Page 67 of The Oyabun's Boy

I had not gone for his heart or his throat. The cuts were placed precisely to ensure he would bleed out slowly, consciousness lingering long enough for him to understand his failure was complete.

The five family representatives watched in silence, their faces betraying various degrees of approval and discomfort. This was the reminder they had come for—that theOyabunwho had cheated death was not to be crossed.

I cleaned the blade methodically on a silk handkerchief, Chen already stepping forward to rewrap it in its ceremonial cloth. The tanto would be cleaned properly later, honored as the instrument of justice it was.

My uncle's breathing grew more labored, wet with blood and the effort of clinging to life. I crouched beside him, speaking softly in Japanese once more.

"Your line ends here. Your name dies with you. But mine continues." I glanced toward Joy, who stood perfectly still, his face pale but determined. "And it will flourish."

I straightened, turning my back on the dying man without a second glance. He was already a ghost, a chapter closing in the book of my life.

The gathered crime lords nodded in acknowledgment as I approached them, the subtle shifting of power complete. No words were necessary. They had witnessed the death of the old guard and the creation of the new.

I extended my hand to Joy, who took it without hesitation, his fingers warm against mine. I felt the slight tremor he was trying to hide and squeezed gently.

"Take me home, Princess," I said, just loudly enough for the nearest men to hear. A declaration of what mattered most and a warning of what would happen to anyone who threatened it.

Behind us, my uncle drew his final breath, the sound barely audible over the shuffle of expensive shoes on concrete as the most dangerous men in New York filed out, business concluded.

One chapter closed. Another beginning.

And Joy's hand in mine through it all.

Chapter Seventeen

~ Joy ~

I traced idle patterns on the cool glass of Kenji's office window, watching the late afternoon sun cast golden ripples across the Staten Island harbor.

It had been three months since Kenji had sliced his uncle's throat open in front of New York City's most dangerous criminals. Three months of healing, of nightmares, of falling even deeper into this dangerous, beautiful life we'd created together.

My reflection stared back at me—same copper hair, same freckles, but the eyes were different now, harder, more knowing.

Behind me, the soft tap of Kenji's fingers on his keyboard provided a steady rhythm to my thoughts. He was reviewing security protocols, something he did obsessively since his recovery. Not that I could blame him. Nearly dying had a way of making a person reconsider their vulnerabilities.

"You're thinking too loudly," Kenji said without looking up from his screen. "I can hear the gears turning from here."

I smiled despite myself. "Just contemplating the bizarre turn my life has taken. You know, typical Wednesday afternoon thoughts."

"Regrets?" His voice remained neutral, but I knew him well enough now to hear the slight tension underneath.

I turned away from the window to face him. Three months of proper nutrition and relentless physical therapy had restored him to his former glory.

The scars were new—a jagged line along his jaw that somehow made him even more devastatingly handsome, a constellation of smaller marks across his knuckles from fighting his way back to me.

His eyes, though, those remained the same. Dark, intense, seeing everything.

"Not one," I answered honestly. "Though I never expected to be on a first-name basis with the heads of New York City's crime families. Vinnie actually asked about my mother's arthritis last week. Apparently, his nonna swears by some special Italian herb compress."

Kenji's lips curved slightly. "Vincenzo Borelli respects family loyalty above all else. You've earned his regard."

"By threatening him with my grandmother's secret recipe?" I laughed, moving across the room to perch on the edge of his desk. "That was pure desperation. I was half-convinced he'd shoot me on the spot."

"He considered it," Kenji admitted, finally looking up from his computer. "For approximately three seconds. Then he decided anyone with that much audacity deserved to live."

"Lucky me." I reached out to straighten his already perfect tie, a habit I'd developed during his recovery that neither of us seemed inclined to break. "The monthly meetings are still surreal, though. Last time, Petrov brought those chocolate vodka-filled donuts, and King's husband was showing everyone pictures of their new puppy. It's like a bizarre social club where everyone happens to be capable of murder."

"Most social clubs are like that," Kenji observed dryly. "The difference is merely in probability."