Emperor of Havoc: A Dark Forced Marriage Mafia Romance

This ‘engagement’ party feels like it’s never going to end. The hum of voices, the clink of glasses, the feeling of a thousand eyes burning into me—it’s fucking brutal.

I’ve perfected the art of smiling when I don’t want to, or nodding like I care what these people think of me. But tonight my patience is paper-thin, and I swear if Takeshi smirks at me one more fucking time, I might actually shove a fork in his eye.

Calm down, I tell myself, adjusting my gown as I move through the chaos and the crowd. I need a moment alone, a sliver of silence.

I skirt the edge of the gathering, slipping toward a quieter part of the room and a cluster of chairs set up near the wide glass windows. The koi pond outside shimmers in the moonlight, and for a second, I think how nice it would be to trade places with one of the fish.

“Katarina.”

I turn to see Hana Mori approaching. For a moment, her image in front of me blurs, replaced by the memory of the nightmare two months ago: two chairs, a burned-out office building, a see-saw board poised over nothing but air and ruins.

Her face is cleaner now, her hair sleek and done impeccably, but her eyes are the same as the ones that stared back at me across the beam, wide with fear but unblinking, holding onto the same desperate shred of hope that I did.

We were hostages together, pawns in Miyamoto Katō’s sick game hoping to pit our families against each other. If my family came first and tried to save me, the see-saw would tip, sending her tumbling to her death. If hers saved her first, I’d be the one to fall.

It’s weird to realize we’ve gone through something like that together and yet haven’t seen each other since that day, or know each other at all.

Hana stops a few feet away, smiling softly. “It’s been…a while.”

My fingers twitch at my sides. She watches my hands, and then, to my surprise, lifts hers, awkwardly but deliberately.

“I only know a little,” she signs, a little clumsily. “But I can understand more than I can sign,” she adds vocally.

It breaks me out of my stupor. I grin at her for a moment before we come together to hug for a second.

It’s tough not to see that Hana is Takeshi’s twin. She doesn’t have his height, and her dark hair is bleached blonde. But their features, especially the eyes, are eerily similar. Like her brothers, Hana has a distinctly Japanese look, but with a hint of Norwegian, from their mother.

“Bet you’d never have guessed this is how we’d meet again,” I sign dryly. When I see the confused look on her face, I hold up a finger, head to the bar, borrow a notepad and pen from the bartender, and walk back.

“Sorry,” she groans. “I guess my signing isn’t as good as I thought.”

I shake my head, smiling. No problem, I write. Then I add what I signed before and pass the notebook to her.

She laughs. “No, can’t say I would have guessed this would be our second meeting. But you have to admit, anything’s better than the first.”

AKA, when we were tied to chairs dangling above the abyss, wondering if the next sneeze would send both of us plunging to our deaths.

The service is much better this time, I write, making her snort a laugh.

“Much better,” she smiles. “The venue is definitely an improvement, too.”

You think? I write. I was considering suggesting to my father that he remodel and go for a burned-out architectural hazard vibe.

Hana grins, shaking her head. “I hope you’re surviving my brother,” she says with a playful roll of her eyes. “He has a talent for making people want to strangle him.”

I snatch up the notepad and pencil. I manage to restrain myself and just scrawl “he’s a little infuriating” on the page.

I mean, we’re getting along. But Takeshi is her twin.

“Please—don’t hold back on my account. I’ve known that dick my whole life. Serve that tea, girl.”

Hey, she asked.

He’s a fucking asshole, I scrawl across the page.

Luckily, Hana laughs. “I know how strange all of this must feel. But I’m glad this is ending the animosity between our families.”

More like hiding or burying it, I think to myself.

“Me too,” I sign back.

Hana and I end up grabbing a drink at the bar and finding out we’ve got even more in common than I would have thought. And ultimately, she’s right: however fucked-up this arrangement is, it does end any potential bloodshed between our families. And that’s nothing but good.

