by Amano, Mia
Erika’s people have given me a single, grainy photo. It’s not much to go on. In the picture, Lucini junior is stepping into a tinted SUV, sunglasses covering his eyes. He’s a solidly built man with dark hair, greying at the temples. He’s got a small, hard mouth and a slight paunch. The look on his face tells me he thinks he owns the street he’s walking on, the shops in front of it, the whole fucking town.
Broad daylight, or under the cover of night, I don’t care. He’s a dead man walking.
I’m sitting in my nondescript Toyota with a Lakers cap pulled down to hide my face, waiting. I’m using a different car for this job. It’s also been conveniently supplied by Erika’s people. It’s a grey import from Japan; untraceable, with fake plates. Ordinary looking and easy to ditch.
This routine is familiar to me. Sometimes it take days, weeks, even months, before I find my mark.
This time, I’m lucky.
Three men come out of the club, with a girl in tow. They’re crowding her, and I read fear in the way she walks, the way she hangs her head. She’s looking down, her long, dark brown fringe hiding her features. She looks young, delicate. Maybe not even legal age. She’s got no chance against these hardened men. One of them wears a tracksuit, the other two are in dark suits. They enter a black SUV with tinted windows.
After a while, another man exits the club. This one is familiar.
He’s the guy in the photo.
Got you, asshole.
This is the son of Enzo Lucini, the troublemaker called Vincent. The man who, in his ignorance, mutilated the hand of a Kuroda boss. He has no idea of the price he’s about to pay. If this were Japan, he’d already be dead.
Lucini junior pauses outside the doors to drop a cigarette and grind it out with his foot. Then, he makes his way over to the SUV.
One of the goons jumps out and opens the door for Lucini junior. He gets in and the car pulls away. I wait a moment until they’ve turned off onto the street and stopped at a set of lights. I follow them.
We cruise through busy streets, and turn onto the interstate. I keep my distance, staying a couple of cars behind. They’re always in my sights, but I’m not close enough for them to notice me.
Eventually, we get off the freeway, turning off into the suburbs. It’s a nice neighborhood, this one, with lowest stucco houses and well kept lawns. The SUV pulls into the driveway of a double storied house. It’s got whitewashed walls and a clay-tiled roof. Pink and peach roses sprawl around a stone footpath that leads to the front door. I park across the street, two houses down, and wait. Once they’ve all entered the house, I get out, walk up to the front door and knock.
No answer.
I knock again, louder this time.
The door cracks open, a face appearing. It’s tracksuit guy. He stares at me with hard, angry eyes. “Who the fu-”
I don’t give him the chance to finish. I shoot him in the head, twice. He crumples to the floor, a crimson dot appearing in his forehead. A thin trickle of blood winds down his pale skin. I enter the house, making my way down the tiled hall on silent feet. Voices float to me from the back of the house.
“Yo Jimmy, who the hell-”
I turn a corner into the kitchen and find the other two. They look up in shock. They’re in shirtsleeves, their jackets thrown carelessly across the kitchen bench. One of them is mid-bite, a sandwich in his meaty hand. They stare at my face, then at the gun in my hand. The sandwich drops to the counter, sending bread and tomato and pastrami flying. They’re both reaching for their guns, scrambling over each other, one of them still chewing the remains of his sandwich.
It’s almost comical.
“Fuckin’ yakuza asshole!” Sandwich guy lays a hand on his gun, but I’m too fast for him, sending a bullet to his temple. Two taps and he’s down. His partner lets out a roar of anger, charging me.
I shoot him in the face.
The whole thing lasts less than ten seconds. Two bodies lie in front of me, blood pooling on the porcelain tiles. There’s a round slice of tomato near one man’s hand. Blood seeps along its edges, encircling it in dark, liquid red.
Blood leaked from an artery, that moments ago, was beating in life. These men just happened to be in the wrong house, part of the wrong mob family, at the wrong time. It doesn’t matter to me. I know these types.
I’m detached from it all. I still have a job to do. This is the old me, the real me.
