Chapter 27

**Hadassah POV**

Eyes closed, fisting the crucifix, murmuring a prayer.

Footsteps thud into the room. I stop, my eyes opening. He doesn’t say or do anything, so I pivot to look back at him. My eyes tiptoe over his body. Dressed casually in an all-black fit with a fitted leather jacket and jeans, a white top underneath, paired with black combat boots.

“What are you doing?”

Stifling a mocking smile, my lips fold inwards for a moment. “It’s called praying. But I know with your god complex, you probably believe nothing.”

“I believe in myself,” he says, prowling towards me like a predator ready to go for the jugular. “What I needed, I got. What I want, I get. The people that held their breath, waiting for me to fail, suffocated. The ones that tried to kill me... I’m the only one remaining. Others pray, seeking salvation. I saved myself.”

God complex.

I release the pendant, crossing my arms. “That’s all, sir?”

“You’re coming with me.”

I smother a protest. It won’t help. “Where?”

“I want to show you something.” He draws something out of his pocket. A phone. He comes closer. “Here.”

I take it from him cautiously, examining the no name brand cellular device. A model I have never seen before. “What’s this?”

“A phone with my number programmed into it. No other contacts because you need no one else. You only need me. Don’t bother trying to call someone else or sending a message or signal. It’s built specially to be a direct line to me.”

Hope evaporates with my breath. “And why would I need this? You’re around me. All. The. Time.”

“Not anymore, Sakura.” He nods to the door. “Let’s go.”

***

We had left Osaka already; the yacht was journeying to the tip of the Izu Peninsula. Suruga bay.

Only today did I discover that the lower deck has a whole garage with four black Range Rovers, a Lamborghini Urus, and a black motorbike. The garage door glides upwards. A ramp extends to the asphalt of the harbor that bridges the small gap between sea and land.

He’s going to choose the bike.

Orian takes the black Yamaha adventure bike, plopping down on the seat.

I stare back at him, agape

“What?”

“There’s no way I’m getting on that thing.”

“Come,” he says impatiently.

“No.”

His chest visibly inflates with a breath. He frowns slightly, a deep line forming between his equinox-brows like he’s restraining a wince. “... Please,” he utters awkwardly, like he has never used the word. “First and last time you’re going to hear me say it.”

My feet move on its own volition. I halt myself. “Just. Just go slow.”

“I’ll try.”

I go to him at a gradual pace. Grudgingly, my one leg goes over, straddling the seat.

“Uh.” I tap his broad back. “Helmet, bro.”

“What for?”

Good lord.

He leans forward. The bike bellows a grumble. He turns his head, looking at me from over his shoulder. “Arms.”

“I’d rather fly off.”

The bike lurches—my heart leaps into my throat and my arms bound around his steel-like stomach. He looks forward with a smirk and the bike smoothly rolls down the ramp. And all too soon, he accelerates, zooming out of the docks and onto the main road. With practiced ease, Orian weaves between cars, blazing the tarmac, wind whipping my face, adrenaline surging through me. The front part lifts for a second before we dash down at eye-blurring speeds, drawing out an excited holler from me as I lean into the curves of every turn.

On a highway winding around a mountain flank, reaching the other, and descending to the countryside. The fiery sun sets every blade of grass afire with a green-gold. Rice paddy fields of arable land awash in sunlight. I tip my head back, soaking in the sun, basking in the feather-light sensation of riding the winds.

Time drifts by, and the bike slows to a cruise. Then to a full stop.

I look around at the farm village. The cluster of rustic hamlets cluttered together at the base of the mountain before the yawning stretch of glistening green land. A pastoral landscape of high-quality agriculture. Parked beside a tree, he and I climb off the bike, stepping onto the sloshy quagmire. Grateful to be wearing sneakers.

He pockets the keys. Silently, he starts the hike up the ascendant gradient to the village. I follow.

“Why are we here?”

“I come here every year. I wasn’t going to let a small inconvenience stop me.”

My eyes impale his back. “Your brother kidnapped me, and you decided to keep me as a souvenir, buddy. Not my fault.”

“I didn’t say it was. Wasn’t talking about you.”

We reach the cusp. Together, we make our way through the humble settlement. I watch the working women with sun-kissed skin, long and dark hair, carrying hand-woven baskets of fresh produce. The houses are similar in design with triangle-shaped thatched roofs. And not even a minute into our walk, a gaggle of children release a chorus of high-pitched squeals, running towards Orian like he’s Santa or something.

I nearly faint. He smiles, genuinely and happily. A soul-quenching grin that illuminates his face, transforming him completely. He dunks down and raises a boy into the air, then placing him behind his neck. The others swarm around him, ranging from kids to teens, clawing for his attention. The moment Orian starts speaking, they fall silent, listening obediently. Then he gestures to me, his smile only brightening.

