Emperor of Lust: A Dark Mafia Enemies To Lovers Romance

I barely recognize myself in the mirror.

Not because of being dressed up, or the makeup, or the hair. None of that is new for me. I don’t even run a quick errand without making sure I look immaculate, and I doubt anyone has ever seen me with a single hair out of place.

I don’t need to see a shrink to understand why I’m like that. I have seen one—several, actually—after that night back in England near the end of my final year of school. The doctor I liked the most, Dr. Cornell, told me in her straightforward but soft-spoken manner that the reason I was starting to put so much time and effort into my appearance being flawless…clothes, hair, all of it…was to regain a sense of control.

The control that was taken from me that night when that motherfucker had me immobilized.

Naked, while he and his friends laughed.

So, no. It’s not my physical appearance that I don’t recognize tonight. Yes, my dyed blonde hair is in a fairly elaborate up-do, as opposed to its usual tight, professional ponytail, or simply down. My eye makeup is a little smokier than for a day at the office. The black dress is a bit more elegant than my customary work attire, generally Dior.

But that’s not what’s different.

It’s the look in my eyes.

The resignation.

Defeat.

I glance down at the simple but elegant black dress—Versace: the neckline daring but not overdone, the hem cut at a sharp angle, giving a glimpse of thigh before angling down to the ankle of my foot in Blahnik heels.

The occasion tonight is the “celebration” party for Damian’s and my engagement. It’s a farce and everyone knows it, yet nobody will acknowledge the fact. I’m sure even Miyamoto Katō, a guest of honor tonight, understands that this thing with Damian and I is purely to appease his and the other Tokyo Oyabun’s old-world views and get the Mori-kai access to Tokyo. But in the mafia world, especially the Yakuza one, appearances matter more than the truth.

Miyamoto doesn’t care if Damian and I are actually a couple. As long as we’re engaged to be married, he won’t be seen as “out of place” by anyone for doing business with me, and we can proceed with his pledge to the Mori-kai.

I run a hand over my hair and study my face in the mirror, the weight of the evening ahead pressing down on me.

A knock at the door pulls me from my thoughts. I glance over my shoulder. “Come in,” I call, curious who’s come to check on me.

A soft smile spreads across my face when Sota unexpectedly appears. He grins widely as he takes me in, his gaze warm and full of quiet pride.

“Beautiful,” he says, his voice carrying a warmth that settles over me like a comforting blanket. His presence has always had that effect—his quiet strength and steadiness somehow make everything a little less overwhelming.

I smile as I turn to face the man who’s been more than a mentor and a guide to me. He’s been like a father, even when I didn’t know I needed one.

Kenzo’s, Tak’s, and my biological father was Hideo Mori, the once-legendary Oyabun of the first iteration of the Mori-kai. Before his rise to the top, when he was still a waka gashira—a lieutenant to another Yakuza boss—he met a young Norwegian woman who was studying abroad in Japan: our mother, Astrid Ulstäd.

They ended up having a wild affair and our mom unexpectedly became pregnant. Suddenly, the reality that the man she was with was very into the violent world of the Yakuza sank in, and she fled Japan without telling him she was expecting.

Kenzo was born at one of her family’s estates in England. Then, a few years later, she decided to try to rekindle things with Hideo. She returned to Japan, and they had another wild affair.

…But once more, Hideo’s Yakuza lifestyle was too much for Astrid. She returned to England, pregnant again, with Takeshi and me.

Hideo never knew about any of us. Our mother never told him.

Later, our father met and fell in love with the woman he was probably always supposed to find: a Korean-Italian singer named Bella. They had a daughter together, and Hideo decided to retire from the world of the Yakuza.

But tragedy struck as he was trying to extricate himself. A rival attacked him, killing Bella in the process. Hideo and his young daughter, Fumi, escaped to the US with new last names, still not knowing about us, and us still not knowing about him.

These days, we’re no longer mysteries to each other. Takeshi isn’t into it so much, but Kenzo and I have started forging relationships with our father and our half-sister. She’s a hot-shot lawyer in New York now, as well as the state Governor’s wife.

But while I care for the man who gave me half my DNA, it’s Sota who I really think of as a father. Sota took Kenzo in when my brother first came to Kyoto to discover his Japanese side. He took Takeshi and me in after Mom died, too, as well as our cousin Mal. Sota had been our father’s best friend before his disappearance, and even he thought Hideo was dead.

Long story short, Sota Akiyama isn’t just a trusted friend of my father. He’s family to me in every sense of the word, and always will be.

“Thank you,” I mumble.

He tilts his head, studying me keenly, and sighs quietly. “I know all this is a lot to ask of you,” he says gently.

