The Undertow (The Kuroda Yakuza Series Book 2) Page 2

  I stare at him as he makes his way over to the shower, then I get up and follow him. “I’m in a relationship with you. I chose that, Kaito. If I wasn’t ready to accept your past, and the all shit that comes along with it, I would have walked away.”

  Kaito stops and turns. “I know.” He takes my face in his hands, his expression suddenly fierce. “And sometimes I still don’t understand why you didn’t. But I’m yours now, Adele, and you need to listen to me when I tell you that the people I’m going to deal with are dangerous. I don’t want you to be a part of that. I would never forgive myself if something happened to you.”

  “I’ll stay out of trouble, I promise. I’ll go sightseeing. I’ll go to art galleries. I’ll stay out of your hair. Tokyo’s a big city, isn’t it? I’ll be just another American tourist.”

  “Adele.” Kaito releases me and runs a hand through his thick, black hair, letting out an exasperated sigh. It’s the first time I’ve seen him stressed out like this in a long time. “The answer is no. Just this once, you’re not coming with me.”

  I blink, taken aback by his bluntness. I wasn’t expecting such a point-blank refusal. Frustration builds inside me. I know Kaito’s not going to change his mind. Whenever it’s something to do with that other life of his, he becomes guarded, and the barriers go up.

  I have no doubt there are some very dangerous people in Tokyo. I’m with one of them right now. But there’s a part of me that’s intrigued by that world. I want to see where Kaito came from. I want to understand the city that shaped him.

  No-one falls into his line of work by chance alone.

  Besides, I have enquiries from several galleries about my art. It would be good for business to follow up on those leads.

  “Fine.” No point letting Kaito know what I’m thinking now. I move closer to him, acutely aware of our nakedness. “But you have to stay safe. Don’t do anything stupid.”

  “Have I ever?” Kaito places his hands on my bare waist.

  I raise an eyebrow. “You tell me.” Kaito once beat up a couple of mafia thugs who had been harassing me. He’s usually calm and collected, but I’ve learnt that my man has his trigger points. And one of them, apparently, is me.

  Kaito shrugs. “Certain things get to me.” He turns me around, gently pushing me in the direction of the bathroom. “But I promise I’ll be careful.”

  “Good.” I push him into the shower and engulf us both in a rain of cool water, admiring the way it sluices over his chiseled body.

  I give him no indication of what I’m planning as I massage his tattooed back. It’s better to just enjoy the moment while we’re together like this.

  Adele

  Kaito goes out after we shower, telling me only that it’s business, and he’ll be back soon. I don’t waste time. I pull out my laptop and get on the internet.

  Flights to Tokyo? Check.

  Cheap, backpacker style accommodation in some place called Asakusa? Check.

  I read some travel blogs and study a map of the Tokyo subway. It appears easy enough to get around. The place seems huge, dense and entirely different from anything I’ve known.

  And when Kaito finds out I’ve followed him there, he’s going to be mad.

  I should heed his warnings. I have no doubt the people he associates with do fucked up things, and I don’t exactly plan on finding out what they’re like.

  I already had an unpleasant encounter with one of Kaito’s colleagues in LA. Masahiro, the manager of the Black Rose hostess bar, took an instant dislike to me. Turns out I wasn’t demure and timid enough for his liking. If not for Kaito, I might have found myself in a whole lot more hot water.

  I shudder to think of what might have happened if Kaito hadn't shown up that night.

  So yes, I intend to stay far, far away from the yakuza haunts of Tokyo. That doesn’t mean I can’t visit the place and follow up on some connections, maybe some visit galleries where they might be interested in my work.

  Because the inspiration for my first collection was oh, so very Japanese.

  And hopefully, I’ll be able to find Kaito in that endless, crowded city, and hopefully, he’ll be able to get over his inevitable anger and realize that I’m not some fucking teenaged girl, to be wrapped up in cotton wool.