Eventually she gets pulled away, and I make my way to the long table set up on a low stage at the front of the room to leave my clutch at my seat. The place settings are meticulous, crystal glasses and polished silver catching the light just so—Papa spared no expense. Then my brows knit as I spot something.

There’s an envelope on my plate.

It’s small and unmarked, cream-colored with a slight gold foil edge. I glance around. No one seems to be paying attention, so I lower myself into the chair and tear open the envelope, wondering if maybe it’s a little note from Papa, since he’s not here.

The second my eyes land on the words inside, I realize it’s not from him.

You’re mine.

That’s all. No signature. No explanation. Just those two words scrawled in heavy black ink. I open the paper flat, my heart thudding as I glance around the room.

Takeshi.

He’s standing near the far side of the hall, talking to someone I don’t recognize. His posture is relaxed, that smug grin still on his face. When his dark eyes flick to me, something inside me coils tight. I can still feel the weight of his hands on me, the heat of his breath in my ear as he whispered things I’d be happy to forget.

Or at least, things I’m trying to convince myself that I’d be happy to forget.

Shivering, I pull my eyes away and glance back at the note, frowning. Did he put this here to fuck with me?

I glare at him across the room, willing him to turn and acknowledge the note in my hand, take credit for it. When he doesn’t, I give up and start to make the expected rounds of the party.

Circulating through the guests is a little like walking through a minefield. Every smile I make feels painted on, every answer rehearsed. Papa’s absence is noticed, of course.

“Business,” I keep telling everyone when asked, my expression unwavering. “You know how it is.”

Some nod, accepting the lie without further prodding. Others linger a beat too long, clearly trying to peek behind my carefully constructed mask. I just keep smiling. Keep moving.

Papa taught me well: never let them see your weakness.

“A big day,” a voice mutters in Russian behind me. “But it would appear not big enough to warrant your father making an appearance.”

Shit.

I turn, smiling and bowing to Sergey Vorobev. When plans changed—i.e., when Takeshi crashed that dinner party—Papa reached out to Sergey and politely informed him that the loose plan to marry me to Rodion was no longer on the table.

We never heard a thing back from him. Not a great sign that the message landed well—nor is the sour look on Sergey’s face.

Since Nina is circulating the party on her own, I’ve hung onto the pen and notepad I borrowed from the bartender earlier. I scrawl “My deepest apologies regarding your son, Mr. Vorobev. I know our empires could have done great things as a joined family. But we can still do those great things as allies, wouldn’t you agree?”

Sergey reads it with a scowl on his face before grunting dismissively.

“Your father and I had a deal, Ms. Mori,” he growls.

“I appreciate that,” I write. “But my father wanted me to have a say in whom I married.”

It’s bullshit, obviously. But it’s a better explanation than “your son is a drunk, rude piece of shit and I’d rather lick a public restroom doorknob than get hitched to him.”

Sergey snorts. “So, instead of my son, you choose to marry a ticking fucking time bomb?!” he spits.

I start to write a reply, but he jerks my hand away from the notepad.

“Where is your father, malen’kaya printsessa.”

Little princess.

Yeah, fuck you too, Sergey.

“Business called,” I scrawl.

“Get him back here,” Sergey mutters. “This insult has gone on long enough.”

I don’t immediately write my reply. I simply hold the pen and paper, letting my gaze stab into him, lingering until the moment becomes unbearably awkward.

“Mr. Vorobev,” I write. “I can apologize again for things not working out between your son and me. But I won’t apologize to you, or anyone else, for the choices I make of my own volition in service to my father’s empire. If you’d like to talk business, I’m standing right here, and I speak for my father. If you’re just here to complain, you can join the group of girlfriends and mistresses at the bar, bitching and moaning about having to share their Yakuza boyfriends tonight with those men’s actual wives.”

His face darkens as he reads my response. When his eyes drag back up to mine, his fury so eager to spill out, I turn around and walk away, leaving him stewing, knowing he won’t actually do shit.

I spot Ryu across the room, his face dark as he talks with Yamamoto and a few other men Takeshi had been hovering around earlier. I find Nina, and ask her to come translate for me as I march across the room toward the group of men, my stomach twisting slightly.