I shrug, looking away, unable to fully hide my irritation. “It’s ridiculous, is what it is. All for the sake of appearances.”

He nods, his gaze softening. “Yes, but you know how important appearances are in our world. You know what it means to be Mori-kai. The Yakuza is in your blood, Hana,” he adds, sighing deeply. “An affliction I’m afraid you were born with.”

I smile wryly as I meet his eyes in the mirror. Sota smiles warmly as he stands behind me and puts his hands on my shoulders. My eyes drop to the stub of the missing pinky on his left hand: a scar that speaks to a dark moment in his past when as a young man he accidentally disrespected his Oyabun.

The penalty was being ordered to commit yubitsume—aka, cut off his own pinky as proof of loyalty, humility, and commitment.

He rarely speaks of it, but the missing finger has always been a reminder to me of the sacrifices he’s made to the Yakuza.

So… I mean… If Sota can cut off his own finger to prove his loyalty, I can wear a ring and fake a smile, even if my fake fiancé is Damian the fucking psychopath, who sees the darkest part of me and holds my sins over my head with a smug grin on his face.

Right?

“Just the same,” Sota sighs, a wry smile on his face as if reading my thoughts, “I am sorry, Hana. This is nothing I ever wanted for you.”

“It’s just pretend,” I say with practiced smoothness, more for me than for him. “And it’s not permanent. As soon as we gain our foothold in Tokyo, we can be done with it.” I shrug. “It’s a small price to pay for family.”

Sota smiles quietly, as if he wants to say more, but realizes now isn’t the time. Instead, he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small velvet box.

“This belonged to my Keiko.”

That’s another part of Sota’s past he doesn’t talk about much: his wife, who tragically died of Ovarian cancer after only a year of marriage.

Sota flips the lid open, and my breath catches as the light hits the gorgeous diamond necklace within.

“Here,” he says, his voice quieter. “I’ve always told you: she’d have loved you.”

“No, Sota, it’s⁠—”

“Please,” he says softly. He gives me a reassuring smile, his eyes warm. “She’d want you to wear it tonight,” he says, his tone so certain and filled with quiet pride that I can’t refuse.

I nod, bowing my head slightly as he gently clasps the necklace around my neck. After he steps back I lift a hand to the necklace, feeling the delicate weight of it that somehow feels like a shield, a piece of his strength and family pride that he’s sharing with me.

He gives me a final look that says more than words could. “Fake or not, she’d be proud of the woman you’ve become,” he says, his voice thick with emotion that he rarely shows. “Same as I am.”

A lump forms in my throat but I push it down, determined to stay composed. Still, I stand and turn to embrace him. “Thank you, Sota. I…” I let the words trail off as I pull back, knowing he understands.

He inclines his head, offering a faint smile. “It’s what family does.”

Taking a deep breath, I square my shoulders, glancing at my reflection once more. With the necklace around my neck, I feel different. Stronger. Tonight might be all an illusion, but I can endure it. If Sota can give up so much in the name of loyalty and family, then I can handle this.

I turn back to him, letting my shoulders relax a bit. “It’s just pretending to be married to that lunatic, right?” I shrug. “I mean, anyone could do that.”

Sota grins. “Well, count me out. But you?” He winks at me. “You’re my Kitsune.”

I start, my eyes snapping to his as my heart lurches into my throat.

“Wh-what?” I choke.

Sota just smiles. “Kitsune,” he chuckles. “The fox spirit. Smart and cunning, just like you.”

He steps back, his gaze lingering on me for a moment.

“Would you do me the honor of allowing me to escort you into the party?”

I swallow, a wry smile on my lips. “The honor would be all mine, Akiyama-san.”

The party is in full swing by the time we get downstairs. It spreads throughout the first floor of our house and spills out into the gardens, elegant party-goers sipping drinks, laughing, and mingling.

I feel myself grinning at the first warm, mellow notes of John Coltrane’s “My Little Brown Book” coming from a very good jazz band in a corner of the living room. I turn to Sota just as he pulls away from me, catching a sly grin on his face as he winks and drifts away to talk to some old Yakuza pals.

Oh, Sota. This was totally his doing. He knows how much I love jazz and how much I hate this whole arrangement. So he’s brought in some serious talent for the evening to try to take my mind off all this.

It might actually work.

I snag a glass of champagne from a passing tray and turn to enjoy the band, which is absolutely killing it.

I take in the party as I listen to the music and sip my bubbly. The Mori and Nikolayev families have spared no expense in creating a lavish celebration, even if it’s a farce and a formality. The soft glow of chandeliers casts an intimate light over the well-dressed crowd of faces, some familiar, others unknown to me.

