by Staci Hart
A warning rang in Kat’s mind. These men were dangerous. These men knew her father.
“Hey, little girl. Whatcha playin’? Barbies?” he asked in a thick New York accent.
Kiki eyed him and nodded.
He smiled. “Oh, my little girl loves Barbies. You know, she just got one of them Dreamhouses. You know the kind? With the elevator?”
Kiki’s face lit up. ”I’ve been asking my papa for one! He said maybe for my birthday,” she added with a pout.
“Well,” he said with a smile too sweet, “how’d you like to come play with my little girl? She’s about your age. I think you’d be good friends.”
Kiki bit her lip as she watched him warily, wanting to trust him. “Can my sister come?”
The driver glanced down the street. “Manny, come on.” A thin sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead, and he dabbed at it with a handkerchief.
Something in the air changed, a quiver, a waver, the tension thickening. Kat glanced around for a weapon. An aluminum baseball bat stood propped against the house. She wrapped her fingers around it, and her eyes locked on the man on his knees in front of her sister.
Manny was losing his patience, his eyes darting up and down the street. “No, honey. Your sister can’t come. If you wanna play with the Dreamhouse, we gotta go. Now. Come on.”
He reached for her, but Kiki shrank back.
“Sorry, kid,” he said, all pretense of nicety gone. “I didn’t want to have to do this.”
She screamed when he grabbed her, kicking and thrashing in his arms as he turned for the car.
Kat didn’t think. She just ran, bolting to the car, the bat in her sweaty hand, cocking it back to swing at the moment just before she’d have lost him. The force shot up her arms, the ting of the bat and the sick crack of his knee in her ears, his scream right behind it. He fell to the ground, dropping Kiki, who scrambled away and behind Kat.
Tires squealed in the distance, the climb of an engine, and Kat cranked her bat back, ready to take another swing. He picked himself up, sputtering and growling at her. His meaty hand reached for her, but he swung his head around when the driver slapped the roof of the car and dipped inside.
“We gotta go! Now!”
“Goddammit,” he shouted as he scrambled for the car, slamming the door behind him.
They peeled out and sped off just as another black car pulled up.
Two yakuza enforcers stepped out of the backseat, and the car drove off with a chirp of the tires the second the doors were closed.
Their faces were tight as one scooped up a sobbing Kiki and carried her inside. The other pried the bat from Kat’s fingers and walked her inside with a grip on her shoulder that told her he was just as afraid as she had been.
Grace sat on the couch, white as a sheet, Kiki in her arms. She opened an arm to Kat with shaking hands, and it wasn’t until then, until that moment, that the realization of what had happened could touch her. And she leaned into Grace’s side, arms around her neck, though she didn’t cry. She was too afraid to cry.
A half hour later, Kim burst through the door with bloodshot, swollen eyes, gathering her daughters up, clutching them to her chest. Katsu walked in behind her, still and cold and calm and deadly, not moving much past the door.
His four enforcers entered behind him, eyes on the ground, as he spoke Japanese, his tone like nothing she’d ever heard before. She picked up a word here and there as her mother rocked them, whispering that they were okay, that everything was okay.
But when she heard an enforcer say “Yubitsume,” every hair on her arms stood on end.
Even at nine, she knew what that was. Some of her father’s men were missing fingers, and one had told her — careless enough, as he could have lost another for it — what it meant. It was a sacrifice of atonement carried out by their own choice and volition when they’d dishonored their boss, an offering they would provide or would suffer a punishment far worse, doled by the hand of the boss they’d disgraced.
Kim heard the word too. She stopped rocking, her eyes darting to them, though her face was soft, comforting for her daughters’ sake.
“Come on, babies. Want to take a bath in Mommy’s tub?”
Kiki sniffled and nodded, and Kim moved the girls to her room where they took a bath in her giant jet-soaker tub. They spent the rest of the afternoon and that night in their mother’s bed eating, junk food.
