Dirty, Dirty Liars [Mature/Editing]

[23] 二十三

A/N: The following chapter contains violence and mild drug references. 

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The men pulled me up the street, all the way past my apartment and up the restaurant's stairs. So many people saw, but no one said a word. I had never been inside the restaurant before. This was definitely not the introduction I expected.

Inside, the space was smaller than it looked from the exterior, only fitting a dozen round tables and a bar lining the full length of the left wall, everything crimson like the lights outside. A spread of liquor bottles was backlit in gold light. The same cololr scheme continued into the hallway they dragged me through.

The next room was dark and thick with smoke. There, men sat at gambling tables, their dress shirts peeled off them and hanging around their waists, showing each one's tattoo-covered skin. I could barely take it all in before we stopped.

Up a small set of stairs, a private room overlooked the gambling space through overlooking the gambling space through glass walls. Ten or so people sat at a low table sharing an array of drinks, plumes of smoke wafting from their cigarettes. I recognized the man in the middle of the table. The oyabun.

Across from him, Ryuzo sat looking expressionless as he stared into space. He glanced over his shoulder as we approached. His eyes went wide when he saw it was me.

The men pulled me to stand in front of the table next to him. I snatched my arms from them, sucking my teeth with a glare. Ryuzo's eyes darted between the oyabun and me, but he didn't do more, likely afraid to give proof of our relationship again.

"Mi-na. Sit with us," the oyabun said. How did he know my name?

One of the men pushed me by my shoulders onto my knees. Ryuzo stood in a fury. I didn't need to look to know he what he did. I only saw the shuffle of his feet and heard the man fall hard onto the floor with a yelp.

"I have heard so much about you," the oyabun said to me, unfazed by the violence happening behind me.

A woman hung from each of his shoulders. His dark, intimidating eyes stayed fixed on me while he took a slow drag of his cigarette. He was older, mid-fifties most likely, but he was handsome as hell. A scruffy beard, silky, shoulder-length hair with grayed temples, and wrinkles that somehow flattered his fox-like features.

It clicked just before he confirmed it.

"My son is in love with a gaijin," the man said with condescension.

My heart sank to the floor.

His female companions giggled. His English was good but his accent was heavy. "An A-mer-i-can," he elongated every syllable with a joking edge, bursting into laughter at the end. The table joined him.

I was not the most patriotic American, for obvious reasons, but the way he said it left a bitter taste in my mouth.

Ryuzo came back and sat beside me, whispering, "Are you all right?" I gave him the side eye. There were many things I wanted to say to him, but none were nice.

I was unfamiliar with the formalities of organized crime families, so I'm sure I sounded rude when I greeted him, "Yokoyama-san, I assume?"

He cocked an eyebrow with a smirk so similar to Ryuzo's, then muttered in Japanese to his companions something about Americans and ignorance. "You can call me Oyabun."

The table laughed again. Two clearly intoxicated women cooed sentences too slurred for me to understand. The one sitting next to me squeezed a handful of my hair in her hand. I leaned away from her touch and Ryuzo shunned her with a hiss.