The Yakuza Path: Better Than Suicide: The Yakuza Path, #2

The Yakuza Path: Better Than Suicide: © 2017 Amy Tasukada

Cover design by Natasha Snow

Ebook interior and formatting by Write Dream Repeat Book Design

All rights reserved.

No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and co-incidental.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Five Days...

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Four Days...

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Three Days...

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Two Days...

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

One Day...

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Sneak Peek of Book 3

About the Author

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Thank you to my Husband and family, without whose love and support this book would probably not be here. Lorelai who was a constant cheerleader even when I complained to her about various bookish things. The other awesome people that read the book at various drafts, Stephen Hoppa, Nell Iris, Addison Albright, and Sam. Finally, you. Thanks for giving my book a chance!

"Screw this shit," Nao Murata mumbled to himself and opened the car door.

Father Murata, Kurosawa said, using Nao’s proper title. It’s safer for you to wait for me. There might still be some Korean gangsters who—

Hurry up next time.

The way Kurosawa swaggered around the car, it would’ve taken him another ten minutes to open it.

Two weeks ago, Nao could’ve opened the door himself, but two weeks ago his biggest responsibility had consisted of choosing an oolong tea his customers would enjoy. Somehow being chosen as the godfather for the Kyoto mob made him overqualified to open car doors.

Nao glared at Kurosawa. The shoulder seams of his blazer busted like an overstuffed tea strainer. It would have fit fine if Kurosawa had twenty less pounds of muscle.

Why aren’t we in the historic district? Nao asked. The car windows were so tinted he couldn’t see outside.

Instead of the latticework façades of the historic district Nao expected to see, his gaze fell to the undulating wave of glass and twisted metal of Kyoto’s main train station. The modern eyesore was far from what the heart of Japan’s cultural center deserved.

Kurosawa cleared his throat. I’m sorry, Father Murata, but Detective Yamada requested to speak with you at the train station.

If I talk to him I’ll be late for the meeting with the Osaka and Tokyo godfathers.

Renewing Kyoto’s allegiance with their allies was Nao’s first official duty. The last two weeks had been spent arranging the best entertainment to show the godfathers the wonders Kyoto offered. The extravagance would prove the recent turf war with the Korean mob did not diminish the Matsukawa’s power and wealth.

Nao’s shoulders tightened. The detective can wait.

It’s best if we cooperate.

I didn’t ask for your opinion.

Kurosawa’s hand brushed against Nao’s left arm, sending a searing wave of heat burning through him. A bullet had ripped through that bicep two weeks ago. The sling on his arm only emphasized Nao’s wiry frame. He knew he looked like he should be leading a tea ceremony and not the Kyoto mob, but he had proven himself worthy of his position.

Biting back the pain, Nao jerked his arm away from Kurosawa. I run the Matsukawa now, and I’m not going to be the lapdog of the police like my father.

Kurosawa cleared his throat. It’s your job to maintain order until Miko finishes her jail sentence.

Miko trusts my judgment. Why else did she choose me out of everyone to lead in her absence?

Nao waited but received no response.

He grinned. Perhaps the overstuffed tea filter didn’t believe the stories about him eradicating the Korean threat. After all, they had met only because a senior member suggested Kurosawa as a bodyguard.

I can talk to the detective after the ceremony, Nao said. His voice was steady and showed no sign of the lingering pain from where Kurosawa grasped. Now drive to the historic district like you were told.

It would be the end of the Matsukawa if we were to go against our agreement with the police. Your father always talked to Detective Yamada when he was called.

Kurosawa stupidly thought a single detective could bring down the Matsukawa.

Nao sighed and shut the car door. He needed to break up the one-sided relationship the Matsukawa shared with the police. Ending it sooner would’ve prevented the side journey Kurosawa deemed necessary.

I’ll show the detective who’s in charge of the Matsukawa now, Nao said. Our agreement with them ends today.

They descended the concrete stairs. LED lights on the face of each step created a show honoring the approaching Obon holiday. The stairs glowed in the setting sun. It was another tasteless feature to match the modern gray-and-black interior of the station. Whoever designed the building must’ve never stepped foot in Kyoto and needed to be forbidden from entering the city for his desecration of it.

