Epigraph

rōnin

noun, historical

Landless or masterless peasant soldiers or samurai who through dishonour or the loss of their masters were forced to wander Japan until some other lord would accept their services.

Oxford English Dictionary

Prologue

Miyasato Nishimoto clutched the straps of the bag a little tighter as he negotiated the crowds around the Sensō-ji Temple in Asakusa. It was the day of the Sanja Matsuri festival, and the streets were busy with people. He saw women in traditional kimonos, schoolkids with their parents drinking smoothies from paper cones, and a handful of tourists who looked bemused at the spectacle. He saw men wearing nothing but fundoshi, thongs that left little to the imagination, as they hauled mikoshi—portable shrines—on their shoulders, stopping every few steps to clap their hands and chant to the spirits of their ancestors who were reputed to live within the palanquins.

He made his way to the Ishibashi bridge and a long line of market stalls that sold street food and local delicacies. The stall he wanted specialised in matcha kakigori—shaved ice topped with matcha syrup atop red bean paste—and he found it at the end of the line. He shared a glance with the man who was in charge and waited as he said something to his teenage assistant.

Miyasato watched as the kid dashed back into the building behind the stall, returning after a short pause to gesture that Miyasato should follow. The boy led the way through the crowd, going into and then passing through a restaurant and emerging in an alleyway on the other side. A large man, almost big enough to be a sumo, blocked the way ahead. He approached Miyasato and frisked him, then gestured that he should continue along the alley to a folding table where an al fresco meal was in progress.

Satoshi Furokawa was sitting at the table. He was an important man, the leader of the Chinese Dragons, yet he was not interested in the ostentatiousness that characterised some of his peers who had recently found infamy with their arrest, trial and imprisonment. Furokawa was cannier than that. He dressed simply, without wishing to draw attention to himself with clothes that were obviously expensive. He did not wear jewellery, and it was only the extensive tattoos that were visible between the folds of his simple robe that identified him as a gangster.

Miyasato took a deep breath to compose himself and waited for Furokawa to look up from the bowl of udon that he was eating.

“Come,” he said, beckoning him with his fingers.

Miyasato approached the table and waited for an invitation to sit in the empty chair. Furokawa smiled at him and gestured again. Miyasato sat.

“Nishimoto-san,” he said, “how are you?”

“I’m well.”

“Your wife?”

“She’s well.”

“And your son? It is Yamato—yes?”

“That’s right,” Miyasato said, his mouth dry.

Furokawa smiled benignly. “He just had a birthday.”