Page 16 of The Oyabun's Boy

Get it together, Joy. He murdered people in your living room three hours ago.

I took his hand anyway.

Kenji’s fingers closed around mine with controlled strength, and I pretended the shiver that ran up my arm was from the night air, not his touch.

He led me toward glass doors so pristine they were nearly invisible, the only indication of their existence being the subtle glow from inside.

The lobby hit me like a physical force—space and silence and wealth packed into one overwhelming punch. Polished blackstone floors stretched beneath our feet, reflecting the lighting that seemed to emanate from nowhere and everywhere.

The furniture, what little there was, looked as if it had been designed by someone who thought comfort was a character flaw.

"Wow," I murmured despite myself. "Did your decorator also design maximum security prisons or is that just a happy coincidence?"

Kenji's lips twitched almost imperceptibly as he guided me toward a private elevator tucked discreetly in the far wall. "You find my home prison-like?"

"Well, there are armed guards, I'm here against my will, and I'm pretty sure those cameras are tracking our every move," I pointed out, nodding toward the nearly invisible lenses embedded in the ceiling. "So yeah, prison vibes, but like, a really expensive prison for white-collar criminals who embezzled billions."

The elevator doors slid open silently at our approach. Inside, the walls were mirrored, multiplying my disheveled appearance and Kenji's immaculate one into infinity.

Great. Just what my ego needed—endless reflections of how I looked standing next to a man who could have stepped off the cover of "Homicidal Hotties Monthly."

That's not a real magazine, Joy. Focus.

As we ascended, I noticed white orchids arranged in a faceted vase on a small shelf—the only decoration in the otherwise austere elevator. They were identical to the ones I'd spotted in the lobby, perfect, pristine, and somehow vaguely threatening in their flawlessness.

The silence stretched between us, taut as a wire. I'd never been good with silence. It made my skin itch and made my tongue loose.

"So..." I finally broke, unable to help myself. "Do you have a name or should I just call you 'Kidnapper' in my diary entry tonight?"

His dark eyes shifted to mine, reflected a dozen times in the mirrored walls. "Kenji Zisheng Hú," he said, each syllable pronounced with deliberate precision. "But you may call me Sir."

I snorted before I could stop myself. "Not happening...Kenji." I emphasized his first name, watching for a reaction. The only sign I'd affected him was a slight narrowing of his eyes.

Don't antagonize the sexy mafia man, Joy. Bad life choice.

"Bold of you to assume you'll have a diary," he replied, voice smooth as aged bourbon. "I'll be keeping you quite busy."

The suggestive undertone in those words sent heat spiraling through places that had absolutely no business heating up in a kidnapping situation. My knees actually weakened—literally weakened, like some heroine in a bodice-ripper romance—and I had to lock them to stay upright.

"I'm a multitasker," I shot back, aiming for nonchalant but landing somewhere closer to breathless. "I can be kidnapped and keep a diary at the same time. It's called time management. You should try it sometime between all your murdering and abducting."

The elevator doors opened onto a hallway that looked like it had been carved from a single slab of obsidian. Kenji's hand settled on the small of my back, guiding me forward.

I hated how much I didn't hate it.

"You're not kidnapped," he said, his breath warm against my ear. "You're under my protection. There's a difference."

"Yeah, the difference is semantic gymnastics."

I glanced around as we walked, taking in the careful arrangement of every element. More of those perfect white orchids appeared at regular intervals. The lighting was subduedbut strategic, highlighting architectural features while casting other areas in shadow.

It was like walking through a carefully curated museum exhibit titled "How the Other Half Lives When the Other Half Is Terrifyingly Powerful and Possibly a Sociopath."

My entire brownstone could have fit into this hallway with room to spare. The cats would have loved all this open space to tear through. The thought of Mochi and Duchess made my chest tighten uncomfortably.

"Where's my mother?" I asked suddenly, remembering that she had been in the second vehicle.

"Being shown to her quarters," Kenji replied. "You'll see her tomorrow."