The cool air-conditioned station reminded Nao of each layer of fabric against his skin. He brushed the hair sticking to his neck from under his shirt collar. It might’ve seemed silly to wear the formal suit in the humid summer, but the formal meeting with the other godfathers called for it. He frowned, tugging on his sleeves. He missed the comfort from the Kyoto humidity the yukata robes he used to wear brought.

After a few minutes wandering the train station, a police officer found them among the crowd of businessmen and shoppers. He escorted Nao and Kurosawa through a door marked Staff Only, which led to a breakroom with coffee-stained chairs.

Please wait here while I get the detective, the officer said, then stepped through another door in the room.

Nao tapped his foot against the off-white vinyl tiles.

The churning sound of trains leaving Kyoto station echoed off the gray walls of the room, each one ticking away the minutes that Nao waited. He fumbled with the button closure on the pinstripe jacket draped over his shoulders to better hide the sling around his arm.

This is taking forever, Nao said.

Kurosawa puffed out his chest. There’s no other choice.

Funny, driving to where you were supposed to go sounded like a—

The door swung open, and Detective Yamada strolled to them.

Nao recognized the aged detective from the times he’d visited with his father, Kyoto’s former godfather. The mob ran through Nao’s blood like the Kamo River weaved through the city, completely inseparable. He’d managed to escape its flow for a few years, but when Kyoto was threatened by the Korean mob, the allure of protecting the city he loved had called him back.

This better be good, Detective, Nao said. I have some important people waiting for me.

A grin deepened detective Yamada’s wrinkled face. Good thing I don’t consider the Osaka and Tokyo godfathers important.

But the Kyoto godfather is important enough to demand a meeting? I don’t know if I should consider myself lucky or—

I had an agreement with the Matsukawa and your father.

And he’s dead.

The pipes rattled as a train passing made conversation impossible, and Nao sank back into the sticky memory, which lingered in the silent moments of Nao’s day. The day of his father’s funeral took over. His black casket had shone among the white chrysanthemums, while murmurs from the guests—syndicate members from all over Japan—had echoed in Nao’s ears.

Yamada cleared his throat, and Nao swallowed back the pungent scent of flowers. He couldn’t let his memory linger so vividly. He needed to bury it along with the others memories he had sealed off.

I’m sorry for what happened to your father, Yamada said. Regardless, the arrangement still stands with the Matsukawa.

And how did the police hold up their end of the arrangement when the Korean mob gunned him down and ripped out his eyes? They did nothing. Your double-standard agreement with the Matsukawa is finished!

Nao turned to leave but bumped into Kurosawa. Nao clenched his teeth. Move.

Mr. Murata. Yamada smirked and leaned against the door. I couldn’t help but notice the Matsukawa crest you have on your lapel. According to the newest anti-yakuza laws, having your mob’s symbol on display is a fineable offence.

Fuck you!

The button on Nao’s pinstripe coat popped open, exposing his arm in a sling. He snapped the jacket shut with his good hand then grabbed the door handle.

Nao’s nostrils flared. Move or I’ll make you.

Yamada laughed. And the threat you just made toward me while wearing your crest turns the fine into something I can use to put you in jail. You see the benefit of the agreement I had with your father?

The withered detective was more cunning than Nao had thought. Nao’s hand fell away from the door handle. He’d play along, for the time being.

Don’t think this is my first time dealing with your kind, Detective Yamada said. I have neckties older than you, kid.

The detective’s faded red tie did indeed look older than Nao’s twenty-six years. He clenched his jaw and straightened the inverted arrows of the Matsukawa crest on his lapel.

Nao glanced at Kurosawa. Of course, he couldn’t touch the detective, but he showed no interest in even looking threatening toward the officer. If it wasn’t for the fact that he could drive he’d be worthless. Someone in the syndicate would better serve as Nao’s guard.

I’m missing an important meeting being here, Nao said. So hurry up.

I presume your syndicate would like for our agreement to continue, unless they want another godfather in jail.

Yamada rubbed his hands together, then stretched out a hand. Nao fought the urge to punch Yamada’s teeth in, but all he could do was ignore the offer. Yamada took Nao’s hand and forced it into a tight handshake.

Nao jerked his hand back. Why am I here?

You’ll learn the police have the advantage in these situations, Yamada said. Follow me, Mr. Murata.

Nao ground his teeth together and followed Yamada. Kurosawa strutted ahead to hold open a set of doors for them. It marked two things the tea filter was good for: driving and opening doors. Nao lingered a second, trying to read Kurosawa’s face, but aside from the wrinkles around his eyes, Nao got nothing.