At some point, Kat fell asleep, but she didn’t remember when or how, only that she woke up that morning in her own bed.
Voices carried into her room, and she threw off her covers, creeping out into the hallway in the still and quiet of the early morning. When she peeked around the corner of the kitchen, she saw Katsu leaning against the counter. His naked arms and chest were covered in tattoos — dragon scales and snakes, clouds and water, so many tattoos that she could only see a sliver of bare skin that cut through the center of his chest.
Kim stood at the sink, scrubbing a pot furiously enough that Kat thought it might have been clean some time ago. “I know we keep going around and around about this, but I just can’t get over it.” She put the pot down in the sink and wiped her hands. When she turned to him, her eyes were full of tears. “They almost took our baby. From our front yard. From our own home.”
He pushed off the counter and crossed the few feet between them, reaching for her. His arms wound around her, pulling her into him, and when she buried her face in his chest, he held her there with his hand in her hair, his voice hushed as he muttered something to her that Kat couldn’t hear.
“What are we going to do?” Kim asked softly, defeated.
“Please, believe me. You are safe. This should never have happened, and it will not happen again. Next time, no one will have enough time to get so close to any of you. I promise you that. A debt will be paid, a lesson learned. It will not happen again.”
A shudder rolled through Kim that Kat saw from across the room. “I don’t want to know.”
He leaned back to cup her cheek and kissed her gently, tenderly. “No one will harm you. No one will harm our daughters. On my life.” The words quavered.
Kim looked up at him with faith and devotion. “I believe you,” she whispered.
Kat shifted, and Kim’s eyes darted to her.
“Kat, come here, baby. You hungry?”
She nodded, eyes down, and walked to her mother, nestling silently into her side.
“How about pancakes? With chocolate chips?”
Kat’s fear dissipated just a little. “And whipped cream?”
“Extra whipped cream,” she said with a smile, smoothing Kat’s hair before scooting her off to the table.
Kat watched her mother walk to the pantry, laying a kiss on Katsu’s shoulder as she walked by.
He caught Kat watching and smiled, joining her. But then his smile slipped away, his eyes searching her face as he took the seat next to her.
“Katsumi, do you know who those men were? The men who tried to take Keiko?”
“Bad guys,” she answered quietly.
“Yes, they were bad guys. But you were very smart and very brave. And you saved your sister.”
Her lips pinched, brows drawn in determination. “They were gonna take her, Papa.”
“They were going to try. But you protected her. We always protect our family. Even when it is hard. Even when we are afraid. Even when we think we cannot. When you are older, I will teach you how to protect yourself, and your mama and Keiko too.” He lowered his face to look her in the eyes, his own soft as he brushed his knuckles against her cheek. “You are strong, my Katsumi. Stronger than you know. And I am proud.”
Owen pulled up in front of the gym, ducking down to look through the front window for Dillon. He hadn’t been home when Owen had got there, and he’d left his phone at home.
It meant he wanted to be left alone, but Owen knew his brother better than he knew himself.
Kat was different, and how Dillon felt about her was diff
erent. It was easy enough to deduce that something had gone wrong, and though he knew Dillon needed to think, he also knew Dillon’s mind would lead him to places of guilt, a downward spiral of blame and deprecation. And so Owen hoped to be the voice of reason, hoped his brother would hear him from the darkness of his mind.
He cut the engine when he caught sight of Dillon, shirtless and dripping with sweat as he beat the shit out of a punching bag.
Owen’s eyes were on Dillon the whole way into the gym, breaking only for a glance at Brian, who jerked his chin in Dillon’s direction. Owen nodded back, his feet still on a track to his brother. But Dillon couldn’t be interrupted. He needed to see himself through the moment he was lost in, never looking up, never slowing.
So Owen sat on a stool just out of the way, his eyes tracking an X of duct tape stuck to the side of the bag, the smiley face in the center swinging and jolting in time to Dillon’s fists as he punished the bag of leather and sand.
