Page 161 of The Dragon 2
She nestled against me, and I knew that she didn’t even know what she did to me, how just leaning in made me feel tamed.
Oh, Tora.
I breathed her in. “Tell me more.”
“Mott Haven is a part of an area they used to call the Piano District.”
“Why?”
“It was home to numerous piano manufacturers. Now it’s changing. Lots of new wine bars, random art pop-ups.”
I could hear the fondness in her voice.
“I have lots of Afro-Caribbean neighbors, families that have been there for generations. And yeah, sure, the safety’s still hit or miss, but there’s soul. I don’t feel invisible there. I feel like I’m part of something still growing.”
“I like the sound of that.”
“It’s also right by the Harlem River, so I can see Manhattan if I squint hard enough.”
I savored more of the cocktail.
“There’s a mix of old brownstones, warehouse lofts, bodegas on every block, and more murals than billboards. Plus, the area has artistic, yet gritty energy. On a regular Saturday there is salsa playing from a fourth-floor window while another person grills on the fire escape and just like clockwork right at 12pm, these two older women will sit on the stoop and argue about some TV show they watched together.”
I grinned. “The area has lots of character.”
“Definitely.” As she continued to speak about Mott Haven, I could see her giving me a tour there.
Her hand in mine, our feet hitting the uneven pavement of her block. Her pointing things out with that poetic pride of hers. That corner bodega where she loved to buy mangoes and always got into debates about movie reviews with the cashier. Her favorite mural of a little Black girl with butterfly wings painted across the side of an old shoe store.
The empty lot that turned into an unofficial dance floor in the summer when somebody brought out a speaker.
She sipped the cocktail. “So. . .it’s not perfect. But for a writer with books, wine, and a window view? It’s heaven. It’s home.”
Aww. Tora. . .it’s home. . .but not anymore.
I said nothing because I knew that she had no fucking clue that I would never let her go back there. Not unless it was to pack up her books, notepads, and her pens. Not unless it was to say goodbye to that tiny one-bedroom she thought she belonged in.
Because now she belonged with me.
And Mott Haven, for all its grit and poetry, was no place for my Tiger to remain unguarded—not after she’d done this for me tonight.
I’d burn that building to ash before I let her return.
She watched me. “Now. . .tell me about the Dragon’s lair.”
“My lair?”
“Yes.”
“Why tell you about it, when you’ll be in it this evening?”
She chuckled. “I will not be there this evening.”
Yeah. She still doesn’t understand.
She sighed. “Tell me about your place, Kenji. Come on.”
“It’s a mansion in Minato Ward which is a place that is. . .curated with old money and power.”
