By the tables of the arena I sit disgruntled, mind wandering, eyes staring, fingers poking food with chopsticks, not daring lift head to face directly at Tsumibito.
Tonight, he sits with a different maiden, one who's far more glorious than the last, one who's clad in a kimono that differs in hue from those of the rest that occupy the room. The man manages -so easily- to bring forth emotions so dark, feelings buried deep within the very core of my being.
The maidens, on the other hand, have outdone themselves this eve, cooked up a feast and littered the smooth polished surface of tables with foods upon foods coupled with good vintage grape wine. But for what reason? For what special occasion? A query whose response only they, the subordinates, and their master have knowledge of.
Speaking of which, Tsumibito is up on his feet, his platters partly touched, drawing in the attention of only a handful of the members sat. He nods towards Karai, moves to one side of the arena, speaks lowly to the female with arms folded and brows furrowed. She is quick to bow head in silent submission at his words.
He returns to the table, the deadness of his monotone effectively shushing the room.
"Joktan, I should be visiting the Bonohoé Casino tonight. Alter the surveillance systems beforehand."
"Yes, master," the man Joktan responds with quickness, lowering head as he speaks.
After long minutes of gawking at the meal sat before me, I stand on my feet, bow curtly to the Oyabun, proceed for the doors in humble muteness. Karai is beside me in simple seconds undoubtedly with arms clasped before her out of habit. We both mount the series of interconnected steps leading up to my chamber and tread past the doors leading into the room.
She dolls me up, straightens the curls of my head and plaits them in readiness for the wig I am yet to slap on. She applies a thick coat of what she refers to as kajal around the rims of both eyes, some glistening jet-black lipstick, a silver choker too, hands me a pair of cobalt-hued contact lenses, suggests a sultry gown of a black color paired with silvery strap heels.
She speaks little to nothing during the entirety of the period spent with me, working and moving in muteness.
I sense that a thing is going on because even as I make attempts to hold eye contact, she averts her gaze quicker than I can blink. I do a slow, purposeful three-sixty by the full-length mirror, eyeing my reflection with a hint of satisfaction and appreciation.
"You are lovely, miss," Karai complements as she stands by the doors of the chamber.
But even so, a simple, tight smile and a nod is all the response I can afford.
Dressed and dolled for my own persecution, my very own funeral?
As I work to pad towards and glide past the doors, Karai stops me right in my tracks, bows as if in silent mourning, brings folded fist to press into her open palm whilst she does.
"You are a fierce woman, miss. Bless your soul."
And as she straightens and stares, I stare back in perplexity.
"It is good that we go. The master awaits in his vehicle and we dare not toy with punctuality," her accent is quite thick, her voice sounding strained.
She leaves no room for inquiry or debate, only spinning on her heel and slipping out of the room with arms clasped to her front.
A few minutes, say seven or so, and Karai and I are padding into the extensive parking lot, halting by the bodywork of a chiq vehicle. Chauffer is quick as he moves to open and shut door for me and inside, my moods turn sour instantaneously. Tsumibito is perched by the other end of the back seat glancing at simple emptiness through tinted windows, clad so finely in black-as-night.
Armani suit, first two buttons of his blackened shirt undone, golden ring and dangling necklace that seem to glimmer, darkened shades that hide the venom in his eyes, Italian loafers; well-polished, all tattoos thoroughly concealed and dyed locks of hairs that lazily sit atop his head pouring down to the skin of his forehead.
He turns to me, but this time, only seriousness is present, all and every trace of humour having melted.
"Do not attempt anything foolish, Rosa. My moods are none to be tested tonight."
I scoff, looking from him to outside the windows whilst the car's engine revs.
"You have decided that you wouldn't sedate me?" I test the waters, choosing to look anywhere else but in his direction.
He keeps his hold on the silence for long minutes, but I can feel the heat of his glances, feel his eyes roaming, unravelling.
"I should admit. Your confidence is astounding, Rosa."
More fleeting quietness.
I don't work fast enough to evade the needle that punctures into my forearm, grimacing and wincing as it slips into and from my skin. My vision begins to dim, the voidness rearing its head, threatening my consciousness until I finally give in, throw in the towel, embrace the nothingness instead.
"I fucking detest you, Tsumibito," with fragility, with feebleness, I whisper at the man who so slightly tilts his head to gaze down upon me with stoicism.
"The feeling is mutual, Rosa. Shss, you talk too much, rest now..."
††††††††††††††
Only minutes back, had I woken to the overpowering stench of alcoholic drink wafting against my nostrils, wrists so mercilessly cuffed and rested upon my thighs. Did I speak a thing, air my exasperation? Fuck no! Because what should be the point of bemoaning my pains to a man so detached from humanity?
Now, still sat in the car, he speaks to the man Joktan via the earpiece hooked to the skin behind his left ear as he stares towards his front blankly and nods head.
"Have you handled the surveillance systems? Mhmm, good."
We alight the vehicle in suffocating quietness -his palm on the small of my back- and tread towards the glass dome that is the casino. We pad through a back door and finally into the classy interior; one with numerous neon beams that flicker; from a flaming pink, to a fiery red, down to an icy blue and a deep grassy green.
The atmosphere within is heavily laced in cigar smoke and expensive wines and strong spirits and sweaty bodies that grind against each other.
From my aerial position, I watch in fascination as strippers sway and shimmer their hips under the glaring illuminations, gyrating and twerking against both poles as well as men old enough to be grandfathers. And these men -most of them being old while others are in the ripe age of their youthhood- are the epitome of filthy rich.
They puff on thick tobacco pipes clutched between crusty lips, they tip and sip on intoxicating amber liquid, they gamble their lot, sniggering and cackling maniacally and with rotting teeth at goodness knows what.
Tsumibito's palm is still resting on the small of my back whilst we proceed down more quieter marble corridors lit in red bulbs. The other palm, he uses to clutch onto a small briefcase of sorts. Descending further down steps to what appears to be underground chambers, we come up to a single door by the end of the hall. And there, we stand for short minutes.
"Obal, tonight, you are royalty; a Princess from an ethnic group known as the Yoruba of Nigeria; Africa. Saida Olajowo. Make no blunder lest you be executed," he whispers into my ear, leaves me both restless as well as petrified.
Words like bane, voice like silk.
He leaves no chance for rebuttal, no time for speech, reaches for a key card from the inside of his blazers, swiping through lock. Lock clicks, doors glide, and we slip right in. The sight that welcomes us so faithfully with open arms has my heart thrumming intensely, has the pulse pumping harshly in my temples.
Two men, old lads, clad in designer suits and top hats and glittering jewelry and polished brogues, sit under the chandelier's illuminations, puffing and exhaling the dense grey cigar smoke.
Four more guards, buff and statue-still, are stood by each corner of the chamber and none wears a look of jolly or gladness. Doors behind us glide shut, then lock, and that is all the sound we need to proceed towards the vacant leather sofa, assuming our respective positions on the seat.
A million and three questions criss-cross the front of my mind and as the shorter of the two men turns in his seat to unashamedly drink in my features, my heart palpitates louder, the repulsion heightening with every second that ticks....
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Red As Snow...(BWAM, Yakuza Romance, 18+)
Romance"Growing up, my mama always told me one thing; bad company did corrupt good morals. I did not believe her, did not believe those words she'd said to me with such conviction. That was until I crossed paths with a man so lethal, a man so utterly consu...