Dillon’s focus was intense and singular, his breath hissing with every swing, his body wound tight, sweat rolling and dripping from his body. The snake around his arm coiled and sprang, coiled and sprang, striking over and over, the balls of his feet pivoting, his abs twisting, the thump of his gloves popping, leather on leather, like music.
And Owen waited. He waited and watched. He thought, and he hoped. He wished for things neither of them could have.
It was quite some time before he finally wore himself out, slowing down, stopping. He rested his forehead against the bag, hanging his forearm in the space above, eyes closed, chest heaving.
Owen stood, picking up a towel from a nearby stack as he passed by, on his way to Dillon. Owen touched his arm.
Dillon’s eyes opened, widening in surprise at seeing Owen there, hardening just as quickly. He took the towel without speaking and ran it over his face.
Owen didn’t take offense, just took his seat once more and crossed his ankles in front of him, and waited.
When Dillon spoke, his voice was rough and exhausted. “Thanks for the help last night with Kat.”
The dig didn’t faze him; he knew his brother too well to believe it was meant to inflict pain. “I’m sorry, Dillon.”
Dillon reached for his water and took a long pull in a pause. When he swallowed, he pressed the pads of his fingers into his eyes, voice full of defeat. “I thought she was different.”
“She is different. I think we can all see that. There’s got to be something else to it.”
And then the defeat was gone, and anger took its place, the pendulum swinging again. “She doesn’t want me. If she did, she wouldn’t have left. There wouldn’t be a choice to be made.”
He fumed, hands on his hips, and Owen thought he looked like a child. A big, angry child.
“She doesn’t want me, and I was a fool for thinking she ever could.”
“She said that? She said she didn’t want you?”
“Not in so many words.”
“If she didn’t say it, you don’t know for sure. Maybe it was too fast. Maybe she’s scared. If you want to see her, if you want to be with her, don’t you think you should fight for her?”
“You really think that’s a good idea?” Dillon barked. “After she turned me down, walked out on me, told me she didn’t want to see me? I have a feeling she wouldn’t take to that real well.”
Owen sighed. “No, you’re probably right about that.”
Dillon ran a hand through his hair and lied to both of them. “It’s for the best. I’m not playing games, and I’m not taking a chance just so she can fuck with me. Why should I? She hasn’t shown me anything but disdain since the minute I met her.”
“You’re right,” Owen said dryly. “She’s a loner, protective, independent, fiercely loyal, mouthy, angry, and she has a huge chip on her shoulder. I can’t think of anyone else I know like that.”
Dillon narrowed his eyes. “Fuck off, Owen.”
But Owen uncrossed his ankles and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, giving Dillon time to take a breath.
Because the truth of the matter was right there. Dillon just had to get everything else out of his way so he could see it.
“What are you going to do?” Owen asked after a moment.
“Nothing.” Dillon pulled off his gloves, the finality in his voice closing the subject.
And Owen knew there was nothing else to say, not now at least. Maybe he’d cool down and think about it. Maybe he’d come around, and maybe Kat would too. Maybe there was a way for him and Kiki to help them find a way back to each other, back to where they’d been the night before.
Maybe.
He stood and offered Dillon his keys. “Come on. Want to drive?”
Dillon shook his head, his eyes hard and hurt and angry still. “I’m going to run. I’ll meet you at home later.”
He closed his hand around the keys and dropped his fist. “Sure.” And with one last long look at his brother, unwrapping his wrists and back in his own mind, Owen turned to go.
Brian raised an eyebrow at him from across the room, but Owen shook his head, pushing through the door and onto the sidewalk.
When he was back in the driver’s seat of the GTO, he pulled out his phone and called Kiki. The phone rang once.
“Hey.”
Her sigh in his ear gave him no hope.
“Hi. Did she make it home?”
