Emperor of Rage: A Dark Mafia Enemies To Lovers Romance

The drive back to Kyoto is long, but I don’t mind. The windows are down, and the post-storm night air whips through my hair as Mal navigates the twisting mountain roads with an ease that leaves me both comforted and exhilarated.

The storm is over, but there’s a quiet aftermath in my chest that lingers. Mal and I sat by that fire for another two hours, just talking and spilling all our secrets to each other, the heat of our confessions burning away the last vestiges of the walls I’d built so carefully around myself.

I grin in the dark silence when I feel Mal’s hand reach over to take mine. He doesn’t say a word, and I just let myself sink into this feeling, loving the way his touch grounds me and makes everything else fade away.

But there’s also a restless energy I’ve been feeling since we were out on the water, surfing before the storm. Something throbbing just beneath the surface, urging me to move, to do something.

“I’m not ready to go back,” I whisper.

Mal’s brow arches as he glances at me. “We don’t have to.”

I turn to face him, my eyes searching his. “I want to do something reckless,” I say, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. “Something wild. I need to feel alive.”

“I know a place.”

We bypass the Mori house, and instead drive down into the city itself, to the Higashiyama district. The buildings around us grow older, their traditional wooden facades casting long shadows over the narrow streets. We wind through the maze of Kyoto’s back alleys, the sounds of the city turning quiet, as if we’ve gone back in time.

Finally, Mal pulls up outside a small, unassuming building with a traditional kirizuma gabled roof, a small fountain, and a garden beside the few steps up to the side door.

There’s a red lantern hanging above the doorway swaying slightly in the breeze, the only sign of life in this otherwise hidden corner of the city.

I have no idea where we are, or what we’re about to do. Mal called someone on the way, but the whole conversation was in Japanese and he wouldn’t tell me a thing.

“What is this place?” I ask curiously.

Mal steps out of the Jeep, his eyes never leaving mine as he walks around to my side. He opens the door for me, extending his hand, and I feel a rush of anticipation as I take it.

“Tattoo parlor,” he says simply. “One of the oldest in Kyoto. The man who runs it now is a twelfth-generation tattoo artist.”

My heart skips as I look up at the ancient building. A nervous energy throbs through me. But I grin and let it take hold.

Good. I want that rush. I want that energy flowing through my veins.

The warmth of Mal’s hand in mine grounds me as he leads me up the stairs and knocks softly on the door. A second later, it opens, revealing a man not much older than Mal, with long hair pulled up into a bun on top of his head, and a myriad of gorgeous, traditional irezumi tattoos covering his neck and arms.

“Mal,” he grins, opening the door wider.

“Hanzō,” Mal beams. “Thanks for seeing us at such a late hour.”

The man bows his head. “Of course, my friend,” he purrs in a beautifully accented voice. He turns to smile at me as he takes my hand. “And you are?”

“Freya.”

“Mine.”

Mal and I both answer at the same time, though our delivery is a little different. I say my name with a kind smile. Mal announces I am his with a dark edge in his voice.

Hanzō chuckles, releasing my hand and backing away with his hands raised.

“Well,” he chuckles. “That renders my next question of how you know each other unnecessary.” He turns and shakes his head. “Still the same Mal, I see.”

I snort. “Exactly how many girls has he brought here?”

Hanzō laughs as he turns and ushers us into the shop. “This grumpy motherfucker?” He makes a face. “I’m surprised he even knew how to talk to a woman.”

I grin, feeling my cheeks heat as Mal sighs.

“But I know him well enough to know he doesn’t tend to share.”

We follow Hanzō through the interior of the dimly lit shop until we get to a little room filled with incense, the walls covered in traditional art, with a Buddha statue against the far one. It’s dark in here, too, but one focused light hangs down low over a tattooing chair and a table full of tools. I recognize the tattoo gun, but not the small bundles of little sticks also laid out.

“Tebori technique,” Hanzō grunts, nodding at the bundles. “The old way, like stick-and-poke.”

My eyes widen a little. Getting tattooed literally by hand, having someone repeatedly jamming a tiny bundle of needles into your skin sounds hardcore, even to me.

Hanzō chuckles. “I think tonight, we stick to the modern way.”

