Page 4 of The Oyabun's Boy

Chapter Two

~ Kenji ~

I came to with my cheek pressed against cold concrete, the taste of copper flooding my mouth. Bodies littered the warehouse floor around me like discarded mannequins—eight, no, nine of them sprawled in various poses of death.

Blood pooled beneath my fingers, and I couldn't immediately tell if it was mine or if I'd just been taking a nap in someone else's life force. The dim overhead lights flickered, casting shadows that danced across the carnage like mocking spirits.

Not how I'd planned to spend my Tuesday night.

"Fuck," I muttered, pushing myself up to sitting position.

Pain shot through my left side, sharp enough to make me hiss. I glanced down at the tear in my suit—Italian wool, custom tailored, now with an avant-garde slash just below my ribs. Blood seeped through my fingers as I pressed my hand against the wound.

"Zero stars," I said to the corpse nearest me, a man with a dragon tattoo crawling up his neck. "Would not recommend getting stabbed here again. The service is terrible."

I shifted, leaning back against a shipping crate. My breath came in shallow bursts as I took inventory. One stab wound, deep but clean. Probably missed anything vital or I'd already be decorating the floor with the others.

My Patek Philippe watch was still on my wrist, which meant this wasn't a robbery. Not that I needed the timepiece to tell me who was responsible.

"Family," I spat the word like poison. "They could have at least sent a fucking greeting card first.'Dear Nephew, Hope you're well, planning to eviscerate you on Tuesday, XOXO, Uncle.'"

The shipment I'd come to inspect—high-grade pharmaceuticals that would never see the inside of a CVS—was scattered across the floor, packaging torn open.

A setup, obviously. Someone had talked. Someone always talked. I'd deal with that later, assuming I lived long enough to have a later.

I pushed myself to my feet, using the crate for support. My body screamed in protest, but I'd felt worse.

Probably.

The world tilted briefly before righting itself, and I took a tentative step forward, then another. My shoes left bloody prints on the concrete, trailing behind me like breadcrumbs.

"Sloppy," I muttered to myself. "Very sloppy, Kenji."

My car was parked just outside the loading bay, fifty feet away at most. I could make it. Had to make it. I navigated around the bodies, each step carefully placed.

These men weren't my usual enemies—not Borelli's Italians or the Russians from Brighton Beach. The tattoos, the fighting style—these were my uncle's men, sent from Tokyo with a single purpose.

I reached the side door, nudged it open with my shoulder, and peered into the night. The rain had stopped, but the asphalt glistened under the security lights. My black Mercedes sat undisturbed, a sleek shadow against the chain-link fence.

Too easy.

Still, I had no choice. I darted across the open space, trying to ignore the fire in my side. Twenty feet. Ten feet. Five feet. My hand reached for the door handle.

The driver's side window exploded inward, showering the seat with glass as a bullet whistled past my ear. I dropped instantly, pressing myself against the car's body. A second shot pinged off the asphalt near my foot.

"Motherfucker," I growled, crawling backward toward the warehouse. "That's German engineering you're destroying."

Another shot, this one punching through the rear door. The shooter was moving, trying to get a better angle. I scrambled the last few feet and slipped back inside, rolling away from the doorway just as a bullet splintered the frame.

Back to square one, but with more blood loss and less dignity.

I moved deeper into the warehouse, back toward the bodies. One of them—a younger guy with a facial scar—had been carrying a Glock. I relieved him of it, checking the magazine.

Five rounds. Better than nothing.

Another corpse yielded a switchblade. A third had my phone, which had apparently been taken while I was unconscious. The screen was cracked, but it still powered on.

Small mercies.