Page 2 of Dangerous Deceit

I smack my side with my free hand. The song pops into my head, and I can’t think of anything else.

I shove the knife back into my pocket and toss the CEO’s phone to the side. I pick through a cabinet and find the right album, then add it to the record player. The speakers begin playing “Shambala,” the perfect song to pair with the CEO’s torture. Warm relief flickers inside of me.

The door swings open behind me. The shuffle of feet rattle over the cement floor. I keep my eyes on my device, adding to the dismissive tension I know agitates our prisoners. One of our enforcers must be bringing the CEO’s second-in-command to make sure the lesson is fully understood. A huff escapes the CEO—perhaps a verbal acknowledgement of his friend—and the enforcer clicks the new prisoner’s handcuffs to the other side of the table.

A subtle scent lingers under the stench of concrete and rubbing alcohol, something I hadn’t noticed before. Burnt sugar. I snicker to myself, then click play on the chosen song. Either the CEO never stopped getting lap dances from strippers, or his fear smells sweet.

I keep my back to them, my shoulders dancing to the song’s beat as I ready the knife again.

“You like Three Dog Night?” I shout over the music. A groan ripples through the room, like someone startling awake, but the chorus fills my head, and I can’t help but sing along with the lyrics and keep dancing. Their lessons can wait.

“Where am I?” a woman asks, her silky voice extremely high pitched, rampant with fear. “Uncle Jay? Please. What have you done with him? We didn’t do anything wrong!”

I spin around on the beat and find a young woman in her early twenties, handcuffed to the table just like I expected, but she’s blindfolded with a thick sash of fabric. Natural reddish-orange hair is strapped down under the blindfold, and freckles paint her skin. A hoodie is slung over her shoulders, hiding her figure. Light pink lips.

I raise a brow. I don’t recognize her from the meetings at the CEO’s corporate office, and judging by the shake of her bottom lip, she feels out of place too. The common instinct would be to assume she’s the CEO’s college-aged daughter or perhaps his stripper-turned-girlfriend, but judging by her clothes, neither ofthose seem right, and I would’ve taken notes about relationships like that.

Her teeth nab at her puckered bottom lip, and I suck in a breath. Burnt sugar. Like butter and candied crystals left in a saucepan for too long. If I had seen her before, I would’ve recognized her.

She’s not supposed to be here.

A curious sensation trickles over me, like the faint hint of needles dabbing at my skin. She can’t see, which gives me more leeway, and with the music on, I want to finish this before the chorus begins to fade.

I slip behind Mr. CEO, and he fidgets like a hamster in a wheel. Then I take the perfect gleaming knife to his throat. I keep my eyes on the blindfolded woman. I like that she can’t see me. She doesn’t even know who I am, or that I’m about to kill a man in front of her. A man she believes could be her uncle.

Mr. CEO groans through his gag as I press the blade against his throat, and she stiffens, almost as if she knows what’s happening.

“Please don’t hurt him,” she whispers, obviously still convinced the man is her uncle.

I run the knife across the CEO’s throat, and the blood gushes over my white jacket and spills over his chest. The blood begins to gurgle as it leaves his throat, and her head lowers like she knows the other captive is dead, even if she can’t see it. Tears wet the collar of her hoodie. I briefly consider comforting her with the fact I doubt she’s related to the poor sack I just killed, but then, I don’t owe her anything.

The song changes, and I slip out of the room. I’ll have to see why the boss sent her to me.

CHAPTER 2

KENZO

In the hallway,one of our enforcers leans against the wall.

“Dareda?” I ask.Who?

“The prisoner’s niece,” the enforcer says. “Thekumichosaid you would want to see her.”

The boss thinks I want to see a prisoner’s niece?

“Kumicho? Dokoda?” I ask.Boss? Where?

I slip out of my jacket as the enforcer tilts his head. “Sports lounge.”

The sports lounge is surrounded by television screens, each hosting a completely different game. Horse racing. Football. Soccer. Even skiing. You don’t know how much you can actually bet on until you live in Las Vegas. And just like the enforcer said, the boss is in his favorite spot. He’s harsh and angular with dark brown eyes and gray hair framing his face. Like usual, he’s resting on a barstool, treating it like his throne, but in reality, it hides his limp.

Cherry, his only daughter, sits next to him. She’shafu—half Japanese, half American—though she leans into her mother’s looks. Shoulder-length candy-red hair sits on her shoulders, and tattoos wrap around her arms. A septum piercing hangs fromher nose. She’s dressed completely in red with red ankle boots to match. Her favorite color is obvious. She’s ripped too. No one messes with Cherry when it comes to mixed martial arts.

“Where’s your jacket?” Tomo asks. I hold it up, showing off the bloody artwork; it’s a running joke between us. Cherry pretends to scoff, and Tomo laughs. “What about humiliating him? Weren’t you going to make him do Shabu-8 while he had to finger himself on camera?”

I lift my shoulders. “Got distracted. The woman.”

“Ahh,” Tomo nods, pleased with the development. “Did you let him off easy, then?”

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