Annika appears at my side, giving me a quick hug and complimenting the necklace from Sota. Just as she’s asking me about the music, I spot a familiar figure entering the party.

Miyamoto Katō.

Shit.

Annika catches the look on my face and wrinkles her nose. “Duty calls, I presume?”

I groan. “If by that you mean smiling like a good little old-fashioned obedient woman for Mr. Old-Fashioned who’s responsible for this entire fucking debacle involving me getting engaged to that fucking psycho⁠—”

I make a face as I glance back at her.

“Sorry,” I wince. “That came out⁠—”

“I mean, you’re not wrong.”

We both turn as Freya inserts herself into the conversation, dressed, predictably, in all-black with her usual gothy black spiked choker and huge black vinyl platform boots.

“Like, Damian’s batshit crazy.”

Annika snorts, rolling her eyes. “Frey!”

“What?” Freya giggles. “I can say that. He’s my cousin, for fuck’s sake. And c’mon, like you don’t think it too. I love the guy, but jeez…” She turns to give me a sympathetic look. “Really don’t envy you.”

“Super encouraging, Frey, thanks,” I mutter.

She laughs and hugs me. “Sorry, I’ll shut up now. Also, you’ve got a fan staring holes in the back of your head.”

I turn to see Miyamoto smiling at me from across the room. He raises his glass to me when I catch his eye.

“Ugh, okay,” I spit, glancing back at my friends. “Duty calls. Wish me luck.”

I take a deep breath and make my way across the room to Miyamoto, trying to tamp down my disdain for him. He’s an older gentleman with a wide smile and a round, jovial face, wearing a suit that’s slightly out of date. I have to admit, much as I hate to: it suits him perfectly.

“Ahh, Miss Mori,” he says warmly with a respectful bow. His smile is genuine, his eyes soft and his demeanor is warm, almost grandfatherly, yet I know better than to underestimate him. He’s not just some “lesser” Yakuza Oyabun whose empire is on the decline and needs an ally. He’s our ticket into Tokyo.

I bow back, though my own smile feels tight. “Good evening, Katō-san,” I reply, my tone clipped and carefully controlled. I don’t even try to hide my coolness.

His eyes crinkle as if he’s amused rather than offended, and he gives a slight shake of his head. “Miss Mori⁠—”

“Hana is fine.”

He dips his chin. “Hana, then. But only if I may insist on Miyamoto instead of this stuffy Katō-san business,” he grins. “If I may?”

I nod, and he smiles at me again.

“There’s no need for the cold shoulder. I know perfectly well you’re not fond of this arrangement.”

I’m caught off-guard by his frankness. It’s rare to hear anyone in our world speak so plainly. I open my mouth to respond, but he holds up a hand.

“Let me be clear, my dear. This isn’t about what I want,” he continues gently, his tone almost paternal. “Tokyo itself is…old-fashioned. The men there, the alliances—they’re bound by tradition. If it were up to me alone, I would have no issue doing business with a woman as impressive as yourself, married or not.” He sighs. “But appearances are everything. It’s the rest of the world that demands this illusion, not me.”

I feel a faint flicker of understanding and nod, some of the tension easing in my chest, though I’m not quite ready to let go of my resentment yet. It’s a cold truth—Tokyo doesn’t care how capable I am, only that I fit into the image of a Yakuza family.

He glances toward the band, an appreciative smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Ahh, ‘Lazy Bird’,” he murmurs, nodding along to the Coltrane tune. “Though I have to say, as much as I love this, there’s a Stan Getz live version from Rome in, I believe, ’66 that simply shines.”

I blink in stunned surprise at Miyamoto’s jazz knowledge. “I…yeah,” I blurt, my brows knitting in shock. “Though it’s from ’65, if we’re talking about the same concert.”

“My mistake,” he chuckles. “Yes, 1965, in Rome. Superb recording, isn’t it?”

Well, this is unexpected.

Twenty minutes later, my entire opinion of Miyamoto Katō has changed. Not only is he not the misogynistic dick I thought he was, he also might be as much if not more of a jazz nerd than I am. I tell him about my favorite jazz club here in Kyoto—the Golden Monkey—which he of course already knows, but says sadly that he hasn’t been to in twenty years.

We promise to talk Tokyo and merger business soon, since we’ve just spent half an hour gabbing about music. Then he’s pulled away by some other Yakuza types, and Kenzo is up my ass making sure I do the full rounds of the guests.

My mood improved, I make my way around the party, exchanging polite nods and smiles, acknowledging the Yakuza allies in attendance. Kir and a few of his Bratva associates stand to one side, watching the room with quiet, powerful intensity.