  After booking my tickets reading a few tourist blogs about Tokyo, I order room service and curl up on the sofa, looking out onto the sprawling metropolis. Our room has a view of a lush, green golf course, with the tall buildings of Bangkok city rising up beyond.

  Kaito returns after a few hours. I must have fallen asleep, because I open my eyes to find him seated beside me. That man can be as silent as a ghost sometimes.

  “Holy shit,” I murmur, taking in his appearance. He’s gone and had a haircut, his straight, black hair cropped close to his skull in a buzz cut. “You decided you needed a makeover?”

  “Change of appearance, that’s all.” Kaito runs a hand over his newly shorn head. I notice a fine scar running from the edge of his temple. “I don’t want to be easily recognized.”

  I regard him with an appreciative glance, taking in the changes. The haircut accentuates his razor sharp cheekbones and strong, elegant features. His dark eyebrows draw together in a frown. “What?”

  I shake my head with a hint of a smile. “Nothing.” If anything, Kaito stands out even more with that hairstyle. There’s something I’ve noticed more about him since we left LA. He acts more naturally here; he’s less reserved, as if he feels he no longer has to hide. He gives off a certain vibe.

  I don’t really know how to explain it. But I’ve noticed that the locals don’t mess with him as much. The street vendors offer him local prices. The taxi drivers don’t demand tips.

  I guess it’s a ‘don’t fuck with me’ vibe. They can’t see his tattoos, but they just sense it, somehow.

  I get up and retrieve a couple of beers from the mini-fridge. “I saved you some pad thai. It’s still warm. You’d better eat before you go.”

  “I’ll do more than just eat,” he replies, giving me a long, hard, hungry look. I look down and realize my plush white hotel bathrobe has come undone, revealing my naked body underneath. And suddenly, I’m turned on again. It doesn’t take much these days.

  Looks like it’ll be a long goodbye.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Adele

  We make love again, and Kaito leaves me in bed, getting up to shower and get his things ready to go to the airport. He emerges from the bathroom wearing black jeans, a black bomber jacket over a white t-shirt, and glasses.

  Lying naked in bed, luxuriating in fine cotton sheets, I stare at him. The specs are just what he needed; fashionable black-rimmed frames that completely transform him, taking away the hard edge.

  “What?” Kaito raises his eyebrows, a mock-innocent look crossing his features.

  “I didn’t know ‘GQ Cover Model’ was the look you were going for.”

  “Don’t be stupid.” Kaito stuffs a few things into his suitcase and slams it shut, zipping up the hard, black shell. “For the purposes of Japanese customs, I’m American.”

  “Your accent isn’t American.”

  “They won’t be able to tell the difference.”

  I slip out of the bed, bold in my nakedness. He’s unable to take his eyes off me, his dark gaze following my every move, tracing down the curves of my body to the swell of my hips and the half hidden flower between my legs.

  I come up to him, standing on my tiptoes to reach his lips, wrapping my arms around his neck. “Do you really have to go?”

  “I do.”

  “What will it take for you to cut ties with the Kuroda Group?”

  “One doesn’t just ‘cut ties’ with the yakuza.” Kaito runs his fingers through my hair, both gentle and possessive at the same time. “I swore loyalty to the Kuroda-kai. I’m a part of the organization, whether I like it or not.”

  “Is this still the life you want?”

  “Since I came to America, I haven’t been so
sure. When I met you, I decided I wanted out. Because of you, Adele. I want to change. But there’s a correct way to do these things. I can’t just leave. That’s not the way it works.”

  I tighten my embrace, taking a moment to breathe in his scent, not wanting to lose him to this dark, complicated world that I don’t understand at all. I get the feeling I’m just scratching the surface of what Kaito’s mixed up in.

  When we first met in LA, he was working as an accountant for the Kuroda Group, but he was hiding a much more sinister truth. Kaito’s the one they send to do their dirty work. He’s a catalyst, a kingmaker and a destroyer, who can take away power with the pull of a trigger or a knife in the neck.

  Or something like that.

