Page 99 of Emperor of Lust

Donahue stammers out the address, his voice shaking with terror. “You’ll never get in there,” he cries. “M-Mr. Ishida’s guards?—”

“Why don’t you leave the guards to me,” I mutter.

I already know how I’ll get to Damian.

…Because I know Kolya Ishida’s weak spot.

I release Donahue’s arm. But before I let him get up, I slip something from my jacket pocket and set it down next to his hand.

Donahue freezes as his eyes land on the small, ornatetantoknife. His face pales.

“No!” he cries, eyes wide with terror. “You said if I helped you?—”

“I’d let you live, yes.” I let the words hang for a moment, watching hope flickering in his eyes. “But there’s still a price to pay. There’salwaysa price.”

I smile as the realization dawns on him. I point at the knife, then at his hand.

“The Yakuza have a ritual calledyubitsume,” I say calmly. “When an offense is made, the offender cuts off the top portion of their pinky finger to ask for forgiveness.”

Donahue shakes his head, his entire body trembling. “No…no, I?—”

“It’s the pinky or I slice open your fucking throat and you bleed out on the carpet,” I mutter, my voice a low growl. “You have ten seconds to decide.”

He stares at the blade, his pale face slick with sweat. After a pause, I start counting down from ten, my voice cold and unyielding.

“Ten. Nine…”

Donahue starts to tremble.

“Eight. Seven…”

His hand hovers over the blade as he wrestles with his fear.

“Six. Five. Four…”

He squeezes his eyes shut.

“Three…”

On two he takes the knife, his hand shaking so hard the blade rattles against the desk. He’scryingas he holds it to his pinky. It’s glorious.

“Hang on?—”

I grab his tie and stuff it into his mouth.

“Proceed.”

He hesitates for a second, then slams down the blade.

A wet, sickening crunch fills the room, followed by his strangled cries as blood spurts from the cut.

“Yeah, no, it’s easier to aim for the knuckle,” I murmur quietly.

He sobs as he slides the blade lower and tries again, screaming into the tie as he hacks through his own flesh. More blood spurts as the pinky slices away, splattering across his papers, the pristine leather of his desk.

He’s a mess now, sobbing, clutching his maimed hand as blood starts to drip onto the floor.

I wipe the blade clean on his cheek before I stand, roll my neck, and walk around to the other side of the desk.

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