When we reach them, Ryu’s frown deepens. He eyes me carefully as I step forward, chin lifted.

“Neither my father’s wishes, plans, nor leadership is changing,” I sign, Nina translating aloud. “The Ishida-kai will continue as it always has. All this marriage does is shore up our alliances and stop this from escalating into a war nobody wants. That’s it. The empire comes first.”

The men murmur amongst themselves, echoing the “empire comes first” line that Papa is so fond of.

I turn to Yamamoto. “What was my dear fiancé talking to you about earlier?”

The older man shifts a little uncomfortably. “Ms. Ishida⁠—”

“You have been allied with my father for years. I’d like an answer.”

Yamamoto exhales slowly, looking away. “I believe he was trying to…make friends with me, if you know what I mean.”

I do, but I’m not done with Yamamoto yet.

“No, I don’t,” I sign, waiting for Nina to translate. “Do you mean he was trying to fuck you?”

Yamamoto’s face darkens. “Excuse me?”

“Be. Specific.”

He coughs uncomfortably. “I believe he wanted us to be friends in the sense of forming an alliance within the alliance.”

That motherfucker.

We’re not even married yet, and he’s already trying to make side deals with my family’s top allies.

“Thank you for your honesty, Yamamoto-san.”

When the group disperses, Ryu lingers behind. He leans close, his voice low. “Takeshi is going to be a problem. I don’t trust him further than I could throw him.”

“Me either,” I sign back quickly. “He’s an opportunistic shit.”

“Who, specifically, are we talking about?”

I stiffen at the sound of Takeshi’s voice behind me. For a split second, I’m totally confused how he’s managed to insert himself into the conversation, before remembering that somehow the fucking psycho has learned a decent amount of sign language in the span of a week or two. Which is…weird.

But then, a thought curls the corners of my mouth. I smile fake-sweetly as I turn from Ryu to face my smug-as-fuck fiancé.

“Who do you think we’re talking about?” I sign. This time, it’s in Japanese Sign Language, as opposed to the American version I typically use, since it’s far more widely understood.

Takeshi tilts his head to the side, his eyes piercing into me. My grin widens.

Got you there, asshole.

I’m starting to turn back to Ryu when Takeshi clears his throat. “Well, you said ‘opportunistic shit’. I could only assume you were fawning over yours truly.”

I stiffen and my eyes snap back to Takeshi, who’s grinning widely, though his eyes sparkle with black malice.

“Oopsie,” he sighs. “Seems I may have accidentally learned all your secret code languages.” He looks past me to Ryu. “Surely there’s a decrepit old house that needs haunting, or a bridge that’s in sore need of its troll back. Why don’t you run along and let me speak to my fiancée alone.”

I swear I can hear Ryu’s teeth grinding. But the man is, above anything else, utterly self-controlled, like a samurai. So even if he’s looking at Takeshi like he wants to murder him with a rusty spoon, he barely moves a muscle in his face.

“Ms. Mori…” he growls quietly.

“I’ll be fine, Ryu,” I sign back, glancing at him and giving him the briefest roll of my eyes. “I’ll take care of him. Thank you.”

Ryu bows stiffly, shooting Takeshi another lethal look before turning on his heel and marching away.

“Now…when you say take care of him…” Takeshi sidles closer. “Should I assume that includes your pretty mouth wrapped around my dick?”

“More like your ass wrapped around a gun, with a trigger I pull until the chamber is much, much lighter.”

Takeshi’s brows arch in amusement. “That was…graphic.”

“Can you just leave me the fuck alone?” I sign tersely.

“Not even married yet and already we need counseling,” he sighs.

“You certainly do,” I sign sarcastically, shooting him a glare. “Plus medication.”

Takeshi chuckles. “You have no idea, princess.”

“I think I can make an educated guess,” I fire back. “And don’t think that any of this means you can step on my toes,” I sign, my movements sharp.

“Meaning?”

