Poisonous Kiss: A Dark Mafia Arranged Marriage Romance

I learned years ago to spot trouble coming. In court, it’s a skill that can make or break your case, and when it comes to court cases, I fucking hate losing.

So I don’t. Not often, anyway. In a perfect world, my win record would be one hundred percent. The only reason it’s not is that justice is, at times, corrupt, broken, and manipulated.

But, as we have seen, I have my own methods of course-correcting missteps in justice like that. And if we include my “extra-curricular activities”, that win record very well might be one hundred percent.

My sharpness in the courtroom is partly due to years of training myself to see the problems before they surprise me. When the other side smugly announces a “surprise” eyewitness?

Yeah, I already know about them. In fact, I’ve already taken a closed-door deposition from them, lined up my defenses, and prepped my cross-examination.

When my opponent tries to mic-drop me with some piece of evidence that they think I missed during discovery?

Yeah, nope.

Trouble just doesn’t sneak up on me. Problems simply don’t surprise me. Which is why I’m more than slightly perturbed when Fumi Yamaguchi does surprise me like a baseball bat to the side of the head.

If there’s one thing I hate more than losing, it’s being surprised.

Back in my office, I drum my fingers on the edge of my desk, not really hearing Alister and Taylor as they debate fuck-knows-what right in front of me. Instead, my thoughts are centered on the…call it pageantry…that I just witnessed down on the tenth floor.

She came prepared.

She came out with guns blazing.

She came to win, even if her methods to get into the competition were bullshit.

My PR guy Josh, Meredith and I were seated near the back of the audience for the auditions. Filling the first two rows in front of the stage was the twenty-five-person focus group that Meredith assembled, with tablets at the ready.

They were to assess the candidates as each one had their turn on stage answering various questions. Some were bullshit straight out of Miss America: what’s your favorite pet. Your ideal first date. How would you save the world.

I mean, fucking shoot me now.

Other questions dug a little deeper: what are your thoughts on political issue X? Where do you see yourself in ten years? That sort of thing.

The point was to get a sense of how regular, everyday voters reacted to each woman on that stage. The tablets were for them to enter general scores for likability, or how easy each candidate was to relate to. It was also to capture how they viewed that candidate as relationship material—both in general, and as it pertained to yours truly.

Some candidates scored almost one hundred on the likability scale. I mean, Monica Wells is one of American’s sweethearts, and after her near Oscar win for that World War Two movie where she played that fighter pilot’s widow?

I mean, yeah, perfect in terms of general likability. But when they rated her in terms of standing on a political stage next to me, she failed badly.

“I don’t see any chemistry there.” “They seem like strangers.”

I mean duh, we fucking are.

Or my favorite from the focus group member who didn’t want to pull any punches: “I think she’d be lowering her standards for him”.

Yeah, fuck you, too.

Other candidates were about the same. Some with high likeability scores but low on the compatibility scale. Some ranked amazing as my partner, but dogshit in terms of likability, and I’m not sure what that says about me but I’m choosing to move beyond it.

In short, none of them worked.

Except one. Fucking. Usurper.

Fumi.

I know I should be stoked that something great came out of this whole charade of Meredith’s. After twenty-odd candidates fell short, we finally got one Cinderella out on that stage that killed it.

She wowed the focus group. She nailed a perfect compatibility score. It would all be fine and dandy, except⁠—

“She fucking cheated.”

I frown as my gaze swivels to my brother. Alistair shakes his head, pacing my office.

“I mean it’s fucking ridiculous. Surely this is against some condition of her employment here.”

Taylor snorts, a grin on her face as she rolls her eyes.

“Something amusing you’d care to share with the class, Tay?” I mutter.

She shoots me one of her trademark “are you fucking serious” looks.

“Gabriel, you set up this whole absurd⁠—”

“It’s not absurd, Taylor. It’s my election⁠—”

“We’re talking about paying a woman to be your fake wife so that you can run for Governor,” she snaps. “I’m sorry, but what part of that isn’t absurd?”

“She cheated, Taylor,” Alistair growls. “She used the fact that she’s worked under Gabriel for almost four years, used what she knows about him to⁠—”

“How is that cheating?” Taylor barks. “I call it research. Using her own smarts and cojones. Which is precisely what I thought we hired for around here.”

I sigh. “Taylor⁠—”

“Why exactly is Fumi the bad guy here? Because she’s a woman?”

I shoot her a look. Alistair rolls his eyes. “Tay, I think you should step away from this conversation.”

“I would be very careful about what you say next, Alistair,” she says icily. “If you have any fondness for your balls, that is.”