Mal gestures for me to sit and I do, my heart pounding in my chest as Hanzō prepares his tools. I swallow hard, the weight of what we’re about to do settling over me.

“Mal told me you have other ink already.”

I nod, lifting my shirt up over my ribs. A low growl emanates from Mal, who looks like he’s as pleased with me showing this small bit of skin to Hanzō as he’d be watching me blow the guy.

“Really?” I snicker, rolling my eyes at him.

He grunts, eyeing me with a tightness in his jaw. But after a few seconds, he lets it go.

“What do you think you’d like to get?” Mal asks, his voice quiet.

I chew on my lip as I glance around the room, eying the stunning art all over the walls: traditional hannya masks, onis, kitsune foxes, lettering, dragons, swords, and fish.

“I feel like I should get something Japanese, being here. But…” I shrug. “I don’t know. That also feels inauthentic. Or like, appropriation.”

Hanzō smiles, shaking his head. “Cultures and traditions are our own. We all have different ones. These,” he says, gesturing to his arms and the gorgeous, swirling irezumi style ink all over them, “are mine. That is yours,” he continues, pointing to the Memento Mori on my ribs. “If you’re asking if I take exception to you honoring my traditions, I don’t. In fact, I welcome you to.”

I nod, mulling it over.

“What about both. Your traditions and mine.”

Hanzō smiles. “I like it.”

I glance at Mal before I look back to Hanzō. “What about Memento Vivere underneath the Memento Mori.”

Hanzō nods.

“And then…” I chew on my lip before I glance back at him. “What would you pick? For the Japanese.”

Hanzō frowns. He takes a full minute, scanning his wall of art, tapping his finger on his chin before he turns back to me. His dark eyes search mine, like he’s reading my history.

“You’re brave,” he says quietly. “And you’ve overcome much.”

My mouth twists into an embarrassed smile as I lift a shoulder. “Oh, I don’t know about⁠—”

“She has,” Mal growls.

I glance at him and grin.

“A koi fish, then,” Hanzō nods. “It represents perseverance.”

“Perfect,” I say quietly. “Where?”

Hanzō smiles. “Ahh, now that is the important question. Traditionally,” he says slowly, “the fish swimming upstream, up the arm, represents a personal journey; growth and resilience. On the back, it means determination and a sense of personal self-power.”

I answer without even thinking.

“Do you have time to do both?”

Hanzō nods, glancing at Mal. “I have a room downstairs, without windows. It’s not a hotel, but you’re welcome to stay the day there after the sun rises.”

Oh. Apparently, part of that phone call in Japanese involved Mal telling Hanzō about my condition.

Mal nods.

“Thank you, Hanzō,” I say quietly.

He turns back to me and smiles. “Of course. In that case, we have plenty of time.” He glances back at Mal. “What about you? Are we finding some empty space on you tonight?”

Mal nods, his eyes darting to mine. “Yeah.”

“Have you decided what you’ll be getting?”

“The same,” Mal says quietly, looking right at me. “Memento Mori, Memento Vivere, and the two koi fish.”

Hanzō grins widely. “I’m so glad you called. This will be a fun one. Let’s begin.” He starts to ready his tools and the ink. Then, as he’s pulling on his gloves, he chuckles as he glances at Mal. “Do I need to worry about my personal safety? You understand that tattooing her means I’ll need to touch her.”

Mal looks like he’s swallowing raw sewage as his jaw works and his face sours. I laugh and slap his hip. Finally, he uncoils a little, his body visibly relaxing.

“Fine,” he grunts. “But only because I trust you.”

Hanzō chuckles. “Like I said. He doesn’t tend to share.”

Mal moves to stand beside me, his presence steady and grounding as Hanzō begins the lettering on my ribs. The needle buzzes softly, and the familiar sting of ink being pressed permanently into my skin brings both pain and a rush of adrenaline. I watch as the words take shape, a constant reminder etched onto my body.

Memento Vivere.

Remember to live.

When Hanzō finishes, I look down at my skin, at the way the two phrases sit perfectly balanced: a reminder of death, but also of life.

A vow to myself that I won’t waste what time I have left.

After Hanzō wraps and tapes the new ink, I step into the next room to change out of my shirt and into a hospital gown that Hanzō gives me. It’s sleeveless, for the work on my arm, and the back opens, for when we move on to that.

