Page 32 of The Oyabun's Boy

The thought of him sent an unfamiliar warmth through my chest that I immediately identified as weakness. Dangerous. Unnecessary. But persistent.

I dressed quickly, my morning routine precise to the second—Black suit, white shirt, watch worth more than most people's yearly salary, weapons in their designated places—shoulder holster, ankle sheath, slim blade at my wrist.

Armor on, I headed straight for the library, drawn there like a moth to a particularly dangerous flame.

I paused at the doorway, a strange tightness gripping my chest at the sight before me. Joy was curled up on the custom window seat I'd had installed overnight—one text message and an army of contractors had worked silently while the tower slept.

The emerald cashmere throw was tangled around his legs, and Chairman Meow was nestled in the crook of his arm, both breathing in perfect synchronization.

The morning light hadn't yet broken through the windows, but the ambient glow from the city painted Joy's auburn hair in copper and gold. His freckles stood out against pale skin, constellations I wanted to trace with my fingers, my tongue.

Mine.

The possessiveness that surged through me was overwhelming, primitive. It had been building since I first saw him dancing in the rain—this need to claim, to protect, to own.

Pathetic. Sentiment is weakness. Attachment is vulnerability.

But I couldn't look away from the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the way his long eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks as he dreamed. His lips were slightly parted, pink and soft-looking, an invitation I'd soon answer.

I forced myself to step back, creating distance between us. Control was slipping through my fingers around him, and control was everything.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. I checked it, mentally shifting gears. Three missed calls from Vinnie. Unusual. He knew better than to call unless it was urgent.

Four notifications from security about assassination attempts thwarted at the perimeter of my territory. All traced back to my uncle's organization.

Getting bolder. Getting desperate.

"Oyabun."

Chen materialized in the doorway behind me, silent as always. I didn't turn, keeping my eyes on Joy.

"Report," I said, voice pitched low.

"The package has arrived safely at the secure location," Chen replied, matching my volume. "Ms. Carmichael has been cooperative."

Joy's mother, another complication and another weakness for my enemies to exploit. Moving her to safe house yesterdaymight not have been the best move, but I needed time with Joy, time a worrying mother might not give me.

"She's agreed to the arrangement?" I asked.

"Yes." Chen's tone conveyed a hint of amusement, quickly suppressed. "She said, and I quote,'Better to leave the café in someone else's hands than have armed thugs scaring away the customers.'"

Smart woman. Practical. Joy inherited his spine from her.

"And the security detail?"

"In place. Discrete, as ordered. The café will remain operational with our people embedded as staff and patrons. No disruption to business that might attract attention."

I nodded once before glancing at Chen. "My uncle?"

Chen's expression didn't change, but his eyes hardened to flint. "Located. A penthouse in Midtown. Heavy security, but penetrable."

I turned to face him fully, careful not to wake Joy. "Make it painful."

Two words. Simple instruction. Chen understood the rest—find my uncle, make him suffer, make him talk, then end him. Permanently.

"It will be done," Chen confirmed with a slight bow.

"Tonight," I added. "I want this finished."