Page 37 of The Oyabun's Boy
As Kenji guided me toward the door, I glanced back at my mother. She gave me a wink and a subtle thumbs-up that left me wondering if she was endorsing my kidnapping or my kidnapper.
With my mother, it could honestly be either.
Kenji's hand remained on my lower back as he guided me through corridors that seemed designed specifically to confuse hostages trying to escape.
Not that I was planning an escape.
Definitely not memorizing every turn and exit sign we passed.
I mean, why would I need to escape from a tower full of murderous henchmen led by a man who looked at me like I was both dessert and the main course? Perfectly normal Tuesday.
"Your mother is... formidable," Kenji said as we turned down yet another identical hallway. It wasn't quite a compliment, but it wasn't not a compliment either.
"You have no idea," I replied. "She once made our neighbor cry because he complained about Mochi digging in his flower beds. I don't think the poor man has made eye contact with her since."
The corner of Kenji's mouth twitched. I was starting to catalog his almost-smiles like rare astronomical events.
We passed through a set of sliding doors that required Kenji's fingerprint, retinal scan, and what looked like a DNA sample but was probably just another biometric reading. The security measures were getting progressively more intense the deeper we went into the tower. Next they'd be asking for a blood sacrifice or my firstborn child.
Actually, scratch that second one. Given Kenji's possessiveness, I wouldn't be surprised if he'd already called dibs on any theoretical offspring.
Wait, what? I shook my head to dislodge that particularly terrifying thought.
On the other side of the doors, the atmosphere shifted noticeably. The guards here were different—more alert, their suits cut looser to accommodate weapons, their eyes constantly scanning everything, including me. I felt like I'd been dropped into a pit of particularly well-dressed vipers.
"They all look like they could kill me with a paperclip," I muttered under my breath.
Kenji's hand pressed more firmly against my back. "They could," he confirmed casually. "But they won't."
Oh, super reassuring. I'll just cross paperclips off my list of potential murder weapons to avoid.
We passed a group of men huddled around tablets, their conversation cutting off abruptly as we approached. They bowed slightly to Kenji, their eyes flickering curiously to me before returning to their stoic masks.
"Oyabun," one murmured, the term now familiar to me from the previous day.
I noticed how they moved—fluid, controlled, every gesture economical. These weren't just hired muscle; they were trained killers who probably had color-coded filing systems for their assassination techniques.
Mental note: Avoid paper cuts around these guys. They probably consider band-aids a sign of weakness.
"The Milano families have arrived early," the same man informed Kenji. "They are waiting in the reception area."
Kenji nodded once, a gesture that somehow contained both acknowledgment and dismissal. The man bowed again, deeper this time, before melting away down another corridor.
"Milano families?" I asked. "Like the cookies?"
That earned me a genuine glance of amusement from Kenji. "No, Princess. Not like the cookies."
"Shame. I was hoping for snacks."
We approached another security checkpoint, this one manned by two men who looked like they bench-pressed small cars for fun. One held a tablet, the other a scanner that he waved over me without asking permission.
"He's clean," the scanner guy announced.
Well, I should hope so. I'd spent twenty minutes in Kenji's ridiculous spaceship shower this morning.
Kenji's thumb stroked small circles against my lower back, the gesture hidden from the guards but sending little electric currents up my spine. It was infuriating how my body responded to his touch despite all the very logical reasons it shouldn't.
The corridor widened into a sleek antechamber where Chen waited, his posture military-precise. When he saw us, something flickered in his expression—surprise? Disapproval?