“Yeah, she’s in the shower, and she’s pissed.”
“So is he.” Owen glanced back in the window, watching Dillon watching the ground like he’d find answers written there. “I’ve never seen him like this over a girl before, and I think that can only mean one thing. He cares about her, and whatever happened between them means he can’t have her.”
“Kat too. But instead of telling me what happened, she picked a fight with me. A huge fight.”
“What?” he asked stupidly. He’d heard her just fine.
Another sigh. “It’s complicated, but I don’t think the fight was really what we fought about, if that makes any sense. But she’s decided she can’t be with Dillon, and once she decides, there’s no going back, regardless of how she really feels. Instead, she’ll shove it down into the dark recesses of her heart and pretend like it never happened and doesn’t exist.”
“They’re so much alike, and that might be their end. Because if neither of them will bend, they’ll break.”
Silence stretched, both of them lost in their thoughts.
“Dillon has sacrificed everything for me — his happiness, his future, his life. He wants her, and he cares. I know it. If there’s any way to help smooth this over, I want to. I need to. We can’t let it end like this.”
“What should we do?”
He leaned back, resting his head on the leather. “Once he cools off, he’ll listen. But she’s the one who left this morning and told him she didn’t want him. It’s got to be her to come around.”
“Let’s give them a couple of days to miss each other, and in the meantime, we’ll keep trying to get them to come around. We’ll come up with a plan. I have faith.”
“Then I do too.” He turned the keys in the ignition with a sigh. “In more exciting news, I have an exam today, so I’ll be out early. Can I pick you up for dinner before you have to work?”
He could hear her smiling on the other end of the line.
“That would make my day so much better.”
And he smiled back as he pulled away from the curb, thankful for her, thankful for her sunshine and heart and the way he made her feel.
But he only said, “Mine too.”
Ares couldn’t help but smile as he sauntered through the kitchen, snagging a handful of fries from Dionysus’s plate, ignoring the obscenities shouted at him.
The look on Dita’s face when he pointed out his victory did that to him — made him blissfully happy.
Underestimated. Maybe for the last time, if he played it right.
Of course, when he walked into the game room and fou
nd his twin sons playing God of War, his smile hit the floor, and he stormed to the PlayStation and pulled the power cable out of the back.
Phobos shot off the couch, his blue eyes hard, hands thrown up in the air. “What the fuck, Ares?”
Ares folded his arms and glared. “That game is blasphemous fucking garbage.”
Deimos snickered. “You’re just mad because they wrote Kratos murdering you.”
“I’m immortal, asshole. I can’t die. And if I could, it certainly wouldn’t be by the hand of a fucking demigod.”
He was sneering and didn’t care. What he did care about was teaching the little shits a lesson in gaming. So he plugged the PlayStation back in, took God of War out, snapped it in half, and put in something else instead.
Ares tossed a controller to Deimos and grabbed one for himself, settling into the couch between them, which forced them both to move with a huff.
The boys — well, they weren’t so much boys anymore, but he couldn’t help but think of them that way — had his dark hair, though they wore theirs longer, and they were nearly as tall as he, though leaner. Their bright eyes, blue and bigger, like Dita’s, gave them an air of innocence, but the glint spoke of mischief and mayhem, their dark brows heavy, cunning. They looked so much like him, behaved so much the same, his sons who had ridden into battle with him. Fear and terror. Phobos and Deimos.
They might look innocent, but they were not.
Phobos propped his feet up on the coffee table as the game began, each of them on their own TV. “So Kat took off, just like I said she would.”
One corner of Ares’s lips rose. “You were right, but you don’t get credit. I set up the Vegas texts about Eric after sending him on a little rampage last night.”
Deimos shook his head. “I dunno. I still say it was a dumbass move. You’ve tipped her off.”
Ares slapped Deimos upside the head.
“Ow.” Deimos furrowed his brow, but his eyes didn’t leave the screen.
