Page 25 of Emperor of Lust

“Ugh, okay,” I spit, glancing back at my friends. “Duty calls. Wish me luck.”

I take a deep breath and make my way across the room to Miyamoto, trying to tamp down my disdain for him. He’s an older gentleman with a wide smile and a round, jovial face, wearing a suit that’s slightly out of date. I have to admit, much as I hate to: it suits him perfectly.

“Ahh, Miss Mori,” he says warmly with a respectful bow. His smile is genuine, his eyes soft and his demeanor is warm, almost grandfatherly, yet I know better than to underestimate him. He’s not just some “lesser” YakuzaOyabunwhose empire is on the decline and needs an ally. He’s our ticket into Tokyo.

I bow back, though my own smile feels tight. “Good evening, Kato-san,” I reply, my tone clipped and carefully controlled. I don’t even try to hide my coolness.

His eyes crinkle as if he’s amused rather than offended, and he gives a slight shake of his head. “Miss Mori?—”

“Hana is fine.”

He dips his chin. “Hana, then. But only if I may insist on Miyamoto instead of this stuffyKato-sanbusiness,” he grins. “If I may?”

I nod, and he smiles at me again.

“There’s no need for the cold shoulder. I know perfectly well you’re not fond of this arrangement.”

I’m caught off-guard by his frankness. It’s rare to hear anyone in our world speak so plainly. I open my mouth to respond, but he holds up a hand.

“Let me be clear, my dear. This isn’t about whatIwant,” he continues gently, his tone almost paternal. “Tokyo itself is…old-fashioned. The men there, the alliances—they’re bound by tradition. If it were up to me alone, I would have no issue doing business with a woman as impressive as yourself, married or not.” He sighs. “But appearances are everything. It’s the rest of the world that demands this illusion, not me.”

I feel a faint flicker of understanding and nod, some of the tension easing in my chest, though I’m not quite ready to let go of my resentment yet. It’s a cold truth—Tokyo doesn’t care how capable I am, only that I fit into the image of a Yakuza family.

He glances toward the band, an appreciative smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Ahh, ‘Lazy Bird’,” he murmurs, noddingalong to the Coltrane tune. “Though I have to say, as much as I love this, there’s a Stan Getz live version from Rome in, I believe, ’66 that simply shines.”

I blink in stunned surprise at Miyamoto’s jazz knowledge. “I…yeah,” I blurt, my brows knitting in shock. “Though it’s from ’65, if we’re talking about the same concert.”

“My mistake,” he chuckles. “Yes, 1965, in Rome. Superb recording, isn’t it?”

Well,thisis unexpected.

Twenty minutes later, my entire opinion of Miyamoto Kato has changed. Not only is he not the misogynistic dick I thought he was, he also might be as muchif not moreof a jazz nerd than I am. I tell him about my favorite jazz club here in Kyoto—the Golden Monkey—which he of course already knows, but says sadly that he hasn’t been to in twenty years.

We promise to talk Tokyo and merger business soon, since we’ve just spent half an hour gabbing about music. Then he’s pulled away by some other Yakuza types, and Kenzo is up my ass making sure I do the full rounds of the guests.

My mood improved, I make my way around the party, exchanging polite nods and smiles, acknowledging the Yakuza allies in attendance. Kir and a few of his Bratva associates stand to one side, watching the room with quiet, powerful intensity.

I haven’t seen a single glimpse of Damian all night. Honestly, this might be a big reason my mood is so light.

I take a sip of champagne, letting the bubbles tickle my throat, my mind drifting to the future and the Mori-Kai’s plans for Tokyo?—

“Miss me?” The voice comes from just behind me, low and taunting, ripping me violently from my thoughts.

I stiffen before I turn to level a look at Damian, his gaze burning into me with that familiar, infuriating confidence. I force myself to face him, lifting my chin, meeting his smug expression with a glare.

“Were you in my room?” I demand coldly.

He raises an eyebrow, a slow smirk spreading across his face. “Hmm?”

“Myroom,” I snap, remembering the perfectly folded origami crane bound in red yarn. “Were you in it?”

A dark smile plays across this lips. “Is that an invitation?”

My cheeks flush and I clench my teeth. “It isnot. And whatever fixation you have on me…you can drop it.”

He steps closer, his breath warm on my cheek as he leans in, a mocking gleam in his eyes.

“You’re too close.” I mutter quietly, trying to sound firm, though my pulse quickens as he moves a little bit nearer.

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