Page 65 of The Oyabun's Boy

And the thought of him attempting to reach that warehouse alone, potentially walking into danger unprotected...

"You will stay by my side at all times," I conceded, releasing his wrist. "You will not speak unless spoken to. You will do exactly as I say without question."

"Yes, sir." His mock salute didn't match the victorious gleam in his eyes. "Does this mean I get a gun too?"

"Absolutely not."

"Worth a shot." He grinned, completely unconcerned with my glare.

I picked up my watch—a Patek Philippe with a garrote wire concealed in the band—and secured it around my wrist. "If anything happens, Chen will get you out immediately. That's non-negotiable."

"Fine." He watched as I made my final adjustments, a softness in his eyes that contrasted with the steel in his spine. "Are you sure you're ready for this? It's only been two weeks since you woke up."

I cupped his face, thumb brushing across his cheek in a gesture of possession that had become second nature. "I've been ready for this my entire life."

He leaned into my touch, and for a moment, the coldness I'd been cultivating all evening wavered. This man who had somehow become my weakness and my strength all at once.

"Then let's go put this chapter of your life to rest," he said, covering my hand with his own.

I pressed my lips to his forehead, inhaling the scent that had become synonymous with home. Then I stepped back, the mask of theOyabunsliding back into place.

My hand settled on the small of his back as I guided him toward the door, the possessive touch a warning to anyone who might see us. Mine. Protected. Untouchable.

Tonight, I would remove the last threat to what was mine… And Joy would witness exactly what kind of monster he had chosen to love.

The ride was relatively short, mostly because I couldn’t take my eyes off of Joy and thinking about that whole kinky thing. Would he let me tie him up?

Could be fun.

When we reached the warehouse where my uncle was being held, I tucked away those lust filled thoughts and concentrated on what needed to be done now so we could get kinky later.

The warehouse loomed against the night sky, its corrugated metal exterior illuminated by the headlights of several luxury vehicles parked in a careful semicircle.

I counted eight men at the perimeter—professionals, judging by their posture and the subtle bulges of concealed weapons. Chen's security arrangements were impeccable as always. The air smelled of salt water and impending violence.

Joy's shoulder brushed against mine as we approached the entrance, his presence both comforting and concerning. He had no place in this world of blood and retribution, yet he'd carved one out anyway—stubborn as ever.

"Remember what I said," I murmured, hand instinctively moving to the small of his back.

"Stay quiet, don't wander off, let you handle the murdering." He shot me a sidelong glance. "I got the memo."

I bit back a response as Chen pulled open the heavy metal door. No turning back now.

The warehouse interior was cavernous and dimly lit, strategic spotlights creating pools of harsh illumination in the otherwise shadowy space. The five family representatives stood in a loose semicircle, their postures betraying varying degrees of discomfort at this unprecedented gathering.

Petrov was the first one I assessed—broad-shouldered and scarred, his eyes constantly scanning the room like the ex-military man he was. The expensive watch on his wrist didn't match the tactical clothing he wore. Practical, but dangerous.

Díaz stood to his right, impeccable in a tailored suit that rivaled my own, his fingers tapping a restless rhythm against his thigh. His eyes narrowed slightly when they landed on Joy, calculating and curious.

Borelli looked bored, picking at his nails with a toothpick, but the tension in his shoulders gave him away. Five armed men flanked him—more than the others had brought.

Interesting.

King stood furthest from the others, arms crossed over his chest, his husband a step behind him. The Irish contingent, always slightly apart from the rest. Always watching.

They had come. All of them. For me. No—not for me. For the spectacle. For the warning this execution would send. For the guarantee of peace it would purchase.

And in the center of it all, kneeling on the concrete floor, was my uncle.