I’ll sensually degrade her until she confesses.
As the face of our mafia’s front company, marriage will complete my image as a model citizen. When a prisoner offers his innocent niece as payment, I make her my wife.
But Vi isn’t innocent. She loves to be degraded, just as much as she loves forced pleasure. On top of that, she’s endlessly loyal to her family.
And I fall for her hard.
As time passes, it becomes clear my wife is hiding her family’s secrets. And once those truths come to light, I’m ordered to execute our enemies. The yakuza always comes first; I will do what’s right for my family.
But what about my wife?
Will I be forced to kill her too?
Author’s Note: This is an interconnected standalone. It contains disturbing content. Reader discretion is advised.
Content Warnings
Triggers: graphic violence, sexual abuse between family members (uncle and cousin rape the FMC, who is their niece; this is mentioned briefly in flashbacks), rape (includes drugs; uncle, cousin, and their friends rape the FMC; this is mentioned briefly in flashbacks), interrogation, torture, non consent, dubious consent
Kinks: degradation, derogatory praise, breath play, non consent, dubious consent, electro play, exhibitionism, forced orgasms, restraints, squirting, toys
Notes: This was originally titled Cunning Lies. The re-release has been revised with 6k additional words throughout the book. However, the plot and characters remain the same.
Interconnected Standalone: The couple gets their HEA, but the mafia plot continues throughout the series.
Chapter 1
Kenzo
“A damn shame,” I mutter, thumbing through the playlists on the device. “No appreciation for the classics.”
Orchestral notes play through the cell’s speakers. It’s technically classical music, but it’s not what I mean by “the classics.” Each note vibrates through my veins, and although it’s not my typical genre, it pairs nicely with the idiot handcuffed to the table. He’s sitting on a metal chair, and there’s a deep slice on his cheek, which exposes those red-stained teeth. His gag is soaked, and with his head tilted back, it drips down his chin, dribbling over his shoulder, and pooling on the cement beneath him. The pink puddle glimmers under the stark fluorescent lights.
I turn up the volume, letting the floating tune wash over me. This is my favorite holding cell; it has the best surround sound system in the entire resort, installed just for me on days like this. I even got the boss to add a turntable and a cabinet with our favorite vinyl records.
The contrast of the strings against his blood should be enough for me. I want the classical music to compensate for what’s missing in this violent interrogation.
It doesn’t.
“No Eagles?” I ask, gesturing at his phone. “No Styx? Tell me you have Aerosmith.”
He moans through the gag, but he’s barely audible over the music. Mild excitement bubbles in my blood vessels as I adjust the camera on the tripod, then crouch down. Usually, I’m more creative than this—I like having fun, pushing these corporate big shots to their limits, seeing how far they can go before they beg for mercy—but the music is distracting. I am classic rock and murder, not humiliation and work.
The strings crescendo, and I use my switchblade to conduct the imaginary orchestra, but it’s still not right.
I lean down, putting our ears next to each other. Better to hear over the music. He pulls away from me. I inch closer.
“How old are you, Mr. CEO?” I ask.
“Sss-sees-dee-woor—”
“Sixty-two.” I whistle.
This CEO has thirty-two years on me, and yet I’m the one who can appreciate music from his youth? He should be killed for that alone!
I run my thumb across my switchblade. The metal gleams, and the poor bastard winces.
I’m not supposed to kill him; I’m supposed to humiliate him. Teach him a lesson. Motivate him to do what we ask. It’s not much: sell your assets and give the money to us, or we’ll tell your humble stockholders what you actually do on the weekends. They won’t appreciate their CEO spending their company’s charity money on Shabu-8 and strippers.
“Sixty-two years old,” I continue, “and you still don’t know how to keep your bad habits a secret.”
He sobs into his gag, breaking up the music. My ears throb, adrenaline buzzing in my fingertips.
Blood on the floor. Music in my chest.
Does it amuse me or bore me?
“At least you have music on your phone,” I laugh. “You should have seen what happened to the one who didn’t have any music.”
I flip through Mr. CEO’s playlists again, but it’s all classical music, and that irritates me.
I run the tip of the blade over the side of his neck, his loose skin bunching up under the metal. My white suit jacket shifts forward.
“You know,” I say. He squirms, and a grin takes over my expression. “We were only trying to help you. The Endo-kai wants nothing more than to see your company succeed.”
