Page 2 of Cunning Lies
Because Ilikemesses.
The phone flashes with those three dots, then says,Your passcode is required to enable Face ID.The poor little idiot. With a gag in his mouth, the device doesn’t recognize him.
The music is quieter back here, but I don’t mind. It’s the perfect soundtrack to my actions. I set the camera on the floor next to Mr. CEO, aiming the lens to capture his agony.
He bucks his legs forward, kicking my shin, and I wobble, but keep my ground. A smirk dances on my lips. He’s got spirit in him; I’ll give him that. But I grab the knife again; it’s time to get this over with. The song is almost over anyway.
I’m not supposed to kill him, but Iwantto. And I always do what I want.
“Let’s hope your next-in-line has better listening skills than you,” I say. “Andmusical taste.”
Then I slice the blade across his neck, letting the rest of his blood pool on the floor. The song ends, and I let out a satisfied sigh.
I turn off the camera and check the area for evidence. The sheriff is on our payroll, but I do my due diligence to make sure that there’s no trail leading back to the Endo-kai. Then I grab the record off of the vinyl player, slide it carefully into the sleeve, and head to my bright red 1970s Dodge Challenger.
Blasting classic rock through the speakers, I merge onto the highway, heading back to the Strip. Samurai Castle Resort & Casino is smack dab in the center of Las Vegas Boulevard, across from the Bellagio Fountain and next to the Paris Resort. It’s a damn good spot; I honestly don’t know how Tomo, our yakuza boss and the owner of the resort and casino, figured that one out.
I fold my bloodied jacket over my arm, then toss the valet my keys.
“Kumicho? Doko?” I ask.Boss? Where?
The valet tilts his head. “Sports lounge.”
The sports lounge is surrounded by television screens, each hosting a completely different game. Horse racing. Football. Soccer. Even skiing. You don’t know how much you can actually bet on until you live in Las Vegas. And just like the valet said, the boss is in his favorite spot. He’s harsh and angular, with dark brown eyes. Gray hair frames his face, and like usual, he’s resting on a barstool, treating it like his throne, but in reality, it hides his limp.
Cherry, his only daughter, sits next to him. She’shafu—half Japanese, half Polish—though she leans into her mother’s looks. Shoulder-length brown hair sits on her shoulders, tattoos wrapping around her arms, a septum piercing hanging from her nose. Dressed completely in red with red ankle boots to match. She’s ripped too. No one messes with Cherry when it comes to mixed martial arts.
“Where’s your jacket?” Tomo asks. I hold it up, showing off the bloody artwork; it’s a running joke between us. Cherry pretends to scoff, and Tomo laughs. “What about humiliating him? Weren’t you going to make him do Shabu Eight while he had to finger himself on camera?”
I lift my shoulders. “Got distracted. He had a record player.”
“Ahh,” Tomo nods, pleased with that development. “Did you let him off easy, then?”
“He didn’t have any classics.”
“Unappreciative bastard,” Tomo mutters. He’s the only one who gets that side of me, but that’s because he’s the one responsible for it. Instead of beating me when I stole from one of his protection rackets, he gave me a family and an addiction to classic rock. Though I don’t call him ‘Dad,’ he’s like a father to me. But he’s also our oyabun. Our kumicho. Our yakuzaboss.Even as a kid, I respected him too much to call him ‘Dad.’
“You weren’t supposed to make a mess,” Cherry says dryly.
“How could I resist?” I joke.
“Try doing your job,bakayarou.”
She’s calling me an idiot for that?
“Or you can do it for me,” I wink.
She cracks a smile. “I wish.”
We each have our roles here in the Endo-kai. As ouroyabun,Tomo has a lot on his plate. He makes the big picture decisions and makes sure that our exchange in Tokyo runs smoothly. We give this Tokyo-based yakuza group our smuggled guns, and they give us their meth mix, Shabu Eight. Cherry, a black belt queen of carnage, works as Tomo’s personal bodyguard. The old man can still handle himself in a fight, but not for long, which is why he’s got us, and why Cherry never leaves his side, though I know she wishes she handled more.
I’ve got three jobs. I manage our drug dealer relationships, but I’m also the face of Samurai Corporation, our legal resort group,andI work as asokaiya—in short, a corporate blackmailer.We find failing companies with dark pasts and force them to sell their assets, giving us the payout. I need three jobs; I get restless easily. Music keeps me moving, keeps melight,and when I get into a situation like today, blood keeps me focused.
Tomo pinches the bridge of his nose. “You have a date for the Survivors’ Alliance Gala yet?”
“How about Candy?”
He mutters under his breath, on the verge of scolding me in Japanese, and I hold back my laughter. My last date—a stripper I hired from the Gilded Stage—worked perfectly, until she ended up screwing one of the other guests in the bathroom. Can’t say I blame her; she’s a hustler and she wanted her money. But Tomo waspissed.No one at the gala knew that she was a stripper, but if someone had caught her with that customer, it would have been a PR disaster for our company’s image, even if we are in Vegas.