They all flock to me. My eyes implode, surrounded by pairs of big doe eyes staring back at me. A little girl tugs at the end of my pastel, butterfly short-sleeve blouse. She says something in the sweetest tone, but I have no idea what she said.

I look up at Orian for a translation.

“She said your skin reminds her of her favorite chocolate.”

I let out a laugh. I thank her with a small, squatting down to be at her level. She throws her lanky arms around my neck, catching her with an oomph. The others take it as their opportunity to glomp down on a massive group hug, sending me to the ground, cringing at the squelching sound of the muddy flour beneath me. Orian walks over, chiding playfully, waving them off. They disappear like smoke in the wind. He helps me up, dusting myself off with a smile.

“You alright?” he asks with the child still behind his neck. The boy holds onto his head, resting his chin on top of his head.

I nod. He directs us further north to a wide wooden house. On the veranda, by a stand, an elderly woman trims the edges of a bonsai tree with neat precision. Orian picks up the boy and sets him down, and the moment his feet touch the ground. He zips down to join his friends.

Orian clenches and unclenches his bandaged hand before he trots up the staircase.

The old woman sets the trimmers aside without looking back, as if she recognises the commanding stride of the man, his presence resonating with an undeniable force. She turns around slowly. Her hand rests itself on her frail chest before they move up to cover her mouth.

“Kenjie.”

She shuffles away, hurrying towards him as fast as she can. Respectfully, he puts fist to palm and bows to her. But she ignores the gesture, rushing to him. As tiny as she is, Orian towers over her and envelopes her in a hug. They stay like that for a while before she’s ready to let him go. They talk for a bit before her face jerks to the side, her eyes honing in on me. She beckons me with glossy eyes. Idiotically, I look behind me to make sure but she’s really calling me.

Semi baffled; I walk up the steps briskly until I’m face to face with her.

She looks at me; she lays out her blemished hands.

Confused, I place my own in hers and she gives them a small shake.

“Very beautiful.” The scant wrinkles upon her complexion become more pronounced as she engages in a smile. She looks me up and down with motherly approval. “Nice child-bearing hips.”

My jaw drops to my knees.

“Obaasan," Orian says carefully. “She’s a friend.”

“My husband was once friend.” She winks at me. “Come inside, I make tea.”

Obaasan and I sit outside on a tatami-like mat on the veranda.

Unable to look away, watching Orian kick ball with the other children, smiling and laughing, looking like a completely different person. It almost makes me forget who he really is. Giggling at the kid that swiped the ball from Orian mid-strike, and he looks around theatrically, pretending to be stumped.

“You know big business men try to buy ancestral land for big development.”

“Really, what happened?”

She looks at Orian meaningfully, a wistful smile growing. “My Kenjie took care of problem.”

My brows quirk, looking at the ground. “He’s good at... problem solving.”

“You like my Kenjie,” she states as a fact.

My head snaps to the side, gawking at her. “Nooo, obaasan. He and I are just... friends.”

She looks at me the way I look at Orian when he speaks Japanese.

She lifts her chin, silky silver hair tied in a messy, low ponytail. “Only people Kenjie brought here was half-brother, Torin.”

Curiosity piqued; I glance back at her. “So, he comes here every year with Torin?”

A frown puckers her forehead. “Kenjie not been home long time, Hadassah.”

I look back at Orian who’s blissfully playing with the kids. And I still can’t believe this is the same man that butchered his way through a horde of Yakuza men, tortured and killed people, as well as lighting one of them on fire at the back of his nightclub. I just refuse to believe it.

“You must be important if he brought you here.”

Coherent words in my mind get lost in a soup of confusion.

“I make dinner.”

She gets up.

Dinner?

I look beyond to the sky, shifting into twilight, a dark mauve lining the horizon. Stars become visible. After a short while, Orian calls a recess and the kids continue on their own. He plucks up his jacket on his way up to me, settling down on the steps of the veranda.

“Tell me again, when was the last time you were here?”

“Long time,” he says coolly. And adds, “Daku may have trained me. But for a time, my father raised me, and this is where. This is my home village. And obaasan is like my own grandmother. She took me in the moment my father was found dead.”

I want to ask him more about that. But it just doesn’t feel like the right time.

“Well, it’s beautiful here.” Torin flashes in my mind. “With all that happened, how did you ever find Torin?”

He exhales, leaning back to drop his elbows on the higher step.

“One of my father’s biggest fuck ups. When my mom was still alive, sick as a dog. He was hooking up with some Italian girl. All those ‘work trips’ I thought was for the extra pay since he was eyeballs deep in debt from medical bills. Turns out he was tapping Italian ass. I only found out after she died, and I only found out when he was killed that I had a little brother.”

I look down at him. His injured hand twitches.

“So, you went to find him?”

He nods. “As soon as I could. Made sure he knew; he was never alone.”

“Well, look at that,” I say teasingly. “He does have a heart.”

He gives me a guttural hum. “Always have—,” he looks back at me hesitantly, “—it just doesn’t belong to me anymore.”