“Ya-caa—” he tries to scream. “Ya-ya-coo—”
He’s right. I am from the yakuza.
A tear runs down the side of his cheek, burning through the peek-a-boo cut I gave him earlier, and I chuckle, increasing the pressure on the blade, letting it break his neck skin. A thin spray of blood marks my suit, which is why I wear white. Everything is bland, but with red on white, it’s like a sunset in paradise, a blank canvas made into art again.
But the stains are monotone today. I’ve done this exact kind of kill. There’s nothing special about it. I want something different, something more. I’m on a journey to his grave, but I want a higher dose of satisfaction this time.
Shambala.
I smack my side with my free hand. The song pops into my head, and I can’t think of anything else.
I shove the knife back into my pocket and toss the CEO’s phone to the side. I pick through a cabinet and find the right album, then add it to the record player. The speakers begin playing “Shambala,” the perfect song to pair with the CEO’s torture. Warm relief flickers inside of me.
The door swings open behind me. The shuffle of feet rattle over the cement floor. I keep my eyes on my device, adding to the dismissive tension I know agitates our prisoners. One of our enforcers must be bringing the CEO’s second-in-command to make sure the lesson is fully understood. A huff escapes the CEO—perhaps a verbal acknowledgement of his friend—and the enforcer clicks the new prisoner’s handcuffs to the other side of the table.
A subtle scent lingers under the stench of concrete and rubbing alcohol, something I hadn’t noticed before. Burnt sugar. I snicker to myself, then click play on the chosen song. Either the CEO never stopped getting lap dances from strippers, or his fear smells sweet.
I keep my back to them, my shoulders dancing to the song’s beat as I ready the knife again.
“You like Three Dog Night?” I shout over the music. A groan ripples through the room, like someone startling awake, but the chorus fills my head, and I can’t help but sing along with the lyrics and keep dancing. Their lessons can wait.
“Where am I?” a woman asks, her silky voice extremely high pitched, rampant with fear. “Uncle Jay? Please. What have you done with him? We didn’t do anything wrong!”
I spin around on the beat and find a young woman in her early twenties, handcuffed to the table just like I expected, but she’s blindfolded with a thick sash of fabric. Natural reddish-orange hair is strapped down under the blindfold, and freckles paint her skin. A hoodie is slung over her shoulders, hiding her figure. Light pink lips.
I raise a brow. I don’t recognize her from the meetings at the CEO’s corporate office, and judging by the shake of her bottom lip, she feels out of place too. The common instinct would be to assume she’s the CEO’s college-aged daughter or perhaps his stripper-turned-girlfriend, but judging by her clothes, neither of those seem right, and I would’ve taken notes about relationships like that.
Her teeth nab at her puckered bottom lip, and I suck in a breath. Burnt sugar. Like butter and candied crystals left in a saucepan for too long. If I had seen her before, I would’ve recognized her.
She’s not supposed to be here.
A curious sensation trickles over me, like the faint hint of needles dabbing at my skin. She can’t see, which gives me more leeway, and with the music on, I want to finish this before the chorus begins to fade.
I slip behind Mr. CEO, and he fidgets like a hamster in a wheel. Then I take the perfect gleaming knife to his throat. I keep my eyes on the blindfolded woman. I like that she can’t see me. She doesn’t even know who I am, or that I’m about to kill a man in front of her. A man she believes could be her uncle.
Mr. CEO groans through his gag as I press the blade against his throat, and she stiffens, almost as if she knows what’s happening.
“Please don’t hurt him,” she whispers, obviously still convinced the man is her uncle.
I run the knife across the CEO’s throat, and the blood gushes over my white jacket and spills over his chest. The blood begins to gurgle as it leaves his throat, and her head lowers like she knows the other captive is dead, even if she can’t see it. Tears wet the collar of her hoodie. I briefly consider comforting her with the fact I doubt she’s related to the poor sack I just killed, but then, I don’t owe her anything.
The song changes, and I slip out of the room. I’ll have to see why the boss sent her to me.
Chapter 2
Kenzo
In the hallway, one of our enforcers leans against the wall.
“Dareda?” I ask. Who?
“The prisoner’s niece,” the enforcer says. “The kumicho said you would want to see her.”
The boss thinks I want to see a prisoner’s niece?
“Kumicho? Dokoda?” I ask. Boss? Where?
I slip out of my jacket as the enforcer tilts his head. “Sports lounge.”