Welcome back.
No regrets.
The dull thump of footsteps reaches me from upstairs. I creep along the wall, turning into the living room. This house doesn’t look lived in. There’s a single black leather couch in the middle. It looks as if it’s never been sat on.
I catch sight of the staircase. It has black, wrought iron railings that look out of place in this almost bare house.
“What the fuck is going on, Mickey? Steve?” I hear a low, gravelly voice calling out from upstairs. This would be Vincent Lucini. He must have heard the shouts. I edge along the wall behind the staircase, so he can’t see me.
“You there, Mickey?” Lucini calls out again, wary this time. His voice echoes down the empty corridor. Then, nothing. I know what he’s thinking. By now, he’s spooked. He’s probably looking for a weapon up there. But if the American Mafia is anything like the Yakuza, he doesn’t have a gun.
Guns are for soldiers, executioners. Not kings. The higher up you are, the fewer weapons you need. Because your men do the carrying for you.
I wait until I hear the sound of searching; the soft click of a cupboard closing, the rustle of clothes, slow, careful footsteps on creaking, wooden floors. Then, I rush up the stairs, taking them three at a time. I reach the landing and come face to face with Vincent Lucini.
He looks older than the man in the photo.
He’s wearing crumpled black trousers and a white shirt that’s open, revealing a chest matted with dark hair and a bulging stomach. A thick, gold chain hangs around his neck.
Vincent Lucini stares at me with a look of pure hatred, his dark eyes hard as glass.
He’s furious.
Because he knows his time is up.
“This is on behalf of Mr Goto.” I shoot him twice in the chest. With me, it’s always twice. Just in case the first one misses something vital. Can’t take any chances. I like to be certain.
Lucini falls to the floor, dead.
And with his life goes my last chance at ever being normal. I am who I am. Nothing’s going to change that.
His face is mashed against the carpet, the features twisted in death, as if in perpetual outrage.
The tanto is sheathed at my back. I pull it free and sever Lucini’s unmoving pinky finger at the joint. I pick it up with a small plastic ziplock bag, careful not to touch it. This will be my proof to Erika Goto, a gift of revenge for Kenichi Goto and a message for the Lucini family.
I stab the tanto into the wooden floor beside Vincent Lucini’s twisted face. It’s unmistakably Japanese. A souvenir. These mobsters will be left with no doubt as to which group ordered the hit on their favorite son.
They’ll be howling for blood.
The Kuroda Group better prepare for war.
Is this what Erika wanted? Is this all part of some greater plan? I wouldn’t put it past Erika and Hajime. The kumicho plots his moves from miles away. He’s brought about the downfall of entire rival Yakuza organizations, and they never saw it coming.
I rise slowly to my feet. There should be one more person in this house. Looking up, into the bedroom beyond, I spot a large bed with messed up sheets. At first, I see nothing. Then, there’s a slight twitch.
I walk slowly into the room.
There’s a woman, fuck, she’s barely more than a girl, lying on the bed. She’s tangled up in the sheets and she stares up at me with huge, brown eyes full of fear. Her hands and wrists are crudely tied together with rope.
Fucking Lucini. Is that what he was into?
She’s naked and trembling. I blink, staring at her f
ace for a long time, unmoving.
What the hell?
“I won’t talk,” she stutters, her voice low and soft and full of terror. “I didn’t see anything. I won’t say anything to anyone, ever. Just don’t kill me, please.”
She’s a witness. I should kill her.
“Please!”
There’s something about her face that strikes a deep, powerful memory in me.
“You working for these people?” I cast a sidelong glance at Lucini’s lifeless form. “As a whore?”
The girl shakes her head. “They took me. Forced me to do this. Because our family owed them money.” She laughs bitterly. “That fat asshole was about to ‘break me in’, as he said. I’m glad you killed him.”