My brother sighs. “Not because you’re also a woman. Jesus. Because she’s your friend.”

“Says the guy with his name on the side of the building who’s also fucking one of our employees.”

“I’m engaged to one of our employees,” Alistair hisses back. “And I’m not running for fucking governor, nor is Eloise trying to get money out of me in exchange for being my fake fucking⁠—”

“Enough,” I roar, standing.

“Seriously, Alistair⁠—”

“You too, Taylor,” I mutter, shooting her a look. “I don’t love it either, but she scored off the fucking charts with the focus group.”

“Hold another audition,” Alistair grunts. “Find⁠—”

“There isn’t time.”

That’s only half true. If I had to find a better candidate for this absurd plan, I’d make it happen. But Meredith and I have already gone over this, a million times.

This whole thing is about making myself as appealing a candidate as I possibly can when I go up against the well-loved, well-established, Governor Hall.

Yes, I have a secret nuclear weapon in my back pocket to use against him. Or at least, I will soon. But modern politics are fucked, and as insane as it is, old sexual assault allegations alone against the incumbent aren’t enough for me to win. And yes, I’m aware of how disgusting, that is.

I have to use my secret weapon and be the most likable candidate the voters of New York have ever seen. And the only way I do that is by being married to a woman who shores up whatever deficiencies I have with the public. A woman who tests well with them. Whom they view as my “perfect match”.

Like it or not, that woman appears to be Fumi fucking Yamaguchi.

Yes, she cheated…in a way. She used what she knows about me to paint herself as my goddamn soulmate on that stage. She also had the luxury of going last, which means I’d bet money she was peeking out at the audience during every other woman’s turn on that stage, remembering what went well and what didn’t for each candidate.

She used all that to win.

I’d be even more impressed if I wasn’t so ticked the fuck off.

It’s not that I don’t like Fumi. She’s a very good lawyer, and a huge asset to the firm. Yes, she did use what you could call insider information about me, and a lawyer’s ability to assess the jury—in this case, the focus group—in order to best appeal to them. Taylor’s not wrong: Fumi used every available resource, and her own intellect, to win.

The lawyer in me wants to say who cares how she got the win. She got it, and if that makes her the best candidate to give me the best shot of winning this race, then so be it.

But what irks me about it isn’t that she won in a sneaky way.

It’s that she surprised me.

I didn’t see it coming.

But if I go with another woman, the focus group and Meredith’s computer models give me a thirty fucking percent lower chance of beating Governor Hall.

The same computer models have me beating him by twenty points with Fumi at my side. And those are metrics I can’t ignore.

That doesn’t mean I have to like it, though.

My nose wrinkles as I step out of my Porsche 911 Turbo. I glance around, my brow furrowing even deeper as I lock the two-hundred-thousand-dollar car.

What the fuck.

Annually, Fumi makes over what my Porsche costs. But her neighborhood is a dump. I mean, it’s not a slum, but it’s a far cry from the sort of place any other twenty-something equity partner at a firm like Crown and Black would choose to live.

I step over trash and a pile of what fucking better be only dog shit before I open the—unlocked—door to her no-security building on Avenue C. It smells like piss when I walk in, and there’s an “out of order” sign on the elevator.

I’m suddenly concerned that Fumi has a secret drug or gambling problem, if this is where she lives on her quarter-million-dollar salary.

My scowl only deepens when I see the splinter marks and the shitty repair job on the door to her apartment, and what look like hastily installed new locks.

What the actual fuck.

I wipe my knuckles on my jacket after I knock. A few seconds later, various locks undo with assorted clicks before the door opens.

“Yes?”

I frown at the middle-aged Japanese man with piercing dark eyes and silvering hair looking coolly back at me.

“I’m looking for Ms. Yamaguchi.”

He says nothing, eying me curiously for a few seconds.

“And your business with my daughter?”

Instantly, I slip into suave, courtroom-Gabriel mode. My faces changes: my teeth flash a smile and my eyes grow much kinder as I stick out my hand.

What? I’m good at this.

“Kon’nichiwa, Yamaguchi-san,” I say, firmly shaking his hand and bowing my head politely. I’m far from conversational—Japanese is hard. But I can manage a handful of pleasantries after a few business trips to Tokyo.

“Gabriel Black,” I say with another winning smile. “I’m⁠—”

“Her boss.” Mr. Yamaguchi smiles politely. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Black.”

The look in his eyes makes me think that what he’s heard isn’t all good.

“Please, come in.”

“Thank you.”

I follow him through the small, kinda cruddy but neat and tastefully decorated apartment into the living room. He gestures to the small couch. After I take a seat, he bows his head.

