“Have you packed?” Umito asks.
“Yes.” But nothing I own is worth more than my ass. I loop my traveling purse over my shoulder and bend to grab the handle of my hard-side luggage when Umito says, “Allow me.”
“Alright, uh, since you're so talkative, what should I know about Ryoichi?”
“He will treat you good,” Umito says, strapping a duffle bag over his shoulder and tugging the suitcase. “Very, very good.”
“Uh-huh.” I stroll into the empty living room. Not a single inch of the five-star hotel tells a story. Every elegant touch is perfectly arranged. There's a wealth of silk throw pillows, so nobody's gonna miss the one blown to smithereens. Unless there is a stickler of a housekeeper who jots down the friggen missing pillow that was anaccessory to murder, and then I'm charged, and I won’t get a chance to explain. I won't be granted the chance to pay.
I'll have bad credit! Girl, forget that.What about your Tatsun?
I suffer a glance where the Book Boyfriend Extraordinaire took his last breath.
Dang, the coastal-area rug's missing.
Yup. Tatsun died, and I owe at least a thousand dollars in incidentals.
“Where's the rest of the gang?” I snort.The yakuza, Ryann. The proper term's yakuza, girl.
“Gang? We are no such thing,” Umito utters in perfect English. “We are a family.”
“Brothers from the same mother? Different fathers?”
He mutters under his breath about Ryoichi's stepfather as we walk toward the door.
“I didn't hear . . .” I step closer to Umito, head tilted in genuine curiosity.
“I was saying it was regrettable. Ryoichi took the life of his stepfath—”
In a split second, I react like one of the actresses in one of Essence’s and my guilty pleasures—a friggen Lifetime movie. My knee launches up, targeting the man's privates. Umito tumbles between the luggage, writhing in the fetal position. I lift a milk glass vase. His eyes go wide the same way my ancient Sunday school teacher’s had when I dropped baby Jesus and scurried off the stage during a church play.
Baby Jesus was a Baby Alive. I still haven’t the slightest idea why she fell off the stage trying to save him. In retrospect, it might have been she was going senile. Or the cataracts. Anyway, I was five, and my dad said acting in the Christmas play would cure my shyness. That was a lie.Ugh, focus, Ryann!
“I'm sorry, Umito. If Ryoichi murdered his stepfather, I can't trust him or you by association. So . . .”
Bam!The decor cracks over Umito's head, bits of glass crashing around him. I skitter around on the soles of my tennis shoes and make a mad dive for the door.
I open it swiftly and can't tell if my bones are attempting to flee my body as fast as I'm moving. Damn, if my middle school PE teacher could see me now! I pause at the elevators at the end of the hall. The blood in my veins pops like Bang Snaps. My body is literally rattling.You're calling attention to yourself, Ry.
Soft chuckling beckons my attention, and I glance over my shoulder. A white-haired couple—laughing, good, ol' retired laughter—strolls in my direction. A few suite doors past them is . . .
Ryoichi.
Should I involve the man who could easily be someone's great-grandpappy? They've lived a long, fruitful life. Opposing thoughts shift through my psyche as I climb onto the elevator and press the close button.
That settles it. I'll tell one of the workers in the lobby.
The old bitty cuts her eyes at me as her husband jams his hand between the sliding panels at the last possible second. She mutters, “You could've held the door.”
Lady, I'm tryna save your life.
I shift over, giving them a wide birth, again pressing the close button. A war ensues when Mrs. Thang stuffs her finger into the open button on the panel at her side of the elevator.
Ryoichi saunters into the lift, offering me a smug smile while addressing the oblivious couple. “It's refreshing to cross paths with a lovely couple such as yourself. Not in a rush. Not taking any day for granted.”
“No, son, we relish every moment we’re alive,” the husband says.
Seconds later, I'm imprisoned in the elevator as the doors swoosh closed. And even more, I'm held captive by an intense gaze. Heat radiates from Ryoichi's hard body. He hasn't replaced the blazer. My eyes fall over his tailored button-up. I drink in every bulge in his arms. I stare at the pure muscle of his chest and abdomen and how he's smoothed the shirt back into his pants.