Page 77 of Kotori
"Ishida-san," I greet their leader with a bow calibrated to the millimeter—respectful enough to avoid insult, shallow enough to establish dominance. "What brings you to my home at this hour? I would have thought you'd be enjoying the festival with your wife and children... assuming they still tolerate your company."
Ishida Noboru steps forward. Younger than me by a decade, but carrying himself with the entitlement of inheritance rather than the confidence of blood-earned authority.
"Matsumoto-san," he returns the greeting with precisely matching depth. "Forgive the intrusion. We would have preferred formal channels, but certain information came to our attention that couldn't wait for traditional protocols."
Behind me, car doors open. Without turning, I raise one hand—a signal that freezes everything. I sense Paige watching, seeing for the first time the absolute control I wield over everything in my domain.
"Takeshi, escort my family inside. The west wing." I don't look back, keeping my focus entirely on the threat before me. "Hayashi will ensure their comfort."
"Hai, Aniki." Takeshi's footsteps retreat, followed by the whispered sounds of my daughters and their teacher being moved to safety.
"Shall we discuss this matter in my office?" I suggest to Ishida, gesturing toward the main house.
"I think here is appropriate," he counters, glancing meaningfully at my senior advisors who have appeared at the courtyard's edge. Hiroshi, Sato, and Yamada stand in formal wear, as if they'd anticipated this delegation. "What we have to discuss concerns everyone present."
The pieces align in my mind. Not an attack. Something more insidious. A political move with my advisors as co-conspirators.
"Very well." I gesture to the stone benches surrounding the courtyard's central fountain. "Please."
We settle into the negotiation postures that have defined yakuza diplomacy for generations—formal, polite, with violence beneath every syllable.
"We received an interesting visitor yesterday evening," Ishida begins, accepting tea from a servant. "One of your advisors expressed concerns about, shall we say, changing leadership philosophies within the Matsumoto family."
My expression reveals nothing, but inside, calculations race through my mind. One of my advisors. Approaching our oldest rivals. About my leadership.
"How thoughtful," I respond, sipping my tea with deliberate calm. "And which advisor felt that Ishida family counsel would benefit our internal matters?"
Ishida's eyes flick briefly toward the assembled elders. "That's not important at the moment. What matters is the substance of the concern."
"Which is?"
"That the Matsumoto family is moving away from traditional values that have maintained peace between our organizations. That certain foreign influences have begun to affect decision-making. That established protocols regarding territory and business operations might soon be disregarded."
Foreign influences. The American teacher. An easy target for traditionalists who fear change. I keep my expression neutral, interested, as if discussing weather patterns rather than thinly veiled accusations.
"Fascinating interpretation," I say, setting down my cup. "And did this advisor offer evidence of these concerns, or merely speculation based on personal disappointment?"
From the corner of my eye, I notice Hiroshi shifting his weight. Sato remains motionless, his weathered face set in practiced neutrality. But Yamada's eyes drop briefly to the ground—a momentary tell that confirms my suspicions.
"He provided specific examples," Ishida continues. "Changes to security protocols. Reassignment of key personnel. Modifications to distribution channels that have been established for decades." He pauses, his next words delivered with the careful precision of a man setting a trap. "But most concerning was the information about your involvement in the death of my cousin three years ago."
The accusation hangs in the air like a drawn blade. I feel Hiroshi's sudden tension, see Sato's almost imperceptible flinch.
I take another sip of tea, movements deliberately unhurried. "An interesting claim. Especially since your cousin died in a territorial dispute with the Tanaka family in Osaka."
"That was the official story," Ishida agrees. "But your advisor provided compelling evidence suggesting Matsumoto involvement. Photos. Communications. Financial transfers that trace back to shell companies controlled by your organization."
Evidence that doesn't exist. Evidence that couldn't exist, because while I've orchestrated many deaths, Ishida's cousin wasn't among them. But someone wants him to believe otherwise. Someone with access to our records, our communications, our financial systems.
Someone willing to fabricate evidence precise enough to convince our oldest rivals that we violated fundamental territorial agreements and lied about it for years.
"Your advisor seems remarkably well-informed," I observe, studying Ishida's face for tells. "Almost suspiciously so."
"The information was compelling enough to warrant this conversation," Ishida responds. "If true, it represents a breach of the agreements our families have maintained for decades."
"And if false, it represents something far more dangerous." I set down my tea cup, straightening slightly. "A deliberate attempt to ignite conflict between our families. The kind of manipulation that benefits neither of us."
Ishida's eyes narrow slightly. He hadn't considered this angle—that he might be a pawn rather than a player.
