Page 1 of Dangerous Deceit

CHAPTER 1

KENZO

“A damn shame,”I mutter, thumbing through the playlists on the device. “No appreciation for the classics.”

Orchestral notes play through the cell’s speakers. It’s technically classical music, but it’s not what I mean by “the classics.” Each note vibrates through my veins, and although it’s not my typical genre, it pairs nicely with the idiot handcuffed to the table. He’s sitting on a metal chair, and there’s a deep slice on his cheek, which exposes those red-stained teeth. His gag is soaked, and with his head tilted back, it drips down his chin, dribbling over his shoulder, and pooling on the cement beneath him. The pink puddle glimmers under the stark fluorescent lights.

I turn up the volume, letting the floating tune wash over me. This is my favorite holding cell; it has the best surround sound system in the entire resort, installed just for me on days like this. I even got the boss to add a turntable and a cabinet with our favorite vinyl records.

The contrast of the strings against his blood should be enough for me. I want the classical music to compensate for what’s missing in this violent interrogation.

It doesn’t.

“No Eagles?” I ask, gesturing at his phone. “No Styx? Tell me you have Aerosmith.”

He moans through the gag, but he’s barely audible over the music. Mild excitement bubbles in my blood vessels as I adjust the camera on the tripod, then crouch down. Usually, I’m more creative than this—I like having fun, pushing these corporate big shots to their limits, seeing how far they can go before they beg for mercy—but the music is distracting. I am classic rock and murder, not humiliation and work.

The strings crescendo, and I use my switchblade to conduct the imaginary orchestra, but it’s still notright.

I lean down, putting our ears next to each other. Better to hear over the music. He pulls away from me. I inch closer.

“How old are you, Mr. CEO?” I ask.

“Sss-sees-dee-woor?—”

“Sixty-two.” I whistle.

This CEO has thirty-two years on me, and yetI’mthe one who can appreciate music fromhisyouth? He should be killed for that alone!

I run my thumb across my switchblade. The metal gleams, and the poor bastard winces.

I’m not supposed to kill him; I’m supposed to humiliate him. Teach him a lesson.Motivatehim to do what we ask. It’s not much: sell your assets and give the money to us, or we’ll tell your humble stockholders what you actually do on the weekends. They won’t appreciate their CEO spending their company’s charity money onShabu-8and strippers.

“Sixty-two years old,” I continue, “and you still don’t know how to keep your bad habits a secret.”

He sobs into his gag, breaking up the music. My ears throb, adrenaline buzzing in my fingertips.

Blood on the floor. Music in my chest.

Does it amuse me or bore me?

“At least you have music on your phone,” I laugh. “You should have seen what happened to the one who didn’t have any music.”

I flip through Mr. CEO’s playlists again, but it’s all classical music, and that irritates me.

I run the tip of the blade over the side of his neck, his loose skin bunching up under the metal. My white suit jacket shifts forward.

“You know,” I say. He squirms, and a grin takes over my expression. “We were only trying to help you. TheEndo-kaiwants nothing more than to see your company succeed.”

“Ya-caa—” he tries to scream. “Ya-ya-coo?—”

He’s right. Iamfrom theyakuza.

A tear runs down the side of his cheek, burning through the peek-a-boo cut I gave him earlier, and I chuckle, increasing the pressure on the blade, letting it break his neck skin. A thin spray of blood marks my suit, which is why I wear white. Everything is bland, but with red on white, it’s like a sunset in paradise, a blank canvas made into art again.

But the stains are monotone today. I’ve done this exact kind of kill. There’s nothing special about it. I want something different, somethingmore.I’m on a journey to his grave, but I want a higher dose of satisfaction this time.

Shambala.

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