Page 38 of The Oyabun's Boy

It was gone too quickly to read.

"Everything is prepared," Chen said, his eyes carefully not lingering on Kenji's hand at my back. "All families are represented. Petrov just arrived and is currently going through security."

"Acceptable," Kenji replied.

Chen hesitated, which seemed out of character for his usually efficient demeanor. "Sir, bringing an outsider to this meeting is... unprecedented."

I raised my hand like a kid in class. "I volunteer to not attend your scary mafia meeting. I could wait in the library with Chairman Meow… or literally anywhere else."

Kenji's fingers tightened against my back, just short of painful. "You will stay with me," he said, his tone leaving noroom for discussion. Then, to Chen, "Joy's presence is not negotiable."

Chen's face remained impressively blank, but I got the distinct impression he was mentally rearranging funeral arrangements—possibly mine.

"As you wish,Oyabun."

As we continued toward what I assumed was the meeting room, the weight of Kenji's world settled more heavily on my shoulders. Every reinforced door, every armed guard, every surveillance camera we passed was another reminder that I wasn't just dealing with a possessive, dangerous man—I was dealing with an entire criminal enterprise built around him.

"I feel underdressed for whatever's about to happen," I said, glancing down at my admittedly gorgeous cashmere sweater and designer jeans. "Should I have worn body armor? Or at least a power tie?"

Kenji's eyes swept over me, dark and appreciative in a way that made heat pool in my stomach. "You're perfect as you are."

The compliment caught me off guard, making me stumble slightly. Kenji's arm immediately circled my waist, steadying me with effortless strength.

"Careful, Princess," he murmured, his lips close to my ear. "I need you in one piece."

Need, not want. The distinction wasn't lost on me. There was something possessive yet protective in the way he held me, like I was both a prize and something fragile to be safeguarded.

We stopped before a set of imposing double doors that looked like they could withstand a nuclear blast. Through them, I could hear the low murmur of masculine voices—powerful men discussing powerful things, I assumed.

"Remember," Kenji said, his voice dropping to a register that sent shivers down my spine, "you are under my protection. No one in that room would dare touch what belongs to me."

I should have bristled at the possessiveness, at the assumption of ownership. Instead, I found myself strangely comforted by it, even as alarm bells rang in the back of my mind.

Stockholm syndrome, thy name is Joy Carmichael.

"Ready?" Kenji asked, though it wasn't really a question.

I took a deep breath and nodded. "As I'll ever be."

His hand moved from my back to the small of my waist, a subtle but significant shift in possession. Then he pushed open the doors, leading me into a den of wolves that may or may not kill me by the end of this meeting.

After spending twenty minutes being led through security checkpoints that would make the Pentagon look like a public library, I'd reached my breaking point.

So naturally, when Kenji opened the door to the conference room full of the most dangerous men in New York, I burst in like a caffeinated hurricane, waving my novel in the air.

"I need vodka," I announced to the room of stone-faced killers, immediately realizing this might not have been my brightest moment.

Great entrance, Joy. Really nailing this whole 'don't-get-murdered' vibe.

The silence that followed was so complete I could hear my own heartbeat. Six pairs of eyes locked onto me with laser precision, and I watched in horrified fascination as hands subtly shifted toward concealed weapons.

If weaponizing awkwardness was a superpower, I'd just gone nuclear.

Kenji, to his credit, didn't even flinch. He merely turned to me with that maddeningly calm expression, one eyebrow slightly raised. "And why do you need vodka?" he asked, as if I'd requested something completely reasonable, like the time or a glass of water.

I brandished my paperback like it was evidence in a murder trial, flipping dramatically to the dog-eared page at the back. "There's a recipe for an espresso martini in here," I explained, tapping the page enthusiastically.

The novel was a trashy romance I'd found in Kenji's library, featuring a barista and a billionaire—very on-brand for my current situation, minus the kidnapping and murder.