The two women exchanged awkward glances.
Kiko’s cousin raised his eyebrows. “No?”
I turned and walked away.
My guards moved with me, smooth, synchronized, and forming a wall of bodies around me.
He called after me, “Excuse me! What does no mean?!”
I could have given him more of an explanation. Could have broken it down and listed the reasons as well as explained the politics. I could have even been diplomatic, polite, and careful.
But I didn't have time to stand on a garden path and justify my decisions to a man who was missing an ear because he couldn't keep his mouth shut the first time.
I had a party to build. I had a chef waiting for me. I had oxtails and macaroni and cheese and a ballroom to transform and cocktails to taste-test and a dress code to finalize.
I had a best friend in a villa grieving and a man I loved in a war room planning the next battle and a whole crew of his men counting on tonight to feel like something good in the middle of something terrible.
I didn't owe Kiko's cousin a single word beyond the one I gave him. And if he showed up at the party tonight, he better cover his good ear and pray because I wouldn’t be dealing with him. It would be Hiro and the Claws.
About ten steps down the path, I looked back.
They were still standing right there. All three of them. Frozen. The cousin's mouth hung open. One of the two women scratched her head.
The other scowled at me and I could see the sentence in her head, ‘Who the hell does she think she is?’
I turned back around and kept on walking.
I’m the Tiger, bitch. That’s who I am. And if you don’t understand that, then call me the Heart and watch your fucking mouth.
Chapter six
The Hunt
Kenji
Today was about hunting.
Searching for my father.
Looking for my enemies.
Seeking out my Tiger.
Exploring the other side of my DNA where my mother’s bloodline lived.
Each hour represented an unfolded map with worn creases and fading ink.
We never took Akiro’s phone back to the island. Reo suspected that Akiro may have left the phone on purpose.
Therefore, Reo routed it through three dead channels—burner couriers who didn’t know each other nor us and never asked questions. By the time the device reached my hackers, it had passed through enough hands to bury its origin six feet under.
The first thing my hackers found wasn’t data, but a tracker.
High-end.
Deeply embedded.
Designed to stay dormant until it mattered.
