Page 61 of The Oyabun's Boy

"Report," I commanded, my voice a rasp of dried leaves across concrete. Quieter than intended, but no less authoritative.

Chen approached the bed, stopping precisely three feet away—close enough to speak privately, far enough to show respectfor my space. His typically perfect posture seemed marginally looser, a fraction less rigid. Relief, then.

Interesting.

"You've been unconscious for twenty-seven days," he said, each word measured as if breaking bad news to a particularly volatile explosive. "Multiple surgeries. Collapsed lung. Extensive internal bleeding. The doctors were... uncertain of your recovery."

I absorbed this information with clinical detachment. A month of my life, gone. An unacceptable gap in my control of the situation.

"And him?" I asked, my eyes shifting to Joy's sleeping form.

Something that might have been respect flickered across Chen's face. "He hasn't left your side for more than an hour at a time. Not since they brought you out of surgery."

My gaze tracked the room, cataloging details with practiced efficiency. The advanced medical equipment surrounding the bed spoke of no expense spared—heart monitors, oxygen saturation sensors, IV stands with multiple bags of fluid and medication.

The private suite had been transformed into a hospital room worthy of a head of state… or a crime lord unwilling to trust actual hospitals.

I flexed the muscles in my arms and legs systematically, assessing damage and recovery. Weakness, but no paralysis. Restricted lung capacity. Sharp pain in my left side where the broken ribs were still knitting together. My face felt stiff with healing cuts. All fixable. All temporary.

"My territory?" I asked, each word carefully formed to hide the effort it required.

Chen's posture straightened marginally. "Secure," he replied. "Largely due to him."

My eyes narrowed. "Explain."

"After you were stabilized, he took action." Chen's voice remained neutral, but something like grudging admiration crept into his tone. "He worked with your lieutenants to maintain control. Coordinated with rival families to ensure stability. Personally supervised the hunt for your uncle."

The thought of Joy—my Joy, with his ridiculous jokes and sunshine smile—wading into the blood-soaked politics of my world sent an uncomfortable sensation through my chest that had nothing to do with my healing injuries.

"He shouldn't have been involved," I said, the words sharper than intended.

Chen's eyebrow raised a fraction of a millimeter. "He gave us no choice. He was... most insistent." A pause. "Your Princess has unexpected depths."

The possessive pleased me even as the implication concerned me. Joy was meant to be protected, sheltered from the ugliness of my life. Not thrust into its center.

"Specifics," I demanded.

"He refused to leave your side," Chen continued. "Even during negotiations with the other families. Had them meet here so he could return to you immediately after." A ghost of a smile touched Chen's lips. "The Borelli family found it quite unusual to discuss territory disputes in a medical suite with a comatoseOyabunand an angry redhead threatening them with tea."

Tea. Something in my chest loosened fractionally. Still Joy, then. Still my sunshine wrapped in a storm.

"Petrov sent the vodka," Chen added, as if this detail might reassure me. "The chocolate one. King sent his personal doctor, who is also his husband."

My gaze returned to Joy's face—the exhaustion evident even in sleep, the protective curl of his body angled toward mine, the stubborn set of his jaw. His free hand rested on a tablet, an emailhalf-composed to someone named "Vinnie" regarding shipment schedules.

My Princess, playing at being me.

The thought should have infuriated me. Instead, it sent an unexpected warmth spreading beneath my sternum.

"He managed the organization effectively," Chen continued. "The men respect him now. Not just as your..." he hesitated, searching for the appropriate term.

"Mine," I supplied simply. That covered all necessary definitions.

Chen nodded once. "They respect him in his own right. He has a unique approach to problem-solving that proved... effective."

I could imagine. Joy would have approached the cutthroat world of organized crime like he approached everything else—with blinding honesty, creative thinking, and an absolute refusal to be intimidated.

My enemies wouldn't know what hit them.