I glare at him. “Meaning stay the hell away from my allies and stop trying to drag them to your side.”

“And here I thought what’s yours was mine, and what’s mine was yours, dear,” he smirks.

“You thought wrong,” I toss back.

“And I’m sorry,” he continues. “Your allies?”

“I’m my father’s number two. You’re merely an accessory. A handbag.”

Takeshi’s grin widens. “A handbag? You wound me, princess.”

“I’m sure I’ve told you a hundred times by now to stop calling me that.”

“What else should I call you, then? Beloved fiancée?” He drops his voice. “I think you like it more than you admit.”

At that moment dinner is announced, cutting our conversation short. I throw Takeshi one last glare before stalking toward the table.

Dinner begins, the atmosphere tense, and eventually the centerpiece of the evening—fugu, AKA pufferfish sashimi—is presented with great fanfare.

While delicious, pufferfish is extremely dangerous due to the high levels of tetrodotoxin in their organs and skin—enough in one fish to kill thirty people. The chefs that prepare and serve it train for years to be surgeons with their knives, making sure to only serve the edible parts, and not anything that’s going to kill a whole dinner party. Fun fact: as part of the final exam to get their license to serve it, they have to eat fugu they have prepared themselves.

No pressure.

The chef, a man well-known to our family, begins slicing, his movements precise. But halfway through, Takeshi rises from his seat beside me.

“What are you doing?” I sign, glaring at him. “Sit down!”

He smiles benignly as he walks around the table to Chef Sawada. “May I?” he murmurs in Japanese.

Chef Sawada frowns, his eyes darting to me. I glare at Takeshi. “Stop embarrassing yourself. Your bullshit in this case has the potential to kill people. Sit. Down.”

“Relax, princess,” he says smoothly. “I’ve done this before.”

He takes the knife from the chef, ignoring the man’s protests and beginning to slice the fish himself. The room watches in stunned, horrified silence as he works, his hands steady, his expression cool and unreadable. When he’s done, he slips a piece onto my plate and leans close to me, his voice a quiet murmur against my ear.

“You should know how good I am with a blade, fiancée.”

The challenge hangs in the air, thick and heavy. I hesitate, my pulse hammering as I look at the piece of fish, translucent and perfect and potentially deadly.

“Go ahead, princess,” he murmurs again. “Eat up.”

I know he wants me to cower. Wants me to say no, and look weak in front of my allies, afraid of my own fiancé.

I won’t show weakness. I can’t.

So I take my chopsticks, lift the piece of fish from my plate, and slide it into my mouth. It melts on my tongue, delicate and cold.

Takeshi looks pleased with himself as I defiantly look straight at him as I chew and swallow. The tension melts from the rest of the room, audible exhales coming from all over as I turn to smile at everyone.

“My compliments to the chef,” I sign with a large grin, letting Nina translate for the crowd and enjoying the laughter and applause that follows. Nina eyes me nervously, but I wink back at her as I finish my pufferfish.

Suddenly, a faint numbness begins to spread across my tongue. My lips.

Holy fuck.

My eyes widen, my body stiffening as my breath catches. My gaze rips to Takeshi as he calmly takes his seat next to me again, watching me, his expression unreadable.

“How’s the fish, dear,” he growls quietly.

My throat works, panic beginning to roar in my veins like wildfire as he leans close.

“It’s just a tiny bit,” he murmurs into my ear. “Just enough to remind you…”

“Remind me of what!?” I sign frantically, trying to slow my racing pulse.

Takeshi’s gaze doesn’t leave mine as he plucks a piece of fish off his own plate and pops it into his mouth.

“Of whose you are now,” he murmurs.

After I gulp down the rest of my wine and drain the water glass in front of me, I feel the numbness begin to fade. But the weight of what just happened doesn’t, not at all.

This man is a fucking lunatic.

I have no idea if what just happened was a fucked-up game, a power-play, or just that Takeshi is legitimately crazy enough to poison me in front of both our families.

I thought I could handle him.

Now I’m not sure I’ll even survive him.