Page 32 of Emperor of Wrath

Around us, the engagement party is in full swing. Heads of tribute families to the Akiyama-kai. Friends of Sota. Kir and his contingent from the Nikolayev Bratva, and heads of their tribute families.

The event is taking place at the house Sota bought in the West Village after it became clear he was going to be spending more time in New York for his treatments. On the one hand, Sota is one of the most hardened, deadly, and cold-blooded Yakuza kingpins to have ever lived.

On the other, the guy is really kind of a housecat.

Yes, he could easily stay in top-of-the-line hotels whenever he came to New York. But Sota doesn’t want individually wrapped soaps and room service. He wants a familiar mattress. He wants a kitchen to make his own tea in, and a garden to look at while sipping it.

Hana played a huge part in redesigning the older West Village brownstone into a stunning palace fit for a dark shogun. It’s modern in a distinctly contemporary Japanese way, but also has plenty of nods to the older culture that I know Sota gravitates to.

Tonight, it’s ground zero for my and Annika’s “engagement” party.

Whatever.

Beside me, my brother takes a heavy swig of his drink as he glances around the room. It’s funny: Mal and I are related through my mother’s side, though he’s technically my cousin, not my brother. But when his mother—my aunt—passed away, Mom took him in, and he came to live with us at our estate in England. Mal was twelve at the time, and he’s been by my side pretty much ever since.

If that doesn’t make someone your brother, I don’t really know what does.

The funny part, of course, is watching other people try and wrap their minds around the word “brother” when they look at the two of us. Obviously we share half of our lineage, since our mothers were sisters. But where he’s basically full-blooded Viking with his father also being Norwegian, I’ve got Hideo’s Japanese ancestry as well.

It’s precisely that blended background of mine that makes me cling so tightly to those who I call family, and why I’ve hardened myself against the world after a lifetime of not “fitting in”.

In the snooty, old-money circles that my mother came from, I had “just enough” Asian in me to stick out, and a lot of those fuckers never let me forget it. Then, when I fell in with Sota and the Yakuza, I was “not quite Asian enough” for a lot of their friends.

Sota himself didn’t give a fuck. And he had no tolerance for anyone else calling me gaijin.

“He’s not a foreigner,” he’d snap. “He just took his time making his way back home.”

Mal knocks back the rest of his cocktail. Just as he swallows, his jaw tightens and a frown creases his brow.

“Who the fuck is that?” he mutters quietly.

I turn to follow his piercing gaze across the room. Freya Holm has just walked in.

I grimace, grinding my teeth. “Annika’s friend,” I mutter. I frown at her attire. I mean, it’s a formal occasion with a formal presumed dress code. And sure, black would be acceptable.

…But Freya’s hardly wearing a little black dress. It’s more like something Morticia fucking Addams would wear to a goddamn funeral. Black velvet falling to the floor, long bell sleeves, and a dramatically plunging neckline half filled with fucking fishnet.

And she’s paired it with glossy black combat boots and has a goddamn spiked choker around her neck.

On top of that, she’s playing up her normally ghostly appearance with shades of white, purple, and black for makeup, and her dark hair is twisted up into something that would make Helena Bonham Carter smile with pride.

This is only the engagement party. What the fuck is she going to wear to the actual wedding, a Scream mask and a funeral shroud?

My attention is yanked back to Mal as he knocks back his empty glass, taking the last of the ice cube into his mouth and crunching down on it harshly.

“What’s her name,” he hisses.

“It’s Freya—sorry, what is this about?” I growl, peering at him.

“Nothing.”

“Mal…”

He shakes his head and blinks as Freya haunts her way into the crowd and disappears. Mal clears his throat and his shoulders visibly relax. “Nothing,” he grunts with more conviction this time. “Thought she was someone else.”

“Who?”

He turns, his eyes dropping to my empty glass. “Let’s get you a drink.”

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