“Shit.” I shake my head and sit down on the bed beside her, the gun dangling from my hand. My hard-wired logic tells me she needs to die. She’s young. She can be forced to talk. If the Feds ever got a hold of her, she’d spill. But she’s looking at me with those goddamn honey brown eyes that are full of fear and something else; gratitude. She’d rather die than be forced to fuck Vincent Lucini.
And she looks so hauntingly familiar.
“You remind me of someone,” I murmur. “You’re like a younger version of her.”
“The only person I sort of look like is my sister.” Her frightened expression turns curious. Her eyes move up and down, scrutinizing me. “And I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t know her.”
I meet her stare and she glances away, shy, afraid, vulnerable. I don’t know what I must look like to her. I’m dressed in black from head to toe. Black Lakers cap, black leather jacket, black jeans, black gloves. The Glock fits in my hand like an extension of my body, its weight comfortable and familiar.
People think killing is a dirty business. It can be, sometimes, but I like to keep my work quick and clean.
I take a deep breath, looking down at the beige carpet. Beside me, the girl doesn’t move. She’s perfectly still, her long, slender limbs bound together.
Ah, fuck.
I stand up, and she flinches. I tuck the gun into my waistband, spreading my palms. “Relax.” I reach over and untie her bonds. There are red welts around her wrists and ankles. She pulls the sheet around her naked body defensively. “I’m not going to kill you.”
Famous last words. She might talk. I have no way of ensuring she doesn’t. So why am I letting her go?
Maybe this is what a normal person would choose to do. I’m doing this, because it’s my choice.
I put a finger to my lips. “Not a word, remember?”
She nods, biting her lower lip. Tears pool in her eyes. She swallows, fighting them back. So similar, yet so different.
“You didn’t see me. You weren’t here when they were killed, got it? Get dressed, and disappear.”
I turn and walk out, stepping over Vincent Lucini’s dead body, down the stairs and outside, into the broad daylight. I pull the cap down over my eyes. Anyone sees me, they’ll say the same thing: male, Asian, late twenties, early thirties, maybe. Hard to tell. Wearing a black Lakers cap, dark glasses. I could be hundreds of thousands of guys in the state of California.
For the first time in my life, I’ve left a witness alive. I couldn’t do it. Not when she looks so much like her. And if by some crazy turn of fate they turn out to be related, she’ll have a good reason not to talk.
I’ll make sure of that.
Kaito
I leave the car in an empty street, south of downtown, keys in the ignition. I drop the Lakers cap on the driver’s seat, a souvenir. If a witness saw me, the only thing they’ll remember is the cap. To most eyes, I’m too generic looking. People are better at remembering the familiar. The car will be gone in a few hours, and the thieves will get rid of the fake plates. It’s the easiest way to dispose of a car, leaving nothing to link me to it. I catch a bus back to my apartment. The sun’s setting, painting the sky with fire. Rows of tall palms are silhouetted in black against the burning sky. The spectacular display does nothing to lift my bad mood.
Today has proven one thing to me. I’ve lost none of my skill when it comes to killing.
It came back way too easily. Like riding a bike.
A part of me secretly hoped the Kuroda Group would forget about me, and leave me to live out my bland, boring existence, just another face in this strange, wild city. I thought I could play at being half decent, even if my job involved money laundering. I’ve even given up smoking.
But the family never forgets.
That night in the sushi bar, I should have let those two assholes beat me half to death. Would have, if they hadn’t touched Adele. Then, I never would have fallen under Erika Goto’s radar.
Damn that stupid temper of mine.
Now I’m doing dirty work again, nothing more than a paid killer. When the Kuroda Group calls, you come running. Because they can fuck up everything for you, in an instant, worse than you could ever have imagined. I’ve seen it happen before. I’ve done it to people.
Who am I kidding? They were always going to call on me, sooner or later. Once you join the yakuza, you never leave.
When I reach the lobby of my apartment, the concierge, a guy called Sanada, pulls me aside with an apologetic bow.
He works for the Kuroda Group too, even if he doesn’t know it. They own the building.
