Page 9 of The Oyabun's Boy

"You missed a spot," Annie called from behind the counter, pointing to a table where someone had spilled sugar. She was trying too hard to sound normal.

"Got it," I mumbled, grabbing a rag. I wiped down the table, then moved to the next, and the next, my movements mechanical as my mind spun scenarios, each more terrifying than the last.

The café cats sensed my unease. Even typically aloof Duchess rubbed against my legs, her silver-gray fur clinging to my black jeans. I bent to scratch behind her ears, finding a moment of comfort in her rumbling purr.

"You should head home, Joy." Annie's voice cut through my thoughts as she emerged from the back office with her reading glasses perched atop her head. "I've got some paperwork to finish up."

I frowned. "You hate paperwork."

"Well, taxes wait for no woman," she replied with a forced laugh. "Especially not with that audit last year."

I narrowed my eyes. My mother had never stayed late for paperwork. Not once in the five years we'd owned this café. Paperwork was what she did Sunday mornings with coffee and complaints.

"I can stay and help," I offered, watching her face carefully.

"No need." She waved a dismissive hand. "Besides, you look dead on your feet. Get some rest."

She bustled around the counter, suddenly very interested in rearranging coffee beans that were already perfectly arranged. Annie never fussed with the beans—that was my territory.

Something was definitely off.

"Mom—"

"Joy." She met my eyes, her expression softening. "Please just go home. I'll be right behind you."

The unspoken message was clear—I want you gone because something's wrong. I hesitated, torn between staying to protect her and doing as she asked.

"Fine," I relented. "But text me when you're leaving."

"Of course." She smiled, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. "Now go, and maybe take a different route home tonight, hmm? For variety."

That confirmed it. She'd seen the men too.

I hung up my apron, grabbed my jacket, and gave my mother a quick hug that lasted a beat longer than usual. Then I slipped out the side door into the gathering dusk.

The street seemed eerily quiet compared to the warmth of the café. No cars passing, no pedestrians chatting, just the distant wail of a siren and the flutter of pigeons settling for the night. I pulled my jacket tighter, feeling exposed as a lone goldfish in a shark tank.

Take a different route home.

Right.

I turned away from my usual path toward the subway, cutting through a side street that would eventually loop back to a different station. The weight of being watched pressed against my back with each step.

You're being paranoid, I told myself. No one's following you.

But then I heard it—footsteps behind me, matching my pace perfectly. When I sped up, they sped up. When I slowed, they slowed. I took a sharp turn down an alley, then another onto a commercial street lined with closed storefronts, their metal gates pulled down like eyelids. The footsteps continued, never gaining, never falling behind.

Just...there. Persistent. Waiting.

I tried the old stop-and-tie-your-shoe trick. The footsteps stopped too. I pretended to window-shop at a darkened electronics store. The footsteps paused.

This was ridiculous.

My nerves finally snapped like an over-tightened guitar string. I spun around, fists clenched at my sides, ready to confront whatever goon had been tailing me for the past ten blocks.

"Look, I don't know what—" The words died in my throat.

Instead of some hulking thug, I found myself facing a slender Asian man in an impeccable suit standing beside an open car door. His posture was perfect, his expression unreadable, his hands clasped loosely in front of him. He didn't look threatening so much as... efficient.