The sports lounge is surrounded by television screens, each hosting a completely different game. Horse racing. Football. Soccer. Even skiing. You don’t know how much you can actually bet on until you live in Las Vegas. And just like the enforcer said, the boss is in his favorite spot. He’s harsh and angular with dark brown eyes and gray hair framing his face. Like usual, he’s resting on a barstool, treating it like his throne, but in reality, it hides his limp.
Cherry, his only daughter, sits next to him. She’s hāfu—half Japanese, half American—though she leans into her mother’s looks. Shoulder-length candy-red hair sits on her shoulders, and tattoos wrap around her arms. A septum piercing hangs from her nose. She’s dressed completely in red with red ankle boots to match. Her favorite color is obvious. She’s ripped too. No one messes with Cherry when it comes to mixed martial arts.
“Where’s your jacket?” Tomo asks. I hold it up, showing off the bloody artwork; it’s a running joke between us. Cherry pretends to scoff, and Tomo laughs. “What about humiliating him? Weren’t you going to make him do Shabu-8 while he had to finger himself on camera?”
I lift my shoulders. “Got distracted. The woman.”
“Ahh,” Tomo nods, pleased with the development. “Did you let him off easy, then?”
I shake my head. “He didn’t have any classic rock on his playlist.”
“Unappreciative bastard,” Tomo mutters. He’s the only one who gets that side of me, because he’s the one responsible for it. Instead of beating me when I stole from one of his protection rackets, he gave me a family and an addiction to classic rock. Though I don’t call him “Dad,” he’s like a father to me. But he’s also our oyabun. Our kumicho. Our yakuza boss. Even as a kid, I respected him too much to call him “Dad.”
“And the woman is in the cell?” Tomo asks.
I grin. “I left her listening to Three Dog Night.”
Tomo chuckles. “The perfect orchestra to introduce her to you!”
“You weren’t supposed to torture her ears too,” Cherry says dryly.
“How could I resist?” I joke. “If the boss thinks I’d like her, I may as well get her used to my music.”
“Try focusing on work instead of playing music, bakaga.”
She’s calling me an idiot for that?
“When the boss brings you a gift to play with, you go and thank him,” I say with a wink.
“You and your playtime.” She pretends to gag. “Do you ever work?”
“You could always torture the corporate types for me,” I say.
She cracks a smile. “You wish.”
We each have our roles in the Endo-kai. As our oyabun, Tomo has a lot on his plate. He makes the big-picture decisions and makes sure our exchange in Tokyo runs smoothly. We give this Tokyo-based yakuza group our smuggled guns, and they give us their meth mix, Shabu-8. Cherry, a black belt queen of carnage, works as Tomo’s personal bodyguard.
Some people question her position as the boss’s bodyguard, since women usually don’t have physical positions in typical yakuzas. Usually, the boss’s wife might do some financial work, but other than that, the women have little part in the group. But once Tomo moved to Vegas, got his American wife pregnant, and had Cherry, those rules about gender were tossed out the window. Loyalty matters most to Tomo. He had seen firsthand what it was like to not believe in your boss, and he swore to lead in a way that instilled loyalty and respect. Part of that was making his youngest kid his personal bodyguard, especially since that was what she wanted.
The old man can still handle himself in a fight, but he’s got his age and his long-term injury working against him, which is why he’s got us and why Cherry never leaves his side, though I always tease her that she can handle more.
I’ve got three jobs. I manage our drug dealer relationships, but I’m also the face of Samurai Corporation, our legal resort group and front-facing company, and I work as a sōkaiya—in short, a corporate blackmailer. We find failing companies with dark pasts, force them to sell their assets, and give us the payout. I need three jobs; I get restless easily, and in situations like today, the blood focuses me, but the music keeps me moving, keeps me light.
Tomo waves a hand in front of his face. “You know the Survivors’ Alliance Gala is tonight?” I nod. He adds, “Do you have a date?”
“How about Piper?” I tease with a wink.
He mutters under his breath, on the verge of scolding me in Japanese, and I hold back my laughter. My last date, Piper—a stripper I hired from the Gilded Stage—worked perfectly, until she ended up screwing one of the other guests in the bathroom. Can’t say I blame her; she’s a hustler, and she saw an opportunity for bonus income. But Tomo was pissed. No one at the gala knew she was a stripper, but if someone had caught her with the customer, it would have been a PR disaster for our company’s image, even if we are located in Vegas.
