Page 7 of The Oyabun's Boy

"Who the fuck are you?" he demanded, not retreating despite his newfound freedom.

I smiled, slow and deliberate. "The man who just became the most dangerous thing in your life." I stepped closer again, enjoying the way his breath caught. "What happens now is yourchoice, Princess. Walk away and pretend this never happened or find out what it means to belong to me."

His eyes narrowed. "I don't belong to anyone."

"We'll see."

The black SUV pulled up at the mouth of the alley. Chen emerged, gun drawn, scanning the shadows until he spotted me. Behind him, three more of my men spread out, securing the area.

I backed away, eyes still locked with the boy's. As I turned to leave, my foot kicked something small and plastic. I bent down, ignoring the fresh blood that seeped through my bandage at the movement, and picked up a nametag that must have fallen from his pocket during our encounter.

Green background, white lettering: JOY.

I looked back at him, this wild, defiant creature who'd caught my attention and now my interest.

"Joy," I said, testing the name on my tongue, claiming it. "Until we meet again."

I pocketed the nametag and walked toward Chen, feeling those green eyes burning into my back the entire way.

Chapter Three

~ Joy ~

I wiped my sweaty palms on my apron for the fifth time that morning, nearly dropping the ceramic teapot I was holding. The café bustled with the usual morning crowd, a mix of regulars seeking their caffeine fix and tourists enchanted by our feline residents.

For the past week, I'd been stuck in a fog, replaying that moment in the alley over and over again in my head—the press of strange lips against mine, the taste of copper, and eyes so cold they burned.

"Excuse me? I ordered a chai latte, not green tea."

I blinked, focusing on the woman staring expectantly at me from behind thick-rimmed glasses. "Right, sorry about that."

Great job, Joy. Real professional.

I corrected my mistake and moved to the next table where a couple cooed over Mochi, our chubby orange tabby who had mastered the art of looking perpetually starved despite his generous waistline.

"He's not allowed on the tables," I said automatically, then softened it with a smile. "Though he thinks rules don't apply to him."

As I poured their jasmine tea, my mind drifted again to that night. The mysterious man, bleeding and dangerous, pushing me against the wall. The commanding press of his mouth. The way he'd said my name like he was claiming it.

Joy.

The teacup slipped from my fingers, shattering against the hardwood floor. Mochi yowled and leapt away, sending three other cats scurrying under tables. The couple jerked back to avoid the splashing hot liquid.

"I am so sorry," I stammered, grabbing napkins. "I'll get you fresh tea, on the house."

As I crouched to clean up the mess, something outside the window caught my eye. A sleek black car, expensive and out of place on our modest street, idled across from the café.

A man in a dark suit stood beside it, his posture unnaturally stiff. Though sunglasses covered his eyes, I knew—I just knew—he was watching the café.

Watching me.

My heart stuttered. I forced myself to finish cleaning, keeping my head down, fighting the urge to look again. It was just coincidence. Lots of men wore suits in New York.

Get a grip.

"Joy? You okay down there or did you fall in?" My mother's voice pulled me back to reality. Annie Carmichael stood above me, one eyebrow raised, a fresh teacup in her hand.

"Yeah, just...butterfingers today." I took the cup and rose, trying for normal and missing by a mile.