Yakuza Boy: Or the Man with Painted Flesh (~Unedited~)

Chapter 1

I knew that drinking wasn't my strong suit. I knew it the night of my twenty first birthday... the feel of the clear liquid and how it had left a hot, burning sensation in my chest. After that night I vowed to never drink again...

Nala poured more sake into my glass and I dumped the contents into her glass. My cup would be overflowing if I added another drop.. What a waste...

She sucked her teeth at the action and I hopped off of the bar stool. My legs wobbled slightly..
"My stomach is all fucked up... take me home."
I demanded.

She sighed dramatically and dug around in her purse. I wrapped my arms around my stomach, praying that the bathrooms were clean here. The alcohol in my belly felt like acid. I willed my mind to other things and drunkenly waltzed ungracefully to the ladies' room.

I locked myself into the furthest stall from the door and fell back on the toilet seat, sighing in relief because I was finally able to empty my bladder.

My eyes started to flutter and I almost face planted the floor.

The cool water from the surprisingly pristine sink woke me up a little and my mind was set on finding Nala and leaving when a man and woman bumped my shoulder.

I immediately narrowed my eyes and sucked my teeth.
"Excuse you.." I mumbled.

The man must have heard me because he whipped around with his tipsy date and turned his nose up. I turned around, hand on my hip and challenged him to say something to me.

In my opinion, he was extremely overdressed for a bar hidden in Nagoya. Dark eyes, medium length hair slicked back, expensive black suit with a crisp red shirt slightly unbuttoned, shiny polished shoes and flawless pale skin. There was a hint of a tattoo along his collar bone.

The woman on his arm pressed herself closer to him and gave me a quick glance before locking her eyes on his face. It was eerie because the look in her eyes was that of a person that had just come face to face with a god.

I scoffed at the man and turned on my designer heel, refusing to give him anymore of my time.

I groaned in annoyance when I saw Nala and her admirer basically dry humping.

My eyes locked with hers and I nodded, lifting my hand. She pulled back from the man's face and smiled apologetically. We often had conversations with only a look. I was going home.

The street was lit up and thankfully we were only staying fifteen minutes from the bar. My heels were swinging from my hand while I walked and I tightened my hold on them when the figure walking a few feet behind me continued to follow.

Growing up, my mom and I lived in all types of neighborhoods. I knew when a I was being watched and I was always on my toes. I had been a few situations where I had been followed home and I was already walking through how I was going to beat the hell out of whoever the person was.

I took a sharp right even though my temporary home was five hundred feet in front of me.

When the man mimicked my action, I ran.

The pounding of his shoes on the pavement made a chill run down my spine.

Unfortunately for me, the only people around to witness were a few beggars and I knew they wouldn't intervine on my behalf.

I tried to run in a zig zag only to be met with the dead end. I gasped and pressed my back flat against the wall while I held the heel of my stilettos in front of me, my only form of protection.

"Stay back!" I grunted.

The man cocked his head to the side and seemed to be pondering his next move.

He was saying something but it wasn't in English. He started to walk closer and I tried to maintain a grip on the heel.

"I said back off!"
I swung the heel at him just as he was reaching out his hand out to me.

Droplets of blood fell on the pavement and he held his hand close to his face, studying the open wound I had just inflicted. The blood was running in a fast stream along his wrist but he didn't grimace. He simply reached into his suit jacket, removing a handkerchief. He dabbed at the blood and wrapped his hand.

And like an idiot, I just stood and watched.

What I didn't see was how his other hand make contact with my face, sending me to ground.

My cheek was stinging like crazy and when I held my hand up to it, a slick substance informed me that the skin was broken.

The man stooped down in front of me and grabbed my face roughly.

"Stupid American whore..."
He spoke in broken English.

My eyes widened in fear.

My stalker stood to his feet and waved with his hand. Two men dressed in similar suits hoisted me up.

There was something oddly familiar about the way they dressed. I couldn't place my finger on it.

"Yakuza usually doesn't take black women but all pussy feels the same. Fucks the same..." He said the last part with a smirk.

Tears flowed down my cheeks.

The Yakuza:  one of Japan's oldest and deadliest gangs.
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I've kept you waiting long enough.

First and foremost, thank you for supporting my work! I missed you guys.

Secondly, thoughts?

_Madison ❤️