Emperor of Lust: A Dark Mafia Enemies To Lovers Romance
Emperor of Lust: Chapter 29

Kempton Donahue’s young secretary bought my story about being a city trash inspector here for a last-minute meeting with the Ambassador far too quickly.

What can I say: I’m charming as fuck when I want to be.

Twenty minutes later, she’s sitting me down in the Ambassador’s office with a cappuccino, smiling at me as I grin back at her.

“Thank you so much, Miss…?” I raise a brow.

“Oh!” She blushes. “Just Yuki is fine,” she says through a shy smile.

“Thank you, Yuki-chan,” I grin with a wink.

She turns even pinker and scurries out the door, leaving me to wait for my prey.

The second she’s gone, the charm drops. My darkness seeps back out of the crevices and cracks it slithered into.

Unsmiling, I scan the room, noting exits, entrances, and any surveillance. There’s one camera facing the side door, opposite the one I was escorted in through. It’s simple enough to walk over, keep out of sight of the lens, and reach up to yank out the wire.

I settle back into my chair, sipping Yuki’s not-bad cappuccino as I glance around again.

Kempton Donahue’s office reeks of money, the shelves full of leather-bound books and mementos, with photos of him and any remotely well-known politician you could think of plastering the walls.

The side door opens. He doesn’t see me at first, his nose stuck in a file folder as he strolls in. “Ahh, Mr. Suzuki,” he mumbles, still not looking at me as he walks around behind his desk. “How can I help⁠—”

He finally glances up. His face drains of color, as if he’s seen a ghost, but then a flicker of rage sparks in his eyes.

Recognition.

“You,” he breathes.

Yeah, he knows exactly who I am and what I’ve done.

Good. Saves me the trouble of introductions.

I’m out of the chair and on him in three steps. Donahue bleats as I grab him by the collar and slam him down on the desk so hard the papers he was holding scatter like leaves. He barely manages a yelp before I’ve twisted his arm behind him, locked in a hold that has him helpless, his jowly cheek against the wood.

“You son of a bitch!” he roars. “You son of a⁠—”

“Quiet,” I snarl through clenched teeth, twisting his arm a little tighter. “Or I’ll rip this arm off and fucking gag you with it.”

He shudders, panting heavily as I bend down to glare at him.

“My friend was here last night,” I spit, my face inches from his. “And he somehow didn’t manage to find his way home afterward. Where is he.”

“You piece of shit,” he squawks, struggling against my grip. He’s pinned. Pathetic. Weak, just like his shitty excuse for a son.

“You blackmailed my sister,” I say, my voice a low, dangerous hiss, “after your son tried to rape her.”

His face contorts in rage. “You killed my son!” he bellows, the veins in his neck bulging.

“That I did, Ambassador,” I smile as I lean down closer to him. “And you know what?”

He gulps.

“Go ahead. Ask me what.”

His eyes run over my face, flickering as he starts to truly understand what he’s dealing with.

Madness.

An attraction to violence and havoc.

A man who would literally rip his limbs off right now, and then go have a nice quiet lunch.

He swallows thickly. “What,” he chokes.

I grin savagely. “I’d do it again,” I whisper, venom seeping into my words. “And again, and again.”

Donahue keeps trying to wriggle out of my grip, squirming like a stuck pig. No. He’s not going anywhere.

“You think I’d tell you?!” he snarls. “You think I’d help you after what you did?!”

“See, that’s exactly what I think,” I smile, my hand tightening on his arm, bending it at an unnatural angle. He chokes out a scream as I force him harder against the desk, pressing my full weight on him.

“Tell me where Damian is,” I demand, my tone icy yet calm. “Or I’ll kill you, just like I killed your pathetic son.”

He freezes, his breathing ragged. I feel tension bleed through his body as the threat settles in. He starts to crack. Slowly, he lifts his head.

“I… I don’t know where he’s being held,” he whispers. “But I know who took him.”

My eyes narrow. “Start. Talking.”

Donahue looks away, defeated. Broken. “I’m…working with Kolya Ishida.”

It takes every ounce of control not to shatter his wrist right here. This scum, working with the Ishida-kai, pulling strings like he’s some puppet master. I tighten my grip on his arm, forcing him to look at me.

“Keep going,” I hiss.

His eyes flicker with fear. “Kolya…had a man who was spying on him once. I was there, I saw it.” He’s babbling, the words spilling out. “Kolya brought him to a warehouse near the harbor to torture him.”

I lean closer. “Where,” I breathe. “Be very specific.”

Donahue stammers out the address, his voice shaking with terror. “You’ll never get in there,” he cries. “M-Mr. Ishida’s guards⁠—”

“Why don’t you leave the guards to me,” I mutter.

I already know how I’ll get to Damian.

…Because I know Kolya Ishida’s weak spot.

I release Donahue’s arm. But before I let him get up, I slip something from my jacket pocket and set it down next to his hand.

Donahue freezes as his eyes land on the small, ornate tantō knife. His face pales.

“No!” he cries, eyes wide with terror. “You said if I helped you⁠—”

“I’d let you live, yes.” I let the words hang for a moment, watching hope flickering in his eyes. “But there’s still a price to pay. There’s always a price.”

I smile as the realization dawns on him. I point at the knife, then at his hand.

“The Yakuza have a ritual called yubitsume,” I say calmly. “When an offense is made, the offender cuts off the top portion of their pinky finger to ask for forgiveness.”

Donahue shakes his head, his entire body trembling. “No…no, I⁠—”

“It’s the pinky or I slice open your fucking throat and you bleed out on the carpet,” I mutter, my voice a low growl. “You have ten seconds to decide.”

He stares at the blade, his pale face slick with sweat. After a pause, I start counting down from ten, my voice cold and unyielding.

“Ten. Nine…”

Donahue starts to tremble.

“Eight. Seven…”

His hand hovers over the blade as he wrestles with his fear.

“Six. Five. Four…”

He squeezes his eyes shut.

“Three…”

On two he takes the knife, his hand shaking so hard the blade rattles against the desk. He’s crying as he holds it to his pinky. It’s glorious.

“Hang on⁠—”

I grab his tie and stuff it into his mouth.

“Proceed.”

He hesitates for a second, then slams down the blade.

A wet, sickening crunch fills the room, followed by his strangled cries as blood spurts from the cut.

“Yeah, no, it’s easier to aim for the knuckle,” I murmur quietly.

He sobs as he slides the blade lower and tries again, screaming into the tie as he hacks through his own flesh. More blood spurts as the pinky slices away, splattering across his papers, the pristine leather of his desk.

He’s a mess now, sobbing, clutching his maimed hand as blood starts to drip onto the floor.

I wipe the blade clean on his cheek before I stand, roll my neck, and walk around to the other side of the desk.

“Give it to me.”

He looks up at me, all sniveling snot and tears and blood. I nod to the severed finger.

He stares at me, horrified, but he knows better than to defy me now. Slowly, he picks up the pinky, his face twisted in agony, and hands it to me.

I take it, slipping it into my pocket like it’s nothing more than a business card.

“It goes without saying,” I murmur lethally, “if you’ve misled me here, I’ll be back to cut off the rest of your appendages.” I lean closer, my eyes flashing. “Then I’ll do the same to your wife.”

He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move.

I turn to leave, the severed finger in my pocket feeling like a trophy.

“Welcome to Japan, Ambassador Donahue.”