Page 81 of Kotori
I arrive precisely at three o'clock, driving myself in the matte black Lexus that whispers wealth rather than shouting it. No entourage. No obvious weapons. Just a middle-aged businessman paying a respectful visit to family advisors.
The deception is perfect.
The entrance admits me into an atmosphere thick with conspiracy and incense. Six men in formal dress sit around low tables laden with expensive tea service—Hiroshi, Sato-san, Yamada-san, and three others whose loyalty to the old ways has outweighed their survival instincts.
They freeze when I enter. Not with surprise. I'm sure they expected eventual confrontation. But with the sudden understanding that their careful planning has become a trap with themselves as prey.
"Matsumoto-san." Hiroshi rises, offering a bow that's respectful enough to avoid immediate offense. "What an unexpected honor. Please, join our cultural discussion."
Cultural discussion. The euphemism tastes bitter on the summer air.
"Honored advisors," I say, settling onto the offered cushion. "I hope I'm not interrupting important business."
The silence stretches. Each man studies his tea cup with the intensity of someone suddenly uncertain whether the beverage might be poisoned. Only Sato-san maintains eye contact, his weathered face set with the stubborn defiance of someone who's convinced himself he's fighting for righteousness.
"We were discussing family heritage," he says with careful dignity. "The importance of maintaining proper structure during transitional periods."
Transitional periods. Meaning my leadership, my authority, my right to make decisions about my own household.
"Fascinating topic," I agree, accepting tea. "Tell me, what specific concerns require such urgency? Perhaps the forged documents about the Ishida cousin's murder? The ones someone in this room created to incite conflict between our families?"
The question hangs in the air. Yamada-san shifts uncomfortably on his cushion. The other advisors exchange glances that scream of conspiracy and coordination. But Sato-san leans forward with the conviction of someone who's decided martyrdom is preferable to cowardice.
"The heritage of family consultation," he says, voice steady despite the tremor in his hands. "The wisdom of considering elder counsel when personal choices affect broader stability. The importance of remembering that oyabun leadership extends beyond individual desires to encompass collective responsibility."
Perfect. Exactly the opening I've been engineering.
"Individual desires," I repeat thoughtfully, as if considering his words for the first time. "Like my choice of household staff? My daughters' educational arrangements? My decisions about which advisors deserve continued respect?"
"Like the choice to prioritize foreign influence over established values," Sato-san replies, and there it is: the direct challenge I've been waiting for. "To value personal comfort over family honor."
The other men go still. Even Hiroshi looks alarmed at how quickly his ally has escalated beyond careful suggestion into direct accusation.
I set down my tea cup with deliberate precision and smile.
"Sato-san," I say quietly, "are you suggesting that my leadership has become compromised? That generations of Matsumoto authority should be subject to your approval?"
"I'm suggesting," he begins, but I raise one hand and he stops immediately. Old habits die hard, even during attempted rebellion.
"You're suggesting that I lack the wisdom to govern my own household. That my judgment regarding family matters requires your oversight. That my authority as oyabun extends only as far as you permit." My voice remains perfectly controlled, conversational. "Is that an accurate summary of your position?"
Sato-san swallows hard, finally beginning to understand the depth of the hole he's dug. "I merely expressed concern—"
"Concern." I taste the word like wine, letting its implications settle on my tongue. "How noble. Howgenerous." I rise, suddenly towering over the assembled advisors while they remain seated in positions of submission. The psychological advantage is immediate and absolute.
"Takeshi," I call toward the garden entrance.
He appears instantly, silent as shadow. Behind him, six men in dark suits flow into the room. Not obviously threatening—simply present, alert, ready.
The advisors' faces go pale as they realize their discussion has become something else entirely.
"Sato-san has expressed concerns about my leadership," I announce to the room. "About my judgment. About myauthority to make decisions without committee approval." I begin walking slowly around the seated advisors, hands clasped behind my back. "I thought we should address those concerns thoroughly."
"Matsumoto-san," Hiroshi starts, finally understanding that his political maneuvering has unleashed something beyond his control. "Perhaps we could discuss—"
"Damare!"Silence!The word cuts through his protest. "You orchestrated this gathering. You encouraged these discussions. You created forged evidence to turn the Ishida family against me. You wanted to test my resolve." I stop directly behind Sato-san's chair. "Consider this my response." My hands settle on his shoulders—not violent, just claiming space, establishing ownership. "Tell me, Sato-san, what specific leadership failures justify this conspiracy?"
"This isn't a conspiracy," he says, but his voice shakes. "We're loyal servants."