“I’ll tell her you’re here.”

He disappears down the hall, leaving me alone for a minute. My eyes pause for a moment on the mitamaya shrine to the deceased high up on the wall, with the framed portrait of a beautiful woman with with both Asian and possibly Italian features.

Then my gaze wanders over the dozen or so orange and white pill bottles on the edge of the counter between the living room area and the tiny kitchen. There’s also a couple of IV drip bags, with sealed IV lines next to them.

Fumi’s father returns and sinks with a small grimace of pain into a chair across from me.

He’s sick.

For a second, I wondered if the meds were hers. But the way he gritted his teeth as he sat gives it away. His shirt pulls tight for a second across his chest, and my brow furrows.

Shit.

That’s a port-a-cath under his shirt.

“I just started chemo again a few weeks ago.”

I lift my eyes to Fumi’s father’s face. He shrugs casually as he says it.

“You’re an observant man, Mr. Black,” he says, bringing his hand up to tap the port-a-cath injection site under his shirt.

“Comes with the territory, I’m afraid.”

My gaze drops to the bandage around his other hand.

“Perils of learning DIY plumbing tips from YouTube,” Mr. Yamaguchi says with a wry smirk. “Fumi will be out in a minute. Can I get you⁠—”

“Le, arigato, Yamaguchi-san.”

“Your Japanese isn’t bad.”

“And you’d make a good lawyer, Mr. Yamaguchi.”

He chuckles quietly. I can tell he’s putting on a brave face. He’s clearly in discomfort, and exhausted.

“I can wait outside for Fumi⁠—”

“No, please. Sit.”

I nod.

“Fumi very much enjoys working for your firm, Mr. Black. You have my thanks for her promotion a few months ago.”

“She earned it, Mr. Yamaguchi. Your daughter is an excellent attorney. I’m lucky to have her.” I correct myself. “We’re lucky to have her.”

He smiles. “Yes, you are.”

My phone dings. “Apologies.”

“Please,” he waves a hand. “Business is business. I understand.”

I pull out my phone, glancing over the minor work-related catastrophe unfolding on the group thread with Taylor and Alistair. Scowling, I email the document they seem to be missing, then fire off a string of texts to Elsa concerning a client she’s meeting with tomorrow.

Finally I exhale, shoving the phone in my pocket.

“Just the same, my sincere apologies, Mr. Yama⁠—”

Fumi’s father’s eyes are closed, his head leaning against the back of the chair as his chest rises and falls. I’m not surprised. The mother of a friend of mine from law school went through chemo a few years ago, and it was brutal on her.

Quietly, I fire off a few more emails and then return to the couch. I glance at my watch, then peer in the direction Mr. Yamaguchi went to tell Fumi I was here.

Which was, like, ten minutes ago by now.

I sigh heavily as I stand. She may have won the day, but at the end of it, I’m still her boss. I’ll be the boss of both her professional and her private life once we go through with this.

…Although perhaps I shouldn’t feel a throb of something dark in my core when I think of it like that.

At the end of the hallway, I poke my head into an open door before realizing it’s clearly her father’s bedroom. The other door is cracked, too, so I push it open and step inside.

“Fumi?”

I frown. The bedroom is…stark. It’s lived in, but it looks like she moved in in a hurry and then never really unpacked. Boxes line one wall. Her furniture is sparse, her bed neatly made but plain. The only things on her small desk are a laptop, a stack of legal pads, and a mountain of Crown and Black files.

No Fumi.

I frown, gazing around the room before my eyes land on something on the floor near her bed. I smirk, and before I know what I’m doing, I walk over and pluck the skimpy, lacy little black thong off the floor.

Fumi’s an attractive woman. But she’s also all-business. She dresses in flattering but utterly work-appropriate pant and skirt suits, she keeps her jet-black hair back in a severe bun most of the time, and her makeup is professional but not in any way enticing.

It’s…amusing to discover that she owns a pair of lacy panties.

And more than slightly arousing.

I frown as I will the blood to stop flowing to my dick. I drop the thong back onto the floor and scan the room again.

This time, I hear something shuffling and moving behind what I assume is a closet door. Then I hear the clatter of something falling, and a curse that sounds a whole hell of a lot like Fumi’s voice.

Annoyed at my wasted time, I stride over. Before I can think it through, I grab the knob, twist it, and storm into⁠—

Fuck.

The bathroom.

The second I barge in, a very shocked, headphones-wearing, scream-lodged-in-her-throat, naked Fumi whirls on me and our eyes lock.