Page 555 of Rage

The Viper and Chef

By: Kenya Goree-Bell

The Viper and Chef

Krie

“The fuck is your problem, wife?”

Dragging my gaze away from the landscape of the countryside just north of Osaka, I look at my mean-ass husband in utter disbelief.

“Nothing,” I mumble, swallowing the lump in my throat. Turning from back to the landscape we’re racing by in the sleek Rolls-Royce Phantom, flying like we’re on a cloud. A queasy cloud. With every sleek turn or swerve we take up the countryside my stomach heaves.

Silence drops between us so heavy and hurtful. I try to swallow it down, but it may as well be a huge wad of cotton clogging my throat.

How can someone who has a genius-level intellect be so fucking dense? I guess he’d have to care first. Which he doesn’t, as I am starting to realize more and more — at least not about me. His business, his connections to the vast Yakuza syndicate he’s forging with his brother and cousins, and whoever he keeps running back here to Japan to fuck is what he cares about, but it ain’t me. Definitely not me.

“You will look at me, Krie-chan.” The words are uttered with so much wrath that I do, in fact, find myself looking at him aghast. He hasn’t called me that in months. Try as I might, I can’t pinpoint what I could have done or rather what he could have found out that has left him acting this way. The truth is, it’s probably something to do with my family. The proverbial thorn in our sides or rather our marriage.

His gaze rakes me from my Uggs up the lines of my elegant jumpsuit to the high, loose, messy bun I’m wearing. The way his gaze flicks over me, you’d think I had on a dirty sack. No my couture YSL jumpsuit is not to his exacting standards. Not that I care. I’m tired — in fact, I’m exhausted. I’m bloated, and I worked my tail off at my restaurant, The Camellia, before entrusting it to my capable but still young sous chefs for the holiday season.

Coming to Japan to spend this precious time with my husband’s ruthless family was not on my list of things to do and definitely not a preferred activity during such a sacred time.

Yet when Flower extended her invitation, the first since she and Akchiro reconciled last year, Kiyoshi felt an obligation to accept for both of us. I love my cousin by marriage, I do, but I’d rather be caught in a Sun Down Town after dark than come back here. I’d probably fare better.

I face him still not believing he brought me back here.

“What?” Immediately, I realize my mistake snapping at him. His face grows colder if that is even possible.

“The fuck, you say?” Steely hands are snatching me into his lap, making my tender breasts smash into his hard chest. Eyes narrowing at my gasp and the wince I give from the contact, he assesses me silently for a long moment.

“You will not demand my face. Your behavior is unacceptable. We won’t even talk about your actions, your lies.” He bites at me through gritted teeth.

“I-I haven’t done anything.” I look him straight in the eye. The truth is I haven’t. I may have helped my cousins with various enterprises and escapes from their unhinged men, but I haven’t done anything to him. I’d never hurt him.

The cruelty of the smile he gives me wretches my heart. The tinge of sadness behind it, the disappointment is nearly unbearable.

I push down thoughts of my secret project. He couldn’t have possibly figured it out otherwise this trip would have been canceled.

Suddenly my chest heaves. I can’t bear that look. Acid eats up the back of my throat.

“Stop,” I gasp, lunging forward. “Make him stop the car.” I manage to get out, holding back the gorge rising as best I can.

Kiyoshi gives the command, and the car swerves, stopping seconds later.

I’m out of the car and on the side of the road, heaving up the meager contents of my tummy like a drunk sorority girl after a game night party.

After what feels like a lifetime and I’ve birthed a lung out of my mouth later, I rise weakly to stand to my full five-foot-two height.

I notice his huge shadow looming over my shoulder seconds before a monogrammed handkerchief comes to rest there. The scent of it reminds me of him and is soothes me despite us being at odds.

“Arigato,” I mumble, taking his offering.

More stony silence as he passes me a mini bottle of water to rinse my mouth.

I don’t say anything this time. Words are useless to a man like my husband. Action is all he knows and respects. It’s enough that I gave my thanks. Anything else is seen as weakness in aman who deals with sycophants on a daily basis. The last thing he wants from his wife is obsequiousness.

Silently, we make our way to the car. He helps me inside.

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