Hanzō draws the koi with a pen, moving up my triceps toward my shoulder, and then starts to prepare the tattoo gun again.

“Wait.”

He stops when I open my mouth, raising his eyes to mine.

“What if…” I chew on my lip for a second before my resolve hardens. “Could we do the koi the old way? The tebori technique?”

Hanzō pauses, his eyes locked with mine, peering into me as if he’s reading me again.

“I’ve had it done,” Mal says quietly. “It’s pretty raw, Freya.”

I turn to glance up at him. “Think I can handle it?”

He doesn’t even hesitate.

“I know you can.”

With a small smile, I turn and nod at Hanzō. He dips his chin and then puts the tattoo gun down. I watch as he readies the bundles of sharp sticks, which he tells me are called nomi.

“Tattoo guns hurt at first,” Hanzō says. “But I find that they eventually numb you as the work progresses.”

I literally just experienced that exact phenomenon. Initially, my ribs hurt. But after the first few letters of the new memento vivere tattoo, the area did seem to numb.

Hanzō’s face grows serious. “The nomi will not numb you,” he says quietly. “Mal is correct. This will be painful.”

“I don’t mind.”

Just the same, I welcome the feel of Mal’s fingers tangling with mine and squeezing as Hanzō leans in.

“Let’s begin.”

He’s right. It hurts like a motherfucker. I feel each and every little prick of the nomi breaking my skin as the koi on my arm beings to take shape.

But while it never turns numb, in a way, the pain becomes a sort of cleansing, mediative thing. Idon’t try to block it out, because that would be impossible. Instead, I breathe deeply and welcome it in. I let it burn its way through me, until there’s nothing left to catch fire. And it’s there that I find a strange sort of peace.

I end up taking a break after the first koi, because my arm is shaking. Hanzō cleans and wraps that piece before I slide out of the chair to grab some water.

“I’ll start in on you while she rests,” Hanzō says to Mal.

Wordlessly, Mal nods. He pulls off his shirt without hesitation, exposing the tattoos that already cover his chest and arms. His body is a canvas of ink, each mark a story, a piece of his life.

Tonight, he’ll add a new story.

One we wrote together.

I watch in silence as Mal takes his seat, ready to have his skin marked with the same reminders that now sit on mine. He and Hanzō go over the limited open spaces on his skin and decide on an empty spot down the back of each triceps for memento mori and memento vivere. Hanzō draws an intricate koi swimming upstream through the sea of tattoos already occupying most of Mal’s forearm and manages to find space on his back for the second.

Like me, they do the Latin lettering first. Then Hanzō moves on to the tebori-style koi on Mal’s forearm. After that, I’m still shaking a little bit from mine. So Hanzō does the koi on Mal’s back as I hold his hand—I think more for me than him.

“We can finish another time,” Mal growls quietly, looking at me with concern after Hanzō finishes cleaning and wrapping his new back piece.

I shake my head. “No. Tonight. I can take it.”

Hanzō eyes me, then he nods solemnly. “I think she can, too.”

So I lie on my front on the chair, holding Mal’s hands in both of mine as Hanzō starts in on my back.

Hanzō’s shop is still dark, but the clock on the wall tells me it’s well past sunrise by the time we’re done. I’m shaking and my head spins a little as I get out of the chair. But there’s a vivid energy inside me that throbs and pulses with every breath and step.

I thank Hanzō profusely, and he tells me it was his absolute pleasure. Then he leads us downstairs to the windowless room to rest. He’s right, it’s no hotel suite. But there’s a little cot nestled amongst the shelves of supplies.

That’s more than enough.

When we’re alone, Mal and I stand in front of a mirror on the wall, eying the new lines of text on our skin. There’s a moment of stillness between us, heavy with meaning.

“Now there’s no excuse,” he says, his voice low and rough. “We both remember to live.”

I reach out, tracing my fingers a few inches from the fresh ink on his arm. He catches my hand, pulling me closer until I’m standing against him, looking up into those ice-blue eyes.

“Thank you,” I whisper quietly. “For this. For everything.”

He doesn’t say anything, just pulls me into him, making me feel like I belong there. And for the first time in a long while, I’m not afraid of the future. I’m not afraid of what’s lurking, waiting for me.

Because for now, in this moment, I’m living.