“The niece will be better this time,” Tomo says. He gestures toward the heart of the building. There’s a set of offices and holding cells in the center shaft, always guarded by our soldiers, which is where I took care of the CEO.
“And the actual prisoner?” I ask. “She mentioned an uncle.”
“He touched the kanbu’s wife,” Tomo explains. Shit—the fucker was brave enough to mess with one of our senior members’ wives? Tomo shakes his head, then continues: “Anyway, the man said something about selling his niece.” A hint of laughter dances in Tomo’s voice, a sort of playfulness lingering in his words. “He thinks we’ll take care of her. Give her a good life, I suppose. With the gala tonight, you should hear him out. He seems eager to get her into our hands.”
I put a hand on Tomo’s back. “Taking care of her” implies the uncle doesn’t want to sell his niece into slavery. Otherwise, Tomo would have jumped on the chance to execute him. The Endo-kai may do a lot of fucked-up shit, including murder, and who the fuck knows how much damage our guns have caused in Japan. But there’s one thing the boss doesn’t tolerate, and it’s human slavery.
The niece is in an interesting predicament then.
“Why don’t you start the negotiations with the uncle?” Tomo asks.
“Consider my interest piqued,” I say. I lick my lips, then turn toward the holding cells again. “Thanks for looking out.”
Chapter 3
Kenzo
To the side of the elevators, I take a door marked Staff Only. Inside, the walls are concrete, and every so often, there’s a room. Some doors are labeled for the regular resort staff—storage, offices, break rooms—but anything unmarked is for the yakuza.
I stop at the first unmarked door without a window. I tap the surface, and the door cracks open.
An enforcer lets me in, and the prisoner sits handcuffed to an o-ring on top of the metal table. Red marks circle his wrists, like he struggled against the handcuffs at first. Streaks of brown hair mix through his ruffled gray strands. His face is puffy from a beating, his lips cracked. He’s got a black eye too. That’s good. It’s always sad when they don’t fight. Boring too.
“I-I-I thought I was—” he stammers, but I shush him like a baby as I slide into the seat across from him.
“What are you in here for?” I ask.
“I—” He looks down at his lap. “I put my arm around the yakuza member’s wife.”
I gasp with drama in my veins, playing it up. Normally, the kanbu—one of our senior members—doesn’t have a lead role in our organization, but that doesn’t matter in a situation like this. We protect our own. The disrespect, no matter who you are in the yakuza, is the same.
And you don’t mess with a yakuza member’s wife.
“I’m surprised you’re still alive.” I chuckle. The prisoner’s chapped lips tremble, and I whistle. “And how exactly are you going to pay your dues for that infraction?”
“M-my niece, sir,” he says.
“A niece, hmm?” I ask. “You’d give up your niece to clear your name?”
“If it will h-help her, then I have to do what’s right.”
My nostrils flare. “And how do you have that much authority over your niece?”
“I-I-I’ve raised her since she was a kid.”
“You’re like a father to her then.” I run a hand over the stubble on my chin. I nod deeply, pretending to be amused. “But giving your niece to the yakuza isn’t being a good uncle now, is it?”
“But you could protect her, couldn’t you?” he asks, his voice suddenly full of adrenaline. “Your boss mentioned an arranged marriage. I could rest easy as long as I knew she was safe and comfortable.” He scans me with tears in his eyes. “You’ll take good care of her, won’t you?”
Tension swims in his expression like a cat circling a koi fish pond, and I know there’s something else there, another angle he’s working at. Tomo didn’t mention an arranged marriage to me, but if his niece passes my test, then why not marry her? I can use a reliable date to those charity functions.
But protect her? That’s a different story. We protect everyone in the yakuza’s ranks, but if she becomes my wife, she’ll still be in the mafia. Organized crime is always dangerous.
I grip the prisoner’s shoulder. He’s one optimistic idiot.
“Only if I decide to take her,” I say.
“Where is she?” he says, his tone full of panic. As if all I need is to see his niece to agree to the legal union. “Wait—my phone!” He swings his head around to the enforcer. “Show him! Show him her picture! She’s beautiful! I’ll prove it!”
The enforcer hands the prisoner’s phone to me. I’ve already seen his niece—in a blindfold, anyway. Still, I hold up the device while the prisoner types in the password from his handcuffs, then I flick to the gallery. There’s only one picture available, almost like the prisoner prepared his phone for this exact situation. Something is off.