The stench of wet metal pipes replaced the gray office lounge in the concrete hallway. The number of police grew larger the deeper they traveled down the hall. Something had to have gone down for so many to be there.

They stopped at another door marked Long-term Lost and Found in red characters. Police tape stretched across the entryway, but it was high enough to allow people to duck under.

Nao raised a brow at the ridiculous excursion into the bowels of the station. He had people to see, and he didn’t have enough time to play who had the bigger dick with the Kyoto police.

The detective turned and addressed Kurosawa. From here on out, I need only Mr. Murata.

Kurosawa stepped in front of Nao. I follow wherever he goes.

Stay here, Kurosawa. Nao pushed him out of the way. If the detective wanted to arrest me, he’d do it in front of everyone. The Kyoto police need the good publicity.

Kurosawa bowed. Forgive my indiscretion, Father Murata.

Nao raised a brow. Kurosawa went from forcing Nao to meet to formally apologizing in ten minutes. It was their first time out of headquarters, so Kurosawa probably couldn’t handle the extra pressure. All the more reason to replace him.

Do as you’re told the first time, Nao warned.

The smell of moldy sandwiches and rotting flesh assaulted Nao’s nose as he stepped inside the lost and found. He held his hand in front of his face, which did little to block the stench, but the vain attempt was worth a try.

Luggage was packed like sushi in the small room, and a dozen policemen stood around one item in particular. Their grouped legs were too thick for Nao to get a clear view of anything but the shiny black edge of the suitcase.

Yamada whistled. Everyone clear out.

Each officer gave Nao a dirty look as they walked out of the room, but Nao glared in return. He did more for the city than they ever could.

Can we get to the point? Nao asked. With each ticking minute, he could imagine how much more unfavorably the Osaka and Tokyo godfathers were thinking about him.

Detective Yamada walked to the suitcase. This is the long-term lost and found—

I know how to read. What does it have to do with the Matsukawa?

Why don’t you tell me?

Nao stepped closer to the suitcase and caught sight of the body twisted inside. The man had to be tiny to be able to fit in there, because there was no visible bleeding and no bones protruding out of his skin.

Acid churned in Nao’s gut from the smell, but he had seen enough dead bodies before to not get shaken up about them.

What happened? Nao asked.

A train worker brought the case down here earlier today. No one had claimed it for a week, so she opened it to see if she could find a name. Instead, she found the body. Yamada glanced to Nao. So what’s going on?

Just because the guy has tattoos doesn’t mean he’s involved with us. Whatever’s going on here, it has nothing to with the Matsukawa.

He’s the known drug runner for the faction of the Korean mob stationed in Osaka.

Nao laughed. Then it really has nothing to do with us. The Matsukawa don’t deal in drugs.

You were in a turf war with the Korean mob no less than three weeks ago. Maybe the killing is a bit of late revenge.

If we wanted revenge, he wouldn’t be folded in a suitcase to be found.

Everyone knew when someone died by a mob hand, there wouldn’t be anything left for the police to find.

We ran some field tests on the suitcase and found a mix of ketamine and ecstasy. The drugs have to be somewhere, because they’re not in the suitcase.

Anyone using drugs turned into a compulsive plaything to the narcotic. Nao closed his eyes, willing the darkness to consume memory. He didn’t want to think about drugs and how they corroded a life.

The lifeless body stared back at Nao when he opened his eyes. Nao should’ve left after telling Yamada to piss off.

We don’t dirty the streets with filth, Nao said.

Regardless, we need someone to blame for the death and the drugs.

Nao’s arms grew heavy even with the sling holding one of them up. Traditionally an innocent low-ranking Matsukawa took the blame when they needed. The time in jail would be considered the same as working on the streets.

None of the Japanese syndicates sold drugs because they eroded the city and caused more trouble on the streets. Internal wars broke out if a syndicate faction was caught dealing.

Nao’s fingers curled into a fist. I told you the Matsukawa don’t deal drugs. I’m not going to hand you someone when we’re not responsible.

The agreement—

You want someone because the citizens are angry for what happened. But who stopped the Koreans’ violence?

Nao let the question linger, because even though the police blamed extermination of the Korean mob in Kyoto on a bad drug deal, it wasn’t true and Detective Yamada knew it.

Nao stepped over the suitcase and opened the door. Kurosawa stopped texting on his phone and straightened as Nao walked past.

