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I shiver. He’s not saying it to threaten me; I can tell by the way his words are laced with a friendly type of warmth even as he’s warning me. But he’s pointed out a major flaw in my plan that I completely forgot: we’re outside the city limits. I don’t know exactly how far, or in which direction, or where I’d even planned to go.
“There will be men outside.” He nods at the door. “I’m telling you for your privacy. And your daughter’s.”
I nod again. I want to thank him, but I can’t find the words. He seems to understand, because he squeezes my shoulder again and walks out, closing the door behind him.
The first thing I do is check the windows. They’re not barred, which looks promising. But right when I’m about to test the latch, I stop. A tiny red light blinks from a small white box in the corner.
I should have known. Demyen’s house has convertible freaking roofs—of course it’s going to have an elaborate alarm system.
I pace around the room. Partly because I need to figure out a new plan, but mostly because I’m trying to feel for any signs of sag under the wooden planks. But there’s nothing other than solid ground. It occurs to me that it’s very likely this isn’t even real wood flooring—it could be that click-board stuff that lays on top of concrete.
Willow is now fast asleep on my bed. Her arm is tucked around the stuffed rabbit, holding it close like a second pillow.
The guilt I feel weighs me down onto the bed as I pull the blankets over her and tuck her in. I’m glad she’s asleep. That way, she won’t see me cry.
And crying is exactly what I do—because there’s no way out for us. This moment has been fifteen years in the making. Now that it’s here, I don’t know what Demyen plans to do with me.
All I know is that I’ll do whatever he wants…
As long as he doesn’t hurt my daughter.
17
DEMYEN
I hate these fucking pillows.
But good manners require dealing with the lack of lumbar support. As well as the fact that I’m on the floor, without my shoes on.
A waitress dressed like a traditional geisha smiles demurely as she refills the tiny cup I’ve been sipping from with green tea.
“This shit tastes like gasoline,” I mutter. “Needs sugar.”
“And insult five generations of my ancestors with that American poison?” Raizo Watanabe smirks and shakes his head. “No. Drink your tea and like it.”
I glance around the Yakuza boss’s gaudy restaurant. “Isn’t this whole place basically an insult to your ancestors?”
Raizo’s face grows serious for a moment. Then he shrugs. “What can I say? Tourism pays the bills. And this city is full of tourists who don’t know any better.”
“So then buy some fucking sugar.”
He chuckles, but I know better than to trust the laugh of Raizo Watanabe. Like me, he wears the charming mask of a generous host and benevolent benefactor to comfort her guests… and, like me, he operates a powerful crime organization that oversees a significant chunk of Las Vegas’ underworld dealings.
The Yakuza is no joke.
“Now, Demyen…” Raizo nods his thanks to another waitress who sets small plates of sushi in front of us, then turns his sharp gaze back to me. “I know you did not come all this way to criticize my condiments.”
Now, it’s my turn to play it cool with a shrug. “For all you know, I was just in the mood for a California roll, my friend.”
“Remind me to play a few hands at your poker table soon. Your game face is terrible.”
This feels like the perfect segue, so I decide to cut straight to the chase. “If you’re looking to make good money off me, I believe I have something better and more guaranteed than a card game.”
Raizo arches a brow, a bite of nigiri poised at his mouth. “Oh?”
I ignore the annoying churn in my stomach and nod. “Word on the street says you’re hosting an estate auction in a few weeks. I’d like to contribute.”
That makes him slow his chewing. He eyes me carefully. I don’t blame him; I don’t typically involve my business with his, and I definitely don’t make it a habit to “contribute” to his “estate auctions.” Despite our peace treaty, the Zakrevsky Bratva steers clear of the Yakuza and vice versa, out of a combination of mutual respect and mutual dislike.
