Page 21 of Dangerous Deceit

“Dream house,” Uncle Jay says. He puts an arm around me too, and with their added weight on my shoulders, I’m afraid these heels are going to snap. “Eyes on our prize, little Vi.”

“Retirement,” I say.

“Sure. Something like that.”

The door opens, and a tall man peers down at us. Black eyes. Dress shirt. A vest. Slacks. While the other yakuza have tattooson their necks, this man’s exposed skin is bare, andthatseems like a warning—he doesn’t follow traditions like the rest of the group. His gaze is fixated on us, and that’s when I see it: dark blue patches of color hidden in his black irises. His eyes are almost pretty, but his scrutinizing glare—like he’s deciphering who we really are—gives me the creeps.

Uncle Jay is a shrimp compared to this man, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He offers his hand—the one without the kanji scars—and the black-and-blue-eyed man bares his teeth.

“Hi,” Uncle Jay starts. “We’re?—”

The man steps to the side, letting us inside of the lobby without saying anything to us. A woman with a clipboard runs forward.

“Thanks for letting them in, Niko,” she squeals. Her voice is high-pitched and cartoonish. “You must be the beautiful bride. You look amazing.”

The dress is whiter than copy paper, and it makes me look like I go to the tanning salon every day, almost as if my husband wants tomockme for being “innocent.” The asymmetrical cut is short in the front and long in the back, and it shows off my calves. I don’t know why Kenzo chose this dress, but it reminds me of the outfit for the gala. Maybe he’s got a thing with legs.

Or maybe he wants easy access to certain parts of me.

I redden from head to toe.

“Thanks,” I say.

The woman hands me a rainbow business card, but my brain is so scattered, I can barely read it.

“We run a tight ship. The ceremony starts on the hour. There’s a dressing room to the left for you and your family. I know you’re already dressed, but there’s more comfortable seating in there while you wait, and it comes stocked with refreshments, of course.” She winks. “If you need anything, give me a holler.”

The bride’s quarters are bigger than our motel room. There are multiple vanities, a full coffee bar, two champagne buckets, and a pastry table. I eye the apple tarts, but don’t indulge. If I do, it’ll come right back up. Patrick, on the other hand, helps himself to the champagne, sending the cork flying across the room. Uncle Jay laughs.

“You want some?” Patrick asks.

I shake my head. I don’t drink much if I can help it, unless it’s part of a job, like with the gala. After getting drunk and blacking out way too many times around Uncle Jay and Patrick, I stopped. It’s easier to be the designated babysitter.

Patrick downs his glass, and Uncle Jay does the same, then they get into another round. I read the manual next to the espresso machine, wondering if another shot of caffeine will give me superpowers or a heart attack. I’m on the fritz already.

“Did your husband give you any Shabu-8 as a welcome gift?” Patrick asks.

“Fiancé,” I correct. We aren’t married yet, and I want to hold on to that fact for as long as I can. Kenzo’s warnings of forever play in my mind a haunting soundtrack in my mind.

But there’s something comforting about it too. Forever is a long time, and I’ve always craved a home like that. It sucks when you’ve been constantly on the move since you were six years old.

“So? Shabu?” Patrick asks again.

I’m not sure why he wants meth at a time like this, but I stopped asking him questions a long time ago.

“No,” I say. “Not yet.”

“Get a sample,” he says.

Uncle Jay laughs. “Ask for the family pack!”

Noise consumes me, a buzzing sensation warring in my chest. It’s like my brain has been sliced in half; it’s impossible to think. Champagne flutes click. Men laugh. Fists bang on the door. Music thumps through the ballroom. And the flutteryvoice of the wedding planner trickles in through the walls like a bird that won’t shut up.

And then a flute crashes to the floor, interrupting the cacophony.

Patrick holds his stomach, sudden pain twisting his guts. He runs to the only bathroom in the bride’s quarters.

“Shouldn’t have eaten from the buffet,” I say as Patrick passes.

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