The Yakuza Path: Blood Stained Tea Read online

  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

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  About the Author

  The Yakuza Path: Blood Stained Tea: © 2016 Amy Tasukada

  Cover design by Regina Wamba with MaeiDesign and Photography

  Ebook design 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.

  Thank you to Lorelai who was a constant cheerleader when the book was in its early drafts. Husband for getting stuck hearing about this book every day at dinner, and always being a good sport about it. A big thank you for my family, without whose love and support this book would probably not be here. The other awesome people that read the book at various drafts, Nichole, Stephen Hoppa, Nell Iris, Venessa Sims, Addison Albright. Finally, you. Thanks for giving my book a chance!

  Rain drummed against Nao’s umbrella like bullets. No, the 9mm needed to be forgotten. The weapon was nothing more than a memento he kept for when the midnight sojourns down Kyoto’s Philosopher’s Path no longer calmed his thoughts.

  He clutched the handle of his umbrella and let out a steady breath, dispelling the bloodied memories. Pouring tea for the customers that wandered into his shop had become his only responsibility. He couldn’t feed the viciousness within.

  Lightning flashed, illuminating Nao’s tree-lined path along the narrow stone canal. Each step he took kicked rain onto his yukata robe, deepening the color from indigo to black. Blood used to stain his suits the same way and would kiss his skin like a welcomed lover. His muscles tensed with the conjured image. He gulped, trying to push down the memories.

  Ahead, a footbridge stretched across the canal, and a cluster of cherry trees grew along the muddy slope. Their roots peeled up the moss-covered stones like a scab, and a cluster of fallen branches caused a wake in the river. The debris clumped together in a murky shadow that made Nao’s finger twitch. The large pooling was too much to have been caused by fallen debris in an early summer storm. Someone must’ve dumped something there, but it was Kyoto, and he couldn’t fathom anyone littering in the old capital.

  The residents respected the city as much as he did. Since he left his violent past, Kyoto possessed Nao’s heart and left no room for anything else. Even traveling close to the city’s borders, a familiar tightening enclosed his throat. He didn’t have any reason to leave the city anyway. The Aoi Festival always brought a smile to his face, and that was only a few weeks away. In July there was the monthlong Gion celebration. He’d be too exhausted from work to think of the spilt blood. If nothing else, the walk down the Philosopher’s Path would always drive away the memories ricocheting inside his skull.

  As he stepped onto the footbridge, the debris in the canal became a solid mass about the size of a sack of tea leaves plucked from the field. He squinted, trying to make out the object by the dim streetlights, but it remained unrecognizable until a bolt of lightning streaked the sky.

  It was no collection of branches, but a human body slumped against the tree roots.

  “Are you all right?” Nao yelled over the cracking thunder.

  No answer came.

  Nao dropped his umbrella and crossed the footbridge in a single stride. The rain trickled down his back, plastering his hair to his neck. As he groped for a cherry-tree branch to steady himself on the embankment, his clog sank into the mud, which slathered between his toes. He pulled one foot up, but the shoe stuck, and he tipped forward. The cold river stung his face, and he spat out the water that had flooded his mouth.

  Nao crawled to the body and came face-to-face with the unconscious young man. He had to be a few years younger than Nao. Lightning flashed, exposing the man’s bushy eyebrows and sloping nose. An eye was swollen shut, and blood dripped from his open mouth. Nao grabbed the arm of the man, who hissed in pain. Blood poured out from underneath his cut sleeve. Nao swallowed. He hadn’t seen such flowing blood since that night. The cut was sliced clean and couldn’t have been from the stranger’s fall in the canal.

  Nao pulled at the sleeve and held it against the wound.

  “Can you get up?”

  Nao received no reply, but he waited, hoping the minute or two of pressure would close the cut. The warm fluid flowed out between Nao’s fingers.

  “Your arm’s in rough shape. I’ll take you to a hospital.”

  “No. No hospital,” the injured man said, and then he muttered something in Korean, but the Korean sounded like the cawing of crows to Nao.

  “Someone there should be able to speak Korean. You need to get your arm looked at. Come on!”

  Nao reached for the man’s uninjured arm, but the stranger pushed him away with such force Nao fell back into the mud. He curled his fingers into a fist, and mud oozed out. No matter how much the stranger struggled, Nao wouldn’t leave him.

  The rain drowned out the man’s continued mumbling. He was probably telling Nao why he couldn’t go to the hospital. Expired visa or lack of insurance, Nao didn’t need to know.

  With an uneven step toward the stranger, Nao realized his right shoe had stayed in the muck. His bare foot slid through the sludge, and he grimaced. Lightning flashed, and the stranger’s mouth no longer moved. Nao’s eyes widened. He couldn’t let another person die in front of him.

  “Wake up.”

  No reply or movement from the stranger.