Give me a cigarette. Nao snapped his fingers.

He had quit the habit four years ago, but with the first deep inhale of nicotine his thoughts slowed and the world stilled. His tardiness to his first official duty didn’t matter, and he became more certain standing up to the detective was the right thing to do. He could lead the Matsukawa down a new path where the police didn’t hold a choke collar around their necks.

Yamada cleared his throat. Mr. Murata—

So why don’t the police do their job for once? Nao took another puff of the cigarette.

Your father would help us.

Nao tapped off the cigarette’s ashen tip on the detective’s worn shoes. I’m not my father. He might’ve still been here if you had even a fifth of the relationship you keep saying you two had. So unless you really intend to arrest me for a lapel pin, then we’re finished.

Nao glared at Kurosawa through the rearview mirror as the man drove to the historic district. At least the other head branches of the Matsukawa were there to keep the Tokyo and Osaka godfathers entertained. Nao hoped they were amused enough by the geisha that they wouldn’t notice his absence.

I get that you’re on edge because it’s our first time outside of headquarters, Nao said, but if you go against my direct orders again, I’m going to beat your face in so hard your teeth could be used for powdered matcha tea.

Kurosawa cocked an eyebrow. Perhaps he didn’t believe what Nao was capable of.

Nao couldn’t blame him for doubting. For the past two weeks, all Kurosawa had experienced of Nao was bandage changes and doctor visits. Each night Nao had thrashed in his sleep, reopening the stitches. Blood had seeped through his yukata robe and stained the sheets. It resulted in more pain meds while the doctor closed the wound. The most strenuous activity Nao was allowed was choosing menu options for the meeting with Tokyo and Osaka. So of course, Kurosawa would doubt any threat Nao gave.

Do I make myself clear? Nao said.

Yes, Father Murata…

At least Sakai’s helping represent the Matsukawa. Nao leaned back into the leather seat.

The Matsukawa, like all the yakuza syndicates, was arranged with the godfather at the top. From there an underboss communicated between the street and the legal branches of the mob. Sakai, the only senior-positioned member who hadn’t been murdered by the Korean mob, led the legal side.

When you were talking to Detective Yamada, I received a call from Sakai, Kurosawa said.

What did he want?

There was an emergency meeting. He’s unable to go to tonight’s ceremony with the Osaka and Tokyo godfathers.

No meeting could be so important as to miss out on renewing the allegiance with their allies. Nao bit the inside of his cheek. He needed Sakai there because he had the experience in case something happened. It wasn’t like Nao and the Tokyo godfather were on the best personal terms.

He can miss it if he wants. Nao half shrugged, keeping his injured arm limp. He couldn’t show his apprehension to Kurosawa.

Kurosawa rubbed his neck like he wanted to say something else, but he didn’t. A headache grew along Nao’s forehead. They were going to look like fools to their allies if they haven’t already.

Personal cars were forbidden on the centuries-old stone streets of the historic district, so Kurosawa parked in the surrounding area.

Nao didn’t bother waiting for him and opened the door. The rough nylon sling brushed against his wrist. The other godfathers would see the weakness and transfer it to Kyoto as a whole. Nao shrugged off his jacket and passed it to Kurosawa. The sling came next, but Nao threw it in the car. Without the sling, the full weight of Nao’s arm pulled on the stitches and rubbed his skin raw.

Father Murata, Kurosawa started, the doctor said to keep the sling on for another four weeks.

If I wanted your opinion, I would’ve asked. Nao’s fingers twitched in pain. I can handle myself, or do you think everything people say about me is a lie?

I’m doing what was asked of me.

You would not have questioned my father’s actions, so don’t do it with me.

Nao had assumed once he became the Matsukawa godfather he wouldn’t have bodyguard issues anymore, but it was clear Kurosawa still saw him as the past godfather’s kid.

Nao was the youngest godfather in history, but he’d done more against the invading Korean mob threat than even the most senior Matsukawa members. His actions alone saved Kyoto, keeping it pure while other cities had been carved up by the Korean mob.

His conquest still didn’t overshine the freshness of Father’s death. Nao had rejoined the Matsukawa after a four-year absence, and it left everyone with fragmented memories of him as a teenager. Nao needed to show them the person he had become.

