Page 66 of The Oyabun's Boy

His once-impeccable suit hung in tatters, dark with dried blood and grime. His face was a masterpiece of bruising, one eye swollen shut, lips split and crusted with dried blood. Chen's men had been thorough in their work.

Despite his condition, his posture remained defiant, spine straight, chin lifted. His good eye locked onto mine the moment I entered, hatred burning with such intensity it was almost admirable.

Almost.

Joy's fingers brushed against mine as we stepped further into the warehouse, a subtle gesture that grounded me in the present. Reminded me what I was fighting for. What I had nearly lost.

What I would never risk losing again.

I adjusted my cufflinks casually as I approached the circle, feeling the concealed blades shift against my wrists. A precaution, one I doubted I'd need with twenty professional killers in the room, all on my side.

"Gentlemen," I acknowledged the gathered families with a slight inclination of my head, not quite a bow. Respect without submission. "I appreciate your presence at this... family reunion."

Petrov grunted, something like amusement flickering across his scarred face. "We had bets on whether you'd survive, Hú. Your little fox proved us all wrong."

Joy stiffened slightly beside me at the nickname, but remained silent as promised. Good. Any sign of weakness here could be fatal.

"My Princess has many talents," I replied smoothly, watching my uncle's face contort with disgust at the endearment. "Including exceptional loyalty—a trait some find challenging."

I stepped forward until I stood directly before my uncle, close enough to smell the copper tang of dried blood and the acrid scent of fear he was trying desperately to hide.

"Family reunions are always so awkward," I said, my voice pitched for him alone. "Especially when one party tried to have the other party tortured to death."

My uncle's response was immediate and predictable—a glob of bloody saliva hitting the concrete an inch from my polished shoes.

"Still no respect," I observed, unmoved. "Some things never change."

Behind me, I sensed rather than saw Chen step forward, carrying something wrapped in black silk. The warehouse fell silent, even the most hardened criminals recognizing the solemnity of the moment unfolding.

"You were never worthy of the family name," my uncle spat, switching to Japanese. "Your mother's bastard. Her shame."

I smiled thinly. "And yet here I am, while the great Isamu Hú kneels in his own filth, waiting for death."

Chen approached with measured steps, the ritual familiar to him from years of service to my family. He held out the bundle, unwrapping the silk with practiced movements to reveal the tanto—fourteen inches of folded steel, the handle inlaid with black pearl and wrapped in ray skin.

My father's blade.

The one that should have protected my mother.

I accepted it with both hands, the weight familiar despite the years since I'd last held it. The blade caught the harsh warehouse light, gleaming with deadly promise.

"In the old ways, I would offer you the chance for seppuku," I said conversationally, testing the edge with my thumb. A bead of blood welled up, perfect and crimson. "But you deserve no such honor."

Joy stood perfectly still at the edge of my vision, his face composed but his eyes tracking every movement. Watching. Witnessing. Understanding what kind of man he had chosen to love.

"Your pet is watching," my uncle hissed, his good eye flicking to Joy. "Does he know what you are? What you've done?"

"He knows everything," I replied, the truth of those words settling something deep inside me. "More than you ever will."

I stepped closer, the tanto held loosely in my right hand. Professional. Practiced. The product of training that began before I could properly hold a knife.

"This is for my mother," I stated coldly, switching back to English so all present would understand. "For the woman you betrayed to death because she dared to love outside your approval."

Something flickered in my uncle's eye—not fear, not quite regret, but recognition perhaps. The acknowledgment that his fate had been sealed decades ago, when he'd sentenced his own sister to death for the crime of independence.

I moved with the speed that had earned me my reputation, the blade slicing through air and flesh with equal ease. No hesitation, no dramatic pause. Just cold, calculated justice delivered with surgical precision.

Blood sprayed across the concrete in an arc of crimson, some of it spattering my shoes after all. My uncle made a wet, choking sound as he toppled sideways, his remaining eye wide with shock.