  Nao clenched his teeth. He grabbed the injured arm, pressing his thumb into the cut. The man hissed in pain and then spat out more Korean. Nao backed away. He had deepened the injury, but the cruelty woke the guy up, so it was worth it.

  “Let’s go.”

  “No hospitals.”

  “We need to get out of the rain before we both get sick.”

  Nao tugged the good arm over his shoulder. The man moaned as Nao hoisted him up. The stranger was considerably taller, built larger in all aspects, and he weighed down
on Nao’s shoulder. Yet the drive to do something right for once carried him on.

  The stranger dragged his feet, consuming all of Nao’s strength with his one-shoe climb. Hot breath tickled his ear, but Nao focused on the uncomfortable weight and not the closeness of the other man. How long had it been since he’d let someone get so close? Nao managed, but by the end, he felt more like a mud-drenched beast than a human.

  Once back on the path, Nao stood paralyzed. He glanced to the right. The train station was closer that way, but that part of the path he had already walked. He shifted the man on his shoulder, pushing him so his mumbling wouldn’t linger in his ear.

  He glanced down the uncompleted path. It made no sense to finish it. His disgust was with himself more than with the stranger’s blood that seeped onto his yukata sleeve and mixed with the rain down his arm.

  Yet before he fully realized what he was doing, Nao’s feet were carrying him along with the stranger to complete the path.

  “Are you going to sleep all morning?” Nao asked, but the stranger did not stir in the bed.

  Nao grabbed the edge of the blanket by the stranger’s feet but paused, distracted by the man’s swollen eye half-hidden by brown hair. He must have gotten into a fight and then fallen in the canal. Nao shook his head. There was no point in thinking about the stranger, no matter how attractive the man was underneath those bruises.

  Nao did the right thing. He would give the man a good breakfast then tell him to leave. Nao liked the solitude he’d built around himself. No need to start thinking of anything else, even if he was the first man in Nao’s bed in years. Nao had yet to pay proper penance for the last relationship he’d screwed up, so there was no point having a man in his bed any longer. It was bringing back too many memories.

  Nao flung the covers off, but even then the stranger remained in his peaceful slumber.

  “Really?” Nao groaned to himself and stepped past the platform bed to the adjacent bathroom.

  The cool air clung to him, and the extra dampness from their clothes lingered in the air. A soaking tub crowded the back wall, and a showerhead hung outside of it. The sink took up the remainder of the space and was filled with bandage wrappers from Nao’s attempt at first aid the night before. The stranger’s clothes hung on the towel racks. Dirt caked his pants, leaving a few patches, showing the black cloth underneath. A series of silver studs created a skull pattern on the once-white shirt. The torn sleeve was saturated with blood, dried brown.

  Who would actually buy such tacky clothes? Nao followed the chain attached to the pants belt loop and pulled free the leather wallet with a passport tucked inside. He could at least figure out who the man was. He examined the passport first.

  “Saehyun Park,” Nao read, guessing at the pronunciation.

  He turned the damp passport over. Park’s job visa was stapled inside, which meant Park held a four-year degree. Yet the flimsy document wasn’t the thickness Nao thought it should be, and Park was twenty-two according to the document. What company would go outside of Japan to hire someone fresh out of college that dressed like a street punk and ended up in a canal? Nao set the passport on the sink, opened the wallet with a thick stack of 10,000 yen notes.

  Nao raised a brow. “You must’ve won the fight.”

  The rest of the wallet contained a credit card and two citations for smoking, but it was the half dozen identical black linen business cards that caught Nao’s attention. Even after Park’s swim in the canal, the cards were of such quality that they went unscathed.

  The design in the center was a blue crescent moon with a crimson gibbous moon filling in the open space. Nao recognized the embossed circle and lines underneath the symbol as Korean, but beyond recognizing the language, Nao was unable to decipher any meaning from the text. There were no other numbers or address on it. He knew of only one “business” that tried to present itself as both legitimate and extravagant at the same time: the mafia. Nao dispelled the thought. Not every person with a fancy card in his wallet walked through life in the underworld.

  He placed the cards back in the wallet and reached into another pants pocket and pulled out a phone along with a half-empty pack of cigarettes. The phone was an average touch screen model with a black case. He pressed the power button, but the phone was dead, proving how worthless the case was against water. Although Nao’s last phone was a flip phone, so perhaps he was not turning it on correctly. Who needed to always be connected to others, anyway?

  Nao plunged his fingers into the final pocket. His eyes narrowed when he touched metal and pulled out a butterfly knife. With a skilled flick of his wrist, Nao freed the blade. Spots of oxidized blood were on its tip. His gaze darted past the sleeping Park to his nightstand drawer. The 9mm rested there.

  “Stop it,” he whispered to himself. “Don’t jump to conclusions. Get him out of here.”

