Page 39 of The Oyabun's Boy

"See? It looks amazing," I continued, aware that I was rambling but powerless to stop it. "And I was thinking, since I'm trapped in your tower of doom anyway, I might as well experiment with fancy drinks. Do they make chocolate vodka? That would be amazing in this."

The tension in the room shifted from "imminent execution" to "bewildered tolerance," which I counted as a win.

Kenji's expression remained unchanged, but I was getting better at reading the microscopic shifts in his features. The slight softening around his eyes told me he was amused rather than annoyed.

Then, to my absolute shock, one of the most intimidating men at the table—a broad-shouldered guy with jet black hair and scars that suggested intimate knowledge of knife fights—cleared his throat.

"Azul produces a rather good chocolate vodka," he said, his accent thick but his English perfect. "I just had a couple of cases shipped in from Moscow. I can send you a bottle if you wish."

I stared at him, mouth slightly open. Was the scary Russian mob boss offering me artisanal vodka? Was this real life?

Kenji inclined his head slightly. "I would appreciate it, Petrov."

Oh. Petrov. As in Dmitri Petrov of the Russian mafia Petrovs. The guy who could probably have me dissolved in acid before my next heartbeat. Totally normal Tuesday conversation partner.

Kenji's hand slid to my lower back, the now-familiar gesture sending electricity up my spine. I felt his fingers press slightly, guiding me further into the room. "Is there anything else you need, Princess?" he asked, his voice carrying that dangerous edge that made my knees weak.

"Um, no. Just the vodka. Thanks." I glanced around the table, taking in the collection of impeccably dressed men who all radiated the distinct vibe of being able to order hits on people who cut them off in traffic. "Wait, am I interrupting something? Is this like a criminal underworld meeting or something?"

Kenji's lips twitched. "Yes."

I took a step back. "Oh! Then I should definitely go. You know, leave you to discuss things I shouldn't hear. Like how to dispose of bodies or tax evasion or whatever crime bosses talk about. Not that I'm assuming you do crime. I mean, obviously you do, but I'm not judging. Much."

Stop talking, Joy. For the love of all that is holy, stop talking.

But instead of being annoyed by my word vomit, Kenji actually looked... fond? His hand moved from my back to my waist, holding me firmly in place when I tried to back away.

"Stay," he commanded, pulling out the chair beside his own at the head of the table.

Not a request. Definitely a command.

I sat, awkwardly clutching my romance novel like it might shield me from the collection of murderers surrounding us. Kenji settled beside me, his movements fluid and predatory.

Then, to my surprise, his hand found my thigh under the table, resting there with casual possessiveness that sent heat coursing through me.

The men exchanged glances that spoke volumes in a language I couldn't quite decipher. There seemed to be a complex hierarchy at play—Kenji at the apex, flanked byrepresentatives from different criminal organizations, each with their own territory and specialties.

"As I was saying," Kenji continued smoothly, as if I hadn't just burst in demanding alcohol, "the shipping routes need to be reconfigured. My uncle's people have compromised the usual channels."

The conversation flowed around me, a current of power plays and veiled threats wrapped in business terminology. I tried to follow, but quickly got lost in the subtext. Something about territories and shipments and retribution that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

Every time I shifted in my seat, uncomfortable with the increasingly violent undercurrents of the conversation, Kenji's hand would squeeze my thigh gently, a silent command to be still.

It was equal parts reassuring and maddening, especially as his fingers occasionally traced small patterns against the denim of my jeans. How was I supposed to concentrate on anything when he was basically drawing figure eights on my inner thigh?

Petrov—the scary Russian who apparently had excellent taste in vodka—was talking about "sending a message," which I was pretty sure wasn't referring to text messages or carrier pigeons.

"The uncle needs to understand the consequences of trespassing," he said, his scarred hands folded neatly on the table. "Perhaps something more... permanent than last time."

I must have tensed visibly because Kenji's hand moved higher on my thigh, thumb stroking in what was probably meant to be a soothing gesture but just sent another jolt of electricity straight to parts of me that had no business getting excited in the middle of a mafia summit.

I crossed my legs, trying to relieve some of the building tension. This only made Kenji's hand shift with the movement,sliding even higher. I bit my lip to suppress the embarrassing sound threatening to escape.

Kenji leaned close, his breath warm against my ear. "Problem, Princess?" he whispered, low enough that only I could hear.

"Just plotting your demise," I whispered back, proud that my voice remained steady despite the chaos he was creating with just his hand on my thigh.

That earned me a dark chuckle that I felt more than heard. "You'll have to get in line."