Page 49 of Emperor of Havoc

“I know this wedding is what it is,” Papa sighs. “But even so, it would be nice to have the last of your blood relatives here today.” He smirks. “He’d have a thing or two to say about the groom, I can guarantee that.”

I grin briefly. Then my lips twist. “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything,” he nods.

“Do you think Takeshi is a Trojan horse?”

Papa smirks just a little bit. “Yes. Of course he is. But do you know what you are?”

“Bait?” I sign testily.

He smiles and shakes his head. “No. You’re the one nailing the trap door of the Trojan horse shut and threatening to light it on fire. And don’t forget, daughter,” Papa continues, “that the street runs both ways. For both us and the Mori-kai, this arrangement between our families stops any bloodshed. It also givesyouthe power to lead this empire without question.”

“But I don’t need to lead. You’re here.”

He smiles wryly. “For now.”

“Papa—”

“It’s important to plan for all future outcomes,Koshka.” He steps over to me, smiles, and takes my hands in his. “You’re ready for this. Don’t let anyone—not even Takeshi—make you doubt that.”

“I won’t.”

My father isn’t a very touchy-feely kind of guy. So when he does hug me, like right now, I hold him tight, hanging onto the moment, hugging him back before we finally break apart.

“I’m proud of you,” he says softly.

When he’s gone, I sit in silence for a moment, letting his words settle over me. Then, with a sigh, I turn back to the vanity and reach for my makeup kit. When I open it, something catches my eye—a white envelope with gold trim, tucked neatly amongst the brushes and powders, just like the one on my plate at the engagement party.

I pull it out, my fingers trembling slightly.

Inside, in heavy black ink, two words:

Still mine.

My heart skips a beat, and my mind races. Takeshi? Ithasto be. But it feels weirder than his usual brand of control and mind games. There’s a skin-crawling creepiness to it I haven’t really seen from him before.

I shove the note back into the envelope and bury it beneath the other items in the kit, forcing myself to focus. I have other things to worry about right now.

The ceremonyin the back yard of the Ishida house is a blend of Western and Shinto traditions. The guests sit quietly as theSan-san-kudoceremony begins, the air thick with the scent of incense and heavy with the weight of expectation.

For all his disdain for the Yakuza, despitebeingthe Yakuza, it was actually Papa who suggested—make thatinsisted on—adding the San-san-kudo to the wedding. The traditional “three cups” ceremony involves the bride and groom each taking three sips from three different sized cups of sake.

I stand across the small altar table from Takeshi, my hands steady despite the storm raging inside. The lacquered cups gleam in the soft light as the sake is poured from the teapot, the smallest cup placed before Takeshi first. He lifts it with a grace I wouldn’t have expected. Then I watch as he takes three slow, measured sips before setting it down. His movements are calm and controlled, as if this is just another day for him.

Then it’s my turn. I lift the cup and take three sips. The look in Takeshi’s eyes as he watches me makes it impossible to relax.

The medium cup comes next. I go first this time, then pass it to him. His gaze lingers on me as he drinks, the tension between us palpable. The final cup—the largest—is placed before him, and I hold my breath as he lifts it.

Three sips. Slow. Intentional.

I can barely hide the small, satisfied smile while I pretend to sip from the cup when it’s my turn.

I don’tactuallydrink from that last cup, though. It’s not a dumb little show of rebellion against the wedding. It’s because I snuck downstairs earlier and…tamperedwith the largest cup.

The one he just sipped from.

I didn’t do it out of malice. I did it as a warning, just like he did before to try and getme“under control.”

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