“Araki-sama, my humble apologies.” He’s speaking keigo, the most polite form of Japanese. It’s faintly ridiculous, and it irritates me. That means there’s a problem.
“What’s the problem?”
“That woman, I told her you weren’t home, but she insisted. She said you would be displeased if I sent her away. I told her to come back later, but she said she needed to see you urgently, that it was an emergency.” The concierge bows again, stiffly. “She was making a scene. I was going to call security, but she told me you would be very upset if I had her removed. There were other residents in the lobby at the time. She was really causing a scene! So I allowed her up. I didn’t know what else to do. My most humble apologies.”
“You let her into my apartment?”
“No, of course not. I just let her up in the elevator. She’s probably waiting at your door. If you want me to call security, I can, but I didn’t want to upset you, in case what she was saying was true. I’m so sorry. Truly sorry.” He hovers beside me, flustered and awkward.
I sigh. Now is not the time. I don’t want to see Adele when I’m like this. I want to go upstairs and drink whiskey and sit and watch the city until the sun sets and it becomes a glittering mess in the darkness.
I want to be alone, because I’m not a nice person right now.
I’m half tempted to ask the concierge to call security, but I can’t do that to her. I can’t treat her with that kind of disrespect. At the very least, she needs to see my face when I tell her to leave. I turn to Sanada. “Relax, Sanada-san. You did fine. I’m going up now.”
“Of course, Araki-sama.” He falls over himself in relief. Management must keep these guys scared. Anything less than perfection won’t be tolerated. It’s an unwelcome slice of home. I shake my head. Sanada’s just a kid, barely out of his teens. Probably working and studying. They’re all studying, trying to improve themselves, to get a leg up in the world.
I fish a twenty dollar bill out of my pocket. Tipping is so American, so un-Japanese. I’m making a point. “Go get yourself some cigarettes or something. Take a break. You look like you need it.”
Sanada starts to refuse, but I glare at him. He shuts his mouth, blinks, and takes the money.
No-one in this town can refuse money.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Adele
There’s a balcony at the end of the corridor on Kaito’s floor. I flop down on one of the wooden seats, taking in the city sprawled out below. The sun’s turned a fiery red. A warm breeze tugs at my dress, and it flutters around my bare legs.
I keep half an eye on the corridor. I don’t care if I have to wait all night to catch him. I’v
e run out of options. Mina’s still missing and the police haven’t turned up any leads. I’m desperately hoping that Kaito might be able to do something, might know someone who can give us a lead.
I’ll settle for anything right now.
The other fact is that I need to see him. These last few days, I’ve missed him. I’ve come to find his quiet presence beside me reassuring. I want to see his face, those dark eyes that miss nothing, the full, sensual lips that can be harsh or kind, depending on his mood.
I get up and lean over the balcony railing, into the wind, the warm breeze whipping my hair around my face.
The fine hairs on the back of my neck rise, and I turn around.
Kaito’s there, leaning in the doorframe, staring at me. The man is a ghost. I didn’t hear him at all. He’s wearing a pair of dark glasses, making his expression hard to read. He’s dressed in black from head to toe. Black jeans, black leather jacket, black t-shirt. He’s even wearing black leather gloves, the kind used for driving.
“What are you doing here, Adele?” His voice is cold. He seems different, somehow.
“I need to talk to you.”
“I’m right here.”
“Preferably in private.” I glance past him to see a woman in gym clothes exiting the elevator. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
Kaito turns and gestures for me to follow with a flick of his head, not saying a word. I trail him into his apartment. He walks straight over to his fridge, opens the door and places something inside. I try to see what it is, but he’s too quick.
He turns around, removing the shades. It’s dark in his apartment. He hasn’t bothered to turn on the lights. The glow of the setting sun plays against blank walls, casting abstract shadows amongst fragments of orange and red light.
“What are you doing here, Adele?” Kaito’s voice is soft. I’m coming to understand that tone of voice. It puts me on edge.
“Something’s come up,” I reply cautiously, waiting to gauge his response. “I wanted to ask your advice about it.”
