Page 17 of The Dragon 1
I’d seen enough documentaries and police reports about the Yakuza to know about what their bodysuit tattoos meant.
They were history.
Hierarchy.
Blood oaths etched into skin.
How much of Mr. Sato’s body was covered in them?
How far did that ink go?
“I love your hair,” he put his hand back down. “Wild and soft at the same time.”
My gaze darted to his jacket, where my recorder sat like a hostage. “What does men not hearingnohave to do with me being unable to do my study?”
“When men see you, they’ll crave you. They’ll follow you with their eyes. Their hands. Their hunger. They’ll whisper prices in my ear.” He pierced me with his gaze. “And I’ll have to tell themno.”
"Mr. Sato—”
“That’s bad for business.”
“I can stay in the background.”
His lips quirked. “We Japanese like to try new things. You wouldn’t last five minutes before someone tried to purchase you.”
My throat dried.
I wanted to argue.
He grinned. “Do you want to work for me?”
“What? No.”
“What’s your first name?”
“Nyomi.”
He considered it. “No. Too gentle.”
Excuse me?
“I’ll call youTora,instead.”
“Tora?”
“Tiger.” He stepped back a few more feet. “Sharp teeth behind a pretty mouth.”
Some of the men in the back of the room snickered.
Zo stirred. “I think Nyomi and I get the picture, Mr. Sato. We can go to another district or city. We’re deeply sorry, sir.”
“No,” the amused expression left Mr. Sato’s face. He didn’t even look Zo’s way. “You and she aren’t going anywhere else. You’re done with Japan.”
I did my best not to yell. “All of Japan?”
“Yes.” His tone didn’t rise. He didn’t shout. But it felt like someone had drawn a blade across the map.
I stared at him in shock. “Why?”