Each step along the stone walkway, Nao’s chest filled a little more. While the skyline in other parts of the city were dominated with utility poles and wires, here they were buried underneath the street. Their absence allowed the blue tiled roofs to glisten underneath glowing paper lanterns. A light mist streaked the wooden-framed buildings and filled the air with musk.

Geiko fluttered down the street. Their powdered faces complemented the white collars of their kimono, while vibrant ornaments and long obi sashes of the geiko-in-training attracted all the tourists. Any of the features of the historic district deserved as much attention. Even the inu-yarai, the curved bamboo slats that emerged from the street to meet the edge of the buildings, were unique to each one.

Nao would show the Matsukawa allies the beauty Kyoto offered. They would see why all of Japan admired the city for keeping the old traditions alive. More importantly, they would remember the strong alliance with Kyoto and wouldn’t waver because of the recent shakeup in ranks.

Kurosawa cleared his throat. Excuse me, Father Murata, but there’s something else I should tell you before we enter the teahouse.

What is it? Nao asked but did not slow down his pace through the stream of tourists.

When Sakai messaged me about missing the meeting, he also said he allowed Ikida to skip the ceremony since his mother took a turn for the worse.

Ikida was the underboss, Nao’s right hand in dealing with both branches of the Matsukawa. With the Kyoto street leader in Hokkaido to form relations with the yakuza there, it meant all three of the upper-level officers weren’t there with their allies.

All this happened when I was talking to the detective? Nao cocked an eyebrow.

Kurosawa nodded.

So our allies have shared the past hour with a ward leader for the Matsukawa host.

Fujimoto knows how to show people a good time.

Nao’s nails bit into his palm. I’ll discuss this with Sakai at tomorrow’s meeting.

He thought you were already at the ceremony when he called me. I’m sure he would’ve made other arrangements had he known you were late because of the detective.

Nao ground his teeth, fighting the urge to shout out how it was Kurosawa’s fault they were late, but it wouldn’t solve anything. Instead Nao jogged the final half block to the geisha teahouse.

The ebony wood siding contrasted against the two-story crimson building. A red banner with the teahouse’s name hung at the entrance. A crowd gathered outside waiting to sneak a picture of a geiko, should one leave to her next job.

Kurosawa pushed back the crowd and held back the cloth curtain for Nao. Curtains were like doors, something Nao couldn’t possibly handle.

The scent of flowery perfume and tea greeted Nao before the teahouse owner’s wife did. She gave Nao a low bow while putting out a pair of slippers for him on the straw tatami floors.

Mr. Murata, it’s always a pleasure. She stood. Please follow me, and I’ll take you to your party.

Muffled conversations hid behind sliding screens doors. The string melody of a shamisen whispered from one room, before becoming overpowered by shouts of laughter from another.

Nao took in a deep breath, trying to take the essence of the teahouse inside him. He couldn’t afford to visit them when he’d been a tea merchant, but with the full weight of the Matsukawa bank account behind him, he could enjoy the more expensive traditions of Kyoto.

The owner stopped in front of the last door, kneeled, and slid it open.

Laughter poured into the hall. A dozen yakuza sat on the floor alongside red lacquered tables full of food. Salmon roe nestled into artfully cut vegetables was offered up for the taking on decorated plates, while thinly sliced fugu was arranged into flowers. Dotted between the yakuza were one geiko and five geiko-in-training.

Most of the current entertainment came from a yakuza hiding on one side of a folding screen while a geiko-in-training hid on the other. They were playing some kind of drinking game while the others cheered them on.

Fujimoto popped up from the party and walked over to Nao.

Father Murata, what did Detective Yamada want? Fujimoto asked, keeping his voice low.

His breath reeked of sake, and the buttons on his jacket begged for freedom. His gut was too large for the slim cut of the modern suit, and the metallic blue seams glittered under the soft lighting. Nao raised a brow at the fifty-year-old’s spiked hair but couldn’t tell if he was oblivious or too drunk to notice his appearance.

It doesn’t concern the Matsukawa, Nao said, wondering how Fujimoto learned about the detour. You kept the Tokyo and Osaka godfathers entertained while I was away?

You requested so many geiko here no one noticed you were late.

You, out of everyone, need to make sure the Osaka godfather is entertained. Your ward is closest to his city.

Fujimoto laughed. No worries, Father Murata. Osaka and I have been drinking buddies for years now.

Heat flushed Nao’s neck at his display of ignorance. There was so much for him to learn, but with