But I lose my train of thought when my eyes land on her picture.
The same reddish-orange hair I saw in the other cell. Pink lips. And big blue eyes. She’s hypnotizing, like a love song, like a set of lyrics meant to comfort you while you look into her eyes and see your future.
I stare at her photo for a second too long, and though there’s something about her that calls to me, beauty alone isn’t enough. There’s something else there. A sadness, dull and pale across her gaze. There’s a hunger in her expression too, like a flame on the verge of igniting, and it goes deeper than her sweet exterior.
That spark, that hunger in her eyes—that’s what I want.
I pull myself out of the daze. The fear from the prisoner’s eyes is gone now, replaced with greed, like he knows I won’t be able to refuse. Almost like he wants to give away his niece.
“She’s a virgin, you know,” he says. “Completely untouched. Like forbidden fruit.”
My lips curl at those words. A sour taste coats my mouth. He’s trying to entice me, but I almost want to protect her from her uncle now. If her own father figure is willing to offer his niece to the Japanese mafia, what else is he willing to do to her?
This is still business though, and our negotiations must be completed.
“How old is she?” I ask.
“Twenty-five.”
I run a hand over my mouth. A mid-twenties virgin would know better, and that would make her harder to crack. I like an interesting challenge.
But how does her uncle know she’s a virgin? He may be lying. Either way, he probably thinks the marriage will give him the ability to live off of us through his niece. But that’s not how life works in the Endo-kai. He’s lucky Tomo even thought to ask me about his offer.
In the grand scheme of things, this prisoner is insignificant. We can kill him, and no one will blink. I’m sure our kanbu would appreciate it.
But for me, this is a puzzle. Something to break up the blandness. A buzzing weight spreads across my chest as I imagine the possible games I could play with a woman like her. Innocent, yet full of spite. Oh, the fun I could have with her. My personal little toy. A woman trapped in my arena.
I make decisions, and I own them. And right now, I have no date and a gala to attend. His niece is perfect.
“If you prefer men,” he starts. “I’ve got a son too—”
I cut him off: “Let me discuss it with the boss.”
Back in the lounge, Tomo is still at the bar, working on his second or third whisky, and Cherry is clutching a water bottle like she’s got money on one of the car races. She scrunches her nose at me like I smell. I probably do. But instead of starting playful sibling banter with her, I get down to the specifics. I’m too curious about the prisoner’s niece for verbal sparring right now.
“Did you feel anything off about him?” I ask Tomo.
“Told you,” Cherry cuts in, smirking at Tomo.
Tomo turns to me. “Cherry said she thinks he’s hiding something, but all I see is a desperate urchin. But the niece is perfect, eh? Put her in a ball gown, and she’ll blend in.”
“You told him an arranged marriage is an option?” I ask.
Tomo scrubs a hand over his face. “Weren’t you saying you wanted something different lately? Maybe you need a wife. It would benefit our public image and these events.” He grunts in annoyance. “Everyone wants Samurai Corporation at their charity balls.”
Tomo hates those events, which is why I’m the face of our front-facing company. I can charm my way out of anything, and I blackmail myself out of the rest.
“I don’t know about a wife yet,” I say with amusement. “But I’ll give her a test run.”
Cherry rolls her eyes. “She’s not a sports car.”
I lift my shoulders. “I’m not going to commit to marriage until I know she can ride.”
Cherry scoffs. “At least do her a favor and propose the proper way.”
I wink. “Don’t worry. She’ll get a ring.”
A buzz of energy ripples through me at the thought. This is a new adventure, the entertainment I’ve been waiting for. I usually screw and leave women—my playboy habits and my criminal lifestyle get in the way of long-term commitments—but this? This is a challenge. A potential wife.
Maybe she’ll even be my partner-in-crime one day.
“As for the prisoner?” I ask. “Is he free to leave?”
Tomo shakes his head, then motions for me to lean in closer.
“Are you ready?” Tomo asks. I raise a brow. A grin spreads across Tomo’s lips. “Let’s teach him a lesson.”
Pride swells in my chest. I swear the boss loves making torture a group effort, looks at it like a bonding activity. In a way, it’s a part of his legacy. Family, whether it be by blood or by yakuza, is everything. He even ends the bonding ritual by signing Endo-kai into the traitor’s hand. And now, my possible future uncle-in-law will forever carry our mark with him.
I wonder what my potential wife will think of that.
Release Date:
1/15/2025
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