One of the other rooms was used by the men who were responsible for his security. The clan was much weakened now, denuded by years of government oppression and Takashi’s waning enthusiasm in the face of his advancing years, but he was still rich, and money could buy the loyalty of good men. He had a team of six, and, at any one time, there would be two downstairs at the entrance to the building and two up here. Genzō was on duty up here now. He was in his twenties and was possessed of brawn rather than brain. That suited Takashi. Anyone allowed to ascend this high up the building needed to be presented with a clear idea of what would befall them if they had bad intentions, and Genzō’s appearance was an eloquent way of presenting that message.

The building was perfect for Takashi in many ways. It generated huge profit from the outsized rents that he was able to charge, and it offered him the security to sleep easily at night. There had once been disputes between the various families when lines were crossed and honour infringed, but no one had ever been foolish enough to attempt to attack him here. The same was true of the authorities.

Yamato had his room on this floor, too. Takashi nodded to Genzō, opened the door and went inside.

The nanny came out of the kitchen with a bowl of soup in her hands.

“Takashi-sama,” she said as she bowed.

He removed his shoes and smiled a greeting. She was in her late forties, but looked older.

“Yamato?”

“Sleeping.”

He opened the door of the child’s bedroom and peered inside. The boy was fast asleep on a futon, his arm over his eyes as if he was shielding them from the light.

“How is he?”

“He misses his mother.”

Takashi watched the boy for a moment. Did he regret that his mother had been taken from him? Yes. A child needed its mother, and all Yamato had were the surrogates that Takashi provided. But what had happened was not Takashi’s fault. Sakura had made her own decision when she corrupted Miyasato and conspired to humiliate him. There were consequences for that; she was reaping them now, and her son was suffering because of it.

Takashi could have abandoned the boy. He could have arranged for him to be adopted. In the far north of Japan, on the island of Hokkaido, was an orphanage run by a man Takashi had had dealings with in the past. He was venal and degenerate, but had somehow managed to persuade the government to pay him to look after unwanted children. Takashi understood that the children were kept in squalid conditions; when they were eighteen and the government stopped their support payments, the orphanage spat them out into the world, where they inevitably drifted into the underclass and became drug addicts or alcoholics, or died—often both.