  Nao sheathed the blade and put all the contents back into the correct pockets. He brushed off some of the dirt with his hands, folded the shirt and pants, and carried them out of the bathroom.

  The bedroom opened to a living room, and a low table took up the space next to the white-tiled kitchenette. Nao placed Park’s clothing next to his breakfast. Eggs, toast, miso soup, and even a pot of tea were meant to be split between them. Nao had finished his portion over an hour ago. He took a few steps into the vestibule and stopped when he spied the gray tabby cat asleep on his spare shoes. He smiled at the cat, petting her head, but she stayed asleep.

  “Come on, Kuma. You’re needed.”

  Nao picked up the sturdy cat, receiving a meow in protest. He held her close, and she began to purr in his arms. Her added nine kilograms pulled on his sore shoulders, but he ignored the dull pain.

  He carried the cat back to the bed and caught Park twisting in his sleep. The yukata Nao had given him fell open, and Nao’s gaze wandered from the exposed collarbones to the boot-sized yellow bruise on Park’s side. Nao lingered at a taut stomach before stopping at the idiotic banana-print boxers. Those belonged to Park. No matter how soaked they had been last night, Nao hadn’t wanted to cross that line.

  His gaze drifted up again; instead of focusing on Park’s body, it was drawn to the Western tattoo over his heart, the same moon symbol from the business cards. The symbol meant something if Park had etched it on his skin, and the thought made Nao’s pulse pound in his ears.

  He needed to get Park out of his home.

  Stepping away from the bed and closer to the bookcase that cluttered the small room, Nao gently tossed the cat onto Park. He saw her land on Park’s chest before he focused on the books. Park mumbled something in Korean, but Nao stayed put, reading the author’s names on the spines. Kawabata… Soseki…

  “Where the fuck am I?” Park asked in Japanese. His accent came through with the intonations in the wrong pitch.

  “Sorry, did Kuma wake you up?”

  “Kuma?”

  Nao pointed to the cat. “She can be a pain when she wants attention.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I found you in the canal. I wanted to take you to the hospital, but you said no. So…” Nao’s voice trailed off as Park yawned and petted the cat curled by his feet.

  “So you took my clothes as payment, or are you some kind of perv?”

  “I slept on a futon and let you have the bed.” Nao folded his arms into the sleeves of his yukata. “I didn’t want you getting pneumonia along with the cut on your arm. I used superglue to treat it. It’s good in a pinch, but perhaps there’s a doctor you trust that you can visit.”

  “You’re kind of funny.” Park waved the sleeves of the yukata. “So old.”

  “Old?” Nao bit the inside of his cheek.

  “Only old men wear summer kimonos outside of festivals.”

  Insulting his admiration of traditional clothing went too far. Nao crossed his arms and opened his mouth, but Park cut off his
unspoken words.

  “You’re like, what, forty?” Park added.

  “Twenty-six!”

  “See? It ages you.”

  Park patted Kuma’s head before he stood. He was built for fighting, a physique strong and thick with muscles. Nao glanced down at his own wiry frame. He belonged in a tea ceremony. His shoulder throbbed as he glanced at Park. Wishing to forget he’d carried him down the Philosopher’s Path. Forget him…forget there was ever a person who disturbed his solitude. He should’ve ignored Park’s request and dumped him at the emergency room.

  Park scratched at his dried, brown locks sticking up in the air. “Where are my clothes?”

  “Those tacky pieces of—”

  “What did you say?”

  “In the other room on the table.” Nao jerked his head to the side. “The door’s that way too.”

  Grinning, Park took off the yukata and threw it on the bed beside the cat. Nao averted his eyes at first but looked up to see Park and his banana-covered butt walking to the living room. Nao swallowed the tickle of desire at the back of his throat and leaned against the opening to the living room.

  Park laughed, glancing back at Nao. “You made breakfast?”

  “Don’t bother. It’s cold.”

  “You moved my phone as well as my clothes?”

  “I didn’t touch your things.” The lies rolled off Nao’s tongue with ease.

  Park didn’t question Nao further as he dug through his pockets before pulling out his phone and toying with it.

  “Damn.” Park turned to Nao. “Where’s your phone?”

  “Sorry, it was destroyed.”

  “The water got it too? Where’s the house one?”

  “Also destroyed.”

  “Really?” Park asked.

  Nao held out his hands. “Look around and see if you can find a phone if you don’t believe me.”

  Park cracked his knuckles and reaching into another pocket. He tossed his cigarettes to Nao. “For getting me out of the gutter. Dry them out and they’ll be as sweet as gin.”

  Nao snatched them in the air but walked the few steps to place them back into Park’s hand. Nao had turned to tea when he gave up smoking. Tea culture steeped through each vein and replaced his nicotine cravings with caffeine. He swore he wouldn’t touch another cigarette and wouldn’t break the vow. They were the first step back down the wrong path, and even the smell could pull him back on his worse days.