Emperor of Lust: A Dark Mafia Enemies To Lovers Romance
Emperor of Lust: Chapter 30

The ache in my arms is a dull throb, a steady pulse of pain that matches the slow trickle of blood.

But it’s nothing compared to the vicious, stabbing jabs of pain that come with every hit.

There are two of them. I suppose I should feel proud that they felt they needed more than one guy to fuck me up. But it’s hard to feel anything when the two of them have been beating the shit out of me for the better part of half an hour.

I grunt as one of the two Ishida-kai enforcers rocks a left hook across my face. My head jerks to the side, blood exploding from my lip. The rest of my body doesn’t really move: my wrists, ankles, and torso are all bound to the big wooden X-shaped cross behind me in the middle of the dark warehouse space.

…Not exactly the kind of bondage that gets me hard.

The second enforcer’s fist follows, landing a big hit against my bruised, probably cracked ribs. I groan, more blood spilling from my mouth and dripping down my bare chest.

Another hit comes. Then another, and another. Suddenly, through the miasma of pain, I hear a voice—smooth, controlled, commanding.

“Enough.”

I drag my head up, breathing in shallow, jagged gulps as the two men step away. Every inch of my body is screaming, bruises throbbing, blood running sticky and warm down my chest. The dull thud of footsteps brings my focus forward, and I see the man entering the room.

He has an air about him that could quiet a storm—controlled lethality wrapped in brutal elegance. His eyes are sharp, the color of stormy water, and his dark hair, streaked with silver, is pulled back. The very air in the room shifts around him, bows in his presence.

He’s in gunmetal gray three-piece suit, a black and blood-red montsuki kimono draped around him like a shogun. His shoulders are broad and strong, his arms thick, and I can see tattoo ink at the neck of his one-button-undone shirt.

The corners of his mouth lift in almost polite acknowledgment, but his gaze is as cold as a winter wind. He stops a few feet away, his head cocked slightly.

“Damian Nikolayev.” Kolya Ishida’s voice is low and smooth, but it slices over my skin like glass. “Welcome.”

He says it like I’m a visitor he’s invited here, not a man strung up in a grotesque display. A flicker of amusement dances in his eyes as he steps closer with predatory calm.

“I suppose you know why you’re here.”

I hold his gaze, not giving him the satisfaction of an answer.

His smile widens, but it’s all in the mouth; his eyes are still hard and calculating. “Ah, yes, the famous Bratva pride.” He turns and spits on the ground. “You’ve been quite a nuisance, Mr. Nikolayev. You and the Mori-kai, and your absurd insistence that you somehow belong in this city.”

“I’m here because you’re scared of a little competition, then,” I growl, forcing the words out despite the dry, bitter taste in my mouth.

He chuckles a dark, gravelly sound. “Hardly.” He steps closer, his gaze sharp and cold. “Allow me to rephrase. You’re here, Mr. Nikolayev, because you are a pest. A disease. A virus that requires eradication.”

Kolya’s hand drops to his side, and my eyes fall on the katana he’s carrying. The scabbard gleams, intricately polished wood with gold inlay. He draws it slowly, the blade catching the dim light with a deadly shimmer.

A thing of beauty, designed to end lives.

“This sword,” he murmurs almost reverently, his eyes on the blade, “was passed down from my great-great-grandfather. The art of folding steel is truly magnificent. It takes layers upon layers to make something this strong. This sharp. This lethal.” He lets the words sink in, his fingers brushing the flat of the blade like a lover’s caress.

“It’s been in my family for generations,” he continues. “And when I came back to Japan, I claimed it from my grandfather.” His eyes lock onto mine with a glint that sends a chill down my spine. “He was the first person I killed with it—punishment for casting out my mother. It’s so old, and yet…” He sighs almost wistfully. “Still so sharp.”

He draws closer, power radiating off him in waves.

Without warning, the blade slices across my shoulder, and I feel stinging white-hot pain as it parts flesh, sending blood down my arm. I grit my teeth, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response.

Kolya smiles icily as his wrist flicks again. The blade slashes across my ribs on the opposite side. A fresh wave of pain and blood spills from my body as I groan tightly.

“Do you know how much blood a man can lose before he dies?” Kolya muses, twisting the blade to let the crimson drip down. “A surprising amount. Close to two liters—that’s half a gallon to you.” He smiles. “Forty percent of what a grown man has inside him, Mr. Nikolayev, before he would succumb to exsanguination, or death by loss of blood.”

Another slash, this time across my stomach, shallow enough to sting and deep enough to bleed. He’s taunting me, testing me.

I don’t break. I stare him down, letting the pain become part of me, a reminder that I’m still here, still alive.

Another cut opens my bicep. This time, I focus on something else to drive away the agony.

