“Yes. I remember him being into them even when I was little. He had a large collection then, and it’s bigger now. There’s one, in particular, that he was especially fond of. It belonged to a man they say was the last samurai. This man—I forget his name—was the link between what Japan used to be and what it would become. Takashi paid a fortune for the sword. He bought it from a collector for hundreds of thousands of yen. Millions, maybe, I don’t know.”

“And your husband stole it from him?”

“Yes. He didn’t tell me what he was planning to do—I would have stopped him if he had. He knows someone who knows Satoshi Furokawa. He’s the leader of the Chinese Dragons.”

“Who are?”

“One of the groups who have taken the place of the yakuza. Younger. More violent. No code—that’s why men like my father and uncle hate them. Furokawa wanted the sword, too, but Takashi outbid him when it came up for auction.”

“So Miyasato offered to get it for him?”

“It was simple. He just took it down from the wall in Takashi’s penthouse and walked out with it. There was no security—Miyasato was his son, and, anyway, who would be stupid enough to steal from a man like him?” She laughed bitterly. “He sold it to Satoshi and came back with the money. We were ready to leave. I’d cleared out the bank account and we just had to go to pick up Yamato. It was too late. Katsuro was there. He killed our nanny.” She paused and composed herself. “They put us all in the back of a car and drove us out of the city. I had to watch while they…” She stopped, the memories coming back all too easily. “While they…”

“It’s all right,” Milton said. “I don’t need to know.”

She waved his comment away and swallowed. “I had to watch while Katsuro shot Miyasato. He made him dig a trench in the woods outside Takayama and then shot him and buried him in it.” Sakura blinked and the tears started rolling down her face. “It was the last time I saw Yamato, too. They took him away and told me that I had to work for Takashi to make up for what Miyasato had done. Katsuro was given responsibility for me. And you know what happened after that.”

Milton leaned over and put his hands on hers. “I’m sorry.”

* * *

Sakura felt drained by the time they were finished. Recounting the events leading up to her husband’s death had been difficult. She had tried to stay focused on giving Milton the information he wanted, but, now that she was done, she felt as if she never wanted to talk about it again.

Milton refreshed their coffees.

“What now?” Sakura asked him.