Page 12 of Pragma
Unbeknownst to Joel, I remained in contact with her until she died. After that, I hired a PI just to keep an eye on him. He was doing okay, starting his own men’s lingerie online shop. But thenout of the blue he moved to New York a month ago. I talked to my contact in the city, and he told me that Joel was asking about me around our old neighborhood. And fuck, I didn’t like that. I don’t want him to get into trouble or to find out what I’d been up to in those days—which was nothing good. Not that he would find much; the day I followed Aki, River Locke from New York died and a new identity was created, a new life for me on the East Coast.
But it seems like Joel has been chasing my shadow since he came here. I also found out that he’s spending time with Arturo Enzino, the son of a ruthless Italian mafia boss. I sacrificed so much to keep him out of this life, and somehow he got sucked back in. What the fuck is he doing partying with a spoiled mafia prince? People say that Arturo Enzino is not part of his family’s criminal activities, but can he really be out when he was born into it? What to do? Joel thinks I’m dead. I thought it was better that way. But is that still the case when he’s putting himself in danger?
I down the whisky as rain keeps coming down and my thoughts continue wandering inside my head. Aki’s reflection suddenly appears in the window’s glass. He has a towel around his neck, wet hair, and bare torso, wearing only a pair of cotton water-green panties. The stark sight of the bulge on the front wrapped in such sweet fabric makes my blood boil.
I turn to look at him as he sets a bottle of disinfectant and a bandage on the counter. His right arm and half his chest are covered in red, blue, white, yellow and black ink. A tattoo of a rabbit embracing a snake, fighting among water and flames—the same design continues on my left arm and pec with the white snake trying to prevail on the intrepid rabbit.
Intricate, colorful, and full-body tattoos are a symbol of status, courage, and allegiance within the yakuza.The tattoos, typically hidden under clothing, signify membership, status, and personal stories within the organization. It’s not uncommon for underlings to get the same tattoo design as the boss. It’s a show of loyalty and fealty. But Aki decided on this design with me in mind. I’m the rabbit and he’s the snake. Fighting while embracing each other everyday.
“More poison?” he asks with his back to me as he pours himself a glass of the finest Japanese whisky.
“Don’t drink too much,” I state. I’ve cleaned up after a wasted Aki too many times to fucking count. My eyes fall on the upper curve of his ass, home to two sexy dimples and four little moles positioned in a way to form a smirking mouth—right on his juicy ass cheek.
“Servants aren’t allowed to speak their minds unless asked,” he retorts teasingly.
“Not a servant,” I give him the usual reply, continuing the old game we’ve been playing since we met.
“Prefer the term lackey?”
I glare at him.
“Valet? Footman? Page boy? How about majordomo?”
“Did you fucking google this shit?” I growl. Even though his persistence is amusing, I refuse to encourage his psychotic traits.
He smirks, but leaves his middle finger up around the glass as he drinks.
“You’re nothing if not subtle.” I huff as I take the silk nightgown from the back of the sofa and toss it at him. I can’t keep my gaze away from his seductively delicate frame any longer, damn it!
It’d seem like he’s testing me, but this is just typical Aki. He hasn’t a modest bone in his body.
“What’s with the mice?” I ask, trying to distract myself. Lately, keeping my self-restraint is becoming difficult.
He sets the glass down to put on the red garment. Thank fucking god.
“For the snakes, obviously.”
“Right. Are the snakes in the wooden crate?” My eyes flicker to the box on the counter as Aki moves toward it.
“Duh,” he mocks me. He unzips the bag and pulls out the Ziploc bag containing the human head.
“Open the box,” he then tells me, still holding the severed head up inside the bag. The eyes have turned milky, reminding me of a zombie from some movie.
I pull on the wooden lid—gritting my teeth against the sting in my shoulder—and slowly slide it to the side as I hear hissing from inside. Three black snakes are coiled on a bed of white flower petals. He opens the plastic bag and drops the head in the center, careful not to leave fingerprints on it, but with no caution toward the snakes. He then grabs the three mice and drops them inside the crate as well before signaling me to close it.
“I’m going to send this to the Triad’s warehouse.” He snickers as he sticks a red bow on top of it. Where the hell did he even get it from?
“White petals?”
“Couldn’t find a white snake on such short notice. Had to be creative.” He shrugs. He wants Ling Wang to know it’s from us.
“When did you prepare all this?”
“Last night. After I binged theSopranos. Didn’t want to get a horse head. I like horses. I hate when people try to fuck with me, though. It must be fate.”
Fate. He couldn’t be more cliché, and the horse head is from theGodfathernot theSopranos. “You made this happen. Sending this won’t change anything.” It will only make Ling Wang even more enraged toward us.
“Wrong. It already changed my mood.” He smiles, all smug and craziness.