Hana.

Her lips. Her touch. Her kiss. The way she smells, and how she looks at me.

The man she makes me want to be.

Kolya’s gaze narrows, sensing a challenge. He leans close enough that I can see the small scar across his cheek. “You’re going to make me enjoy this, aren’t you,” he murmurs, almost admiringly.

“Fuck…you…” I manage, my voice raw but steady.

He grins, white teeth flashing in the shadows. “Good. I like a fighting spirit, Mr. Nikolayev. For all our differences, it’s a good way to die: defiant!”

He lifts the blade again, and I brace myself, but the door behind him swings open before the next strike comes.

Ryu, the man I met at the gala, strides in, bowing low. “Ishida-san, there’s been an incident.”

Kolya’s grip on the blade tightens, face twisting with irritation. “I’m busy, Ryu.”

Ryu leans closer, lowering his voice. “There’s a fire, sir. At her house.”

Kolya’s expression changes in an instant. Something dark and intense flickers in his gaze, shifting from calm cruelty to barely concealed panic. Without another word, he wipes the katana off and sheathes it, casting one last look over his shoulder at me.

“Keep him alive,” he commands his men. “I’m not done with him.”

With that, he strides out the door, leaving me with Ryu and the guards. My breathing is ragged and my body is in agony, but I can’t stop the faint smirk that comes to my lips.

Kolya, it would seem, has a weakness. I just don’t know what—or who—it is yet.

Silence descends over the room before Ryu clears his throat. “Leave us,” he murmurs coldly. The two other guards nod, turning and stepping out of the room.

When we’re alone, Ryu smiles darkly and steps closer to me. Without warning, he brings his hand up, using a single finger to poke one of my bleeding wounds hard. I grit my teeth, groaning as the pain washes over me.

A cruel smile bleeds across his face.

“You were quite rude to me at our first meeting, Mr. Nikolayev.”

“How about I tell you how I fucked your mother before I send you away to eat a bag of dicks. We can pick up where we left off.”

Ryu’s lips curl slightly.

“Has Ishida-san told you yet about the samurai? He’s quite good with history, particularly the Edo period.”

He jams a finger into the wound on my stomach again, making me hiss in agony. Stars flicker in my vision as I bite back a scream.

“Has he told you about seppuku, Mr. Nikolayev? The ancient samurai ritual death by self-disembowelment. You’d cut across here⁠—”

Without warning, he brings a blade out from behind him and slashes it across my stomach. I groan viciously as pain slams into me, blood flowing down my torso.

“Then—”

The lights go out.

A moment of silence follows, confusion blanketing the room. Ryu curses, yanking his phone out of his pocket and yelling for the guards. His phone illuminates his face and the gun he now holds in his other hand.

The guards rush in, also carrying sidearms. They close the door, surrounding Ryu as he backs closer to me.

“No one gets in,” he hisses at his men as all three of them aim their guns at the door.

It slams open without warning, crashing against the wall with enough force to rip it half off its hinges. A can tosses into the room.

Shit.

I squeeze my eyes shut as the flash grenade goes off like the surface of the sun popping in to say hello. Even with my eyes shut it’s blinding, and I can hear Ryu and the other guards screaming in agony.

Before I can process it, I feel the ropes at my wrists slacken, a knife slicing through them precisely.

“Let’s go, fucker,” Takeshi’s voice hisses in my ear.

I stumble, my legs screaming in protest, but Takeshi is there, unrelenting, hauling me to my feet as he drags me roughly past Ryu and the guards and out the door.

We move as fast as I’m able, Takeshi half-dragging me, slipping through the shadows, shouting and chaos echoing down the hall.

“What the hell did you do?” I grunt, wincing as pain flares with every step.

He grins wickedly. “You don’t want to know.”

We burst out onto a third-floor balcony, and I finally realize where we are—an old warehouse overlooking the train tracks, an open car passing beneath us, loaded with what looks like…and smells like…

My nose wrinkles…

Fish guts.

We’re at the harbor near Tokyo’s enormous fishing port.

Takeshi glances down, grimacing. “You’re not going to like this,” he says, almost apologetically. “If it helps, neither am I.”

Gunshots ring out behind us, splitting the night. Bullets shred the wood of the wall next to us as Ryu and the two guards come charging around the corner.

We don’t have a choice.

Takeshi grabs my arm and we leap off the edge, hurtling toward the rotting fish below as Kolya’s men shoot wildly, their shouts drowned out by the rush of wind and the pounding of my pulse.

We hit the car with a wet, revolting slosh. Takeshi grabs me, yanking me down into the stinking muck as bullets squelch and splatter around us.

The train keeps moving, pulling us away from the warehouse and around a bend, leaving the sound of gunfire and the fading shouts of the three men behind.