  I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to imagine it. I don’t know how that version of him can exist alongside the Kaito I know.

  The side he shows me is very, very different.

  But before we met, before he came to America, he was a hired killer. He never talks about it, but I’ll bet he was good at what he did. And he must have done something serious, to have gone into hiding for three years, lying low in Los Angeles.

  He always used to tell me he could never go back to Japan.

  “Someone’s after you, aren’t they? What did you do before you came to America that was so bad, Kaito?”

  “Nothing you should worry about.” He puts a finger to my lips. I stare back into his eyes, which are obsidian in the muted light. “That was a long time ago.”

  “I’m guessing it’s not safe for you to go back.”

  “Nowhere is safe. But this is bigger than me, Adele. This is the family, and when they call, at a time like this, I have to answer. Because you never, ever want them to question your loyalty.”

  I still don’t understand, not completely. There are so many layers to this man, and I’m learning, slowly. Just like he’s learning about me.

  “This guy who died, did you know him well?”

  “In a way. He was the Kumicho, the head of the family. He was distant, but at the same time he was like a father to me. It comes with the position. He looked after me for a while. When I needed it most, he made sure I survived. So I owe him vengeance. Many of us do.”

  There’s a sense of finality in the way he says it; it’s grim, absolute acceptance, and it sends a chill through me. I really don’t understand Kaito’s loyalty to the Kuroda Group. He carries out their orders to the letter, even though he seems to hate, more and more, what they make him do. It’s a contradiction, just like Kaito himself.

  And I feel as if he might get sucked back in to that savage world and return to me a different man, or worse yet, he might not return at all.

  I place my fingers on his chest, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breathing, the faint, steady beat of his heart. “If you get hurt, or die, I’ll kill you.”

  His gaze softens, and he wraps his warm, callused hand around mine. “Noted. I’m not going anywhere, Adele. I’ll be back. Don’t worry.”

  I nod, leaning my head against his broad chest. Kaito doesn’t realize it yet, but we’ll be seeing each another again much sooner than he thinks.

  Kaito

  We land at Haneda airport in the early hours of the morning. It’s raining, and the city is blanketed under thick cloud cover, obscuring the lights below on our descent.

  As we touch down on home soil, I stare out of the rain-streaked passenger window at the sleek, brightly lit glass terminal.

  I suppose I should feel something upon arriving in Japan for the first time after over three years, but I don't. This country isn't home to me anymore. And I've left Adele behind in Bangkok. She's the only one who sees through me, and somehow understands and accepts me, as fucked up as I am.

  There’s nowhere I’d rather be right now than with her.

  But the life I've left behind calls me back. It always does. Erika has called, and I have no choice but to answer to her. I know what they would do if I tried to desert Kuroda now. I know very well what they're capable of.

  Too many times, I've been their instrument.

  And now, the head of one of the biggest yakuza families in Japan is dead.

  I never cared for their internal politics. I always answered directly to Ishida-san himself. I carried out his orders without question. High-level assassinations, dangerous kills, orchestrated deaths.

  That was all me.

  As the seatbelt signs go off, I push my way into the aisle, one of the first to exit the plane. I head to immigration, my fake American passport in hand.

  I've had a haircut, and I'm wearing my glasses. If the Criminal Investigation Bureau even have anything on me, they won't be expecting a Japanese-American looking the way I do now.

  One can never be too paranoid in this business.

  The immigration officer looks at my American passport, gives me a flat, tired once-over, then addresses me in Japanese. "Purpose of your visit, sir?"

  I pretend not to understand. "Sorry," I say, in broken Japanese. "Can you speak English, please?"

  The man blinks in surprise. "American?" His stare seems accusatory, as if it's some kind of insult that I don't speak Japanese.

  Of course I fucking speak Japanese. But it's safer for me to pretend to be a second generation Japanese American who fumbles with the mother tongue.

  "Yes." I offer a bland smile.

  "Business? Holiday?"

