownstones, warehouse lofts, bodegas on every block, and more murals than billboards.

Plus, the area has artistic, yet gritty energy.

On a regular Saturday there is salsa playing from a fourth-floor window while another person grills on the fire escape and just like clockwork right at 12pm, these two older women will sit on the stoop and argue about some TV show they watched together. ”

I grinned. “The area has lots of character.”

“Definitely.” As she continued to speak about Mott Haven, I could see her giving me a tour there.

Her hand in mine, our feet hitting the uneven pavement of her block.

Her pointing things out with that poetic pride of hers.

That corner bodega where she loved to buy mangoes and always got into debates about movie reviews with the cashier.

Her favorite mural of a little Black girl with butterfly wings painted across the side of an old shoe store.

The empty lot that turned into an unofficial dance floor in the summer when somebody brought out a speaker.

She sipped the cocktail. “So. . .it’s not perfect. But for a writer with books, wine, and a window view? It’s heaven. It’s home.”

Aww. Tora. . .it’s home. . .but not anymore.

I said nothing because I knew that she had no fucking clue that I would never let her go back there. Not unless it was to pack up her books, notepads, and her pens. Not unless it was to say goodbye to that tiny one-bedroom she thought she belonged in.

Because now she belonged with me.

And Mott Haven, for all its grit and poetry, was no place for my Tiger to remain unguarded—not after she’d done this for me tonight.

I’d burn that building to ash before I let her return.

She watched me. “Now. . .tell me about the Dragon’s lair.”

“My lair?”

“Yes.”

“Why tell you about it, when you’ll be in it this evening?”

She chuckled. “I will not be there this evening.”

Yeah. She still doesn’t understand.

She sighed. “Tell me about your place, Kenji. Come on.”

“It’s a mansion in Minato Ward which is a place that is. . .curated with old money and power.”

“Oh wow.”

“Lots of embassies, luxury residences, and high-end art galleries. My place is right on a private hill above Azabu—secluded, but close enough to see the Tokyo skyline shimmer through floor-to-ceiling windows.”

“Damn, Kenji.” She snapped. “Talk your shit.”

I grinned. “It’s traditional but modernized. Shoji screens, dark wood beams, heated tatami floors. There's a reflecting pool in the back garden that mirrors the moon so clearly you’d think you could touch it.”

“Oh my God.”

“On clear days, you can see Mount Fuji on the horizon.”

“No way.”

“Rare, but possible at times." I looked at my cocktail. “On rainy nights, the entire city turns to gold behind the glass just like magic.”

“That sounds amazing. Do you love being there?”

I put my view back on her. “I actually don’t spend as much time there as I should.”

“Why not?”