I haven’t seen a single glimpse of Damian all night. Honestly, this might be a big reason my mood is so light.

I take a sip of champagne, letting the bubbles tickle my throat, my mind drifting to the future and the Mori-Kai’s plans for Tokyo⁠—

“Miss me?” The voice comes from just behind me, low and taunting, ripping me violently from my thoughts.

I stiffen before I turn to level a look at Damian, his gaze burning into me with that familiar, infuriating confidence. I force myself to face him, lifting my chin, meeting his smug expression with a glare.

“Were you in my room?” I demand coldly.

He raises an eyebrow, a slow smirk spreading across his face. “Hmm?”

“My room,” I snap, remembering the perfectly folded origami crane bound in red yarn. “Were you in it?”

A dark smile plays across this lips. “Is that an invitation?”

My cheeks flush and I clench my teeth. “It is not. And whatever fixation you have on me…you can drop it.”

He steps closer, his breath warm on my cheek as he leans in, a mocking gleam in his eyes.

“You’re too close.” I mutter quietly, trying to sound firm, though my pulse quickens as he moves a little bit nearer.

“You’re my fiancée,” he growls back. “It would be odd if I kept my distance.”

I glare at him. “Everyone here knows this is bullshit. Even Miyamoto.”

“Everyone knows professional wrestling is bullshit, too, but they still watch it.”

He suddenly brings a hand up to cup my jaw. I shiver as he lifts my face, pulling my gaze to his spooky yet gorgeous violet eyes. His lips pull into a smirk, as if he knows exactly what he’s doing to me. “You know, there’s a guest bathroom just down the hall⁠—”

“Yeah, I live here, genius,” I say curtly. “I know.”

Damian’s eyes flicker with something dark and deadly.

“If we really wanted to sell this, I think me pulling you into that guest bathroom and loudly fucking you against the door would really cross all the Ts and dot all the Is, don’t you?”

My face erupts with heat. My core tightens and my teeth sink into my bottom lip. Then I steel myself and narrow my eyes at his.

“Damian?”

He grins wolfishly. “Yes?”

“Fuck off and choke on a bag of dicks.”

“Such a dirty mouth,” he murmurs with a dark chuckle that sends a ripple of something unwelcome teasing up my spine. My pulse spikes as he leans close again. His hand is still cupping my jaw, and my core tightens even more when his other hand lands on my hip. “Such a willing one, too,” he adds.

My skin tingles with heat as my eyes widen.

“Stop it,” I hiss, glancing around to make sure nobody heard.

“I’m just stating the facts.”

“You can keep them to yourself!” I blurt.

I try to back away from him. But his hands don’t budge, an effortless strength in his fingertips as they completely keep me from moving.

“So,” he purrs. “You got my gifts.”

“I don’t want your cranes,” I spit, turning my face away, trying to ignore the way his nearness sends a shiver down my spine and his touch makes my legs shake and my core tighten. The way he’s both a presence and a shadow that refuses to disappear.

“So, something more substantial next time, then.”

My pulse quickens as I try a little harder to pull away from him.

“Stop it,” I hiss.

“Stop what?” he responds easily, his tone infuriatingly casual.

I grit my teeth, hoping he finally gets the hint. “You know damn well what. Talking to me crudely, trying to get under my skin. I know you’re just trying to fuck with me, and I would like you to stop.”

The corners of his lips curl dangerously and his eyes glint. “Oh, Kitsune,” he whispers darkly. “Believe me, you’d know if I was fucking you.”

My face heats. “I said fucking with⁠—”

“Potayto, po-tah-to,” he grunts, making my breath hitch. “Besides, Kitsune, I’m not sure you have enough rope in this house right now for me to fuck you properly. Do you?”

My face turns scarlet, my pulse skipping, my mind spinning, my heart pounding against my ribs. With a sudden burst of strength, I yank away from him, actually breaking free of his grip as I take three stumbling steps from him.

Damian doesn’t make a move to snatch me back. He just casually watches me back away.

“Going somewhere, Kitsune?”

“Leave me the fuck alone,” I hiss, starting to turn away from him.

“I don’t think we should start this engagement on a foundation of lies, do you?”

I stiffen, icy fingers walking down my spine before I force myself to turn slowly and look at him.

“Meaning?”

His violet eyes flash as he shoves a hand through his silver hair.

“Meaning I could lie and tell you I’ll leave you alone. But we both know that isn’t happening.”

He suddenly closes the distance between us and his mouth dips to my ear, his lips barely brushing the lobe and sending a heated throb flickering traitorously through my core.

“You’re mine now, Kitsune. I’d get used to that if I were you.”