  "Vacation." I nod towards my completed immigration forms. He peruses my information, then takes a cursory glance at my passport and asks me to scan fingerprints and have my photo taken. I conceal my left pinky finger, with its severed tip, making a half-closed fist. Then, I remove my glasses and stare into the camera.

  Hiding in plain sight. Any Japanese person would look at my amputated finger and know what I am.

  The immigration officer stamps a few pages in my passport. "Enjoy your stay." He looks away, having already forgotten me as he signals the next passenger.

  I make my way into the arrivals hall and spot a man standing at the back. He’s wearing dark suit and black pencil tie and has yakuza written all over him. It’s in the way he stands, and the way he looks around as if he knows he has the full weight of the Kuroda-kai behind him. As if that somehow makes him untouchable.

  But he’s standing holding a sign with my name written on it in English, just like a limousine driver. We make eye contact, and I nod. He rushes over and bows. "Welcome home, aniki," he says, taking my bag. He's barely more than a kid, with peroxide blond hair and large diamond studs in both ears. A gold Rolex flashes on his wrist. "My name is Iida. Ane-san sent me."

  He has the look of a typical junior kobun, a subordinate, his face still untouched by that hardness that affects the older yakuza.

  He doesn’t have that flat, suspicious look yet; the one a man gets when he thinks everyone and everything in this world is either a target, a trap or a way to make money.

  He’s just a fucking kid.

  “How did Erika know which flight I’d be on?” I ask, as we start to walk towards the exit.

  “She didn’t,” Iida replies. “Just told me to wait and look out for a guy who might be you, arriving from Bangkok.”

  “How were you supposed to know what I look like?”

  “She told me to look around the airport and spot the guy I’d least want to fuck with. Haven’t seen anyone else all day who fits that description.”

  I don’t know if this punk is being serious or not. I shoot him a dark glare and he looks down. “Sorry.” He offers a quick apology, in case he might have offended me.

  It's better not to get too familiar with the help. They need to understand their place.

  We leave the arrivals hall and reach the pick-up area, where a sleek, black Mercedes Benz is parked at the kerb, waiting. The driver is leaning against the car, smoking. But when he sees us, he drops the cigarette, crushing it under his shoe. He rushes to take my suitcase from Iida, offering a bow.

  Then, he opens the passe
nger door for me.

  I slide in, wondering why Erika’s giving me the priority treatment. It was never like this before. I was a man apart, working from the shadows, left to my own devices.

  There was no entourage. I didn’t have subordinates. I was, for all intents and purposes, outside the labyrinthine yakuza hierarchy.

  I answered to Hajime Ishida alone. The Godfather. The Kumicho. He ruled the Kuroda-kai with an iron fist.

  Now, he’s dead.

  Iida takes the front seat, leaving me alone in the back of the car. As we pull away, I stare out the window, taking in the familiar scenery. The empty, illuminated roads are free of congestion in the early hours, and we fly down the freeway, overtaking freight trucks and the occasional car. We pass endless concrete and steel buildings, crammed together like orderly, stacked boxes of humanity.

  What most outsiders don’t realize is that underneath the veneer of efficiency and organization, this city hides a seething, criminal heart.

  It’s an undercurrent I know all too well. And it will take me further away from the woman I want to be with. It will force me back into old habits ands make me act like the person I once was, but no longer want to be.

  She makes me want to change.

  But in this matter, the murder of the head of one of the biggest criminal organizations in Asia, I have no choice.

  The ties of loyalty are binding, and I have to see this through.

  Fates worse than death come to those who try to leave the organization without permission. We all understood that when we relinquished our family ties and joined the Kuroda-kai.

  The rain becomes a downpour as we speed towards central Tokyo, streaking the passenger window and causing the bright, relentless lights to blur like an abstract painting. I close my eyes, and think of warm, golden beaches and my woman, craving the lush curves of her sun-kissed body and her intoxicating vanilla scent. I’m missing the feel of her warmth beside me. And here I am, about to be thrust back into the violence and order and chaos of the Tokyo underworld.