Page 42 of Kotori
"Sumimasen, Matsumoto-sama," Takeshi responds, using the formal apology. "I wanted to inform you that your little bird tried to escape the cage today. She's been returned to her room."
I pause, my grip tightening on the phone. Of course she tried to fly. I'd be disappointed if she didn't.
"And?"
"The situation is contained. However, we have another problem at the workshop in Arashiyama. Significant damage. Your immediate presence is required."
"How significant?"
"Property destruction. Threats to the elderly craftsmen. Someone's testing our protection." His tone holds controlled fury. "The kind of disrespect that requires a personal response."
My reflection stares back from the mirror—perfectly knotted tie, formal jacket, the image of a man prepared for domestic intimacy. Soon, she'll descend the stairs in black silk, looking like everything I've ever wanted to claim.
But duty calls. Honor demands response. The workshop represents generations of family heritage, and anyone who dares touch it has signed their death warrant.
"Have the car ready." I tell Takeshi, already loosening my tie.
I change into darker clothing—black suit, no jewelry, nothing that shows blood. The formal dinner jacket goes back in the wardrobe alongside my anticipation for tonight's seduction.
Business first. Always business first.
But God help whoever made this necessary.
The drive to Arashiyama takes fifteen minutes through mountain roads shrouded in evening mist. Takeshi briefs me while I watch familiar landscapes blur past windows, each miletaking me further from her submission and closer to someone's execution.
"Six males, late teens to early twenties. Street gang, not yakuza—calling themselves the 'Rising Dragons.' Amateur thugs testing established territory." His tablet displays security footage of the break-in. "They specifically targeted the workshop during evening closing."
I watch footage of these criminals destroying pottery that took master craftsmen weeks to create. Smashing ceramic pieces against workshop walls. Spray-painting gang symbols over tools passed down through generations.
Cold rage builds in my chest. This is a violation of families under my protection, disrespect to our authority.
"Where are they now?"
"Tracked to an abandoned warehouse in the industrial district. Six targets, minimal weapons, no backup plan. They think intimidating one old man makes them players." Takeshi's tone holds disgust. "Permission to handle this?"
"No." The word comes out flat, final. "This one's mine."
The warehouse squats in industrial shadows, corrugated metal and broken windows speaking of urban decay. Perfect place for street thugs to celebrate their moment of power, counting stolen cash while planning their next act of stupidity.
They have no idea what's walking through their door.
My phone buzzes with a text from Mizuki:Paige-sensei looks very pretty tonight. She seems nervous about dinner.
The message ignites my blood. She's wearing the dress. Standing in my family's dining room, looking beautiful and uncertain, waiting for approval that I'm not there to give.
The street punks inside this warehouse interrupted that moment. Stole that instant of her submission from both of us.
Their suffering will be exquisite.
"Aniki?" Takeshi studies my expression with concern. "Your orders?"
"Wait here. Anyone tries to leave, break their legs."
"And if they don't cooperate?"
I give him a look that makes even Takeshi—a man who's served me through rivers of blood—step back.
"They'll cooperate."
