Katsuro led the way, Sakura’s hand tight in his, almost dragging her along behind him. He wanted to be alone with her and he knew just the place. They called the streets around Seibu Shinjuku Station the “Sleepless City,” on account of the number of love hotels and hostess bars that were established there. Katsuro ignored the Nigerian touts who tried to lure the unwary to visit their businesses, although, to be fair, he was insulated from the most fervent attention by the way that he looked. There were yakuza here, too, men from families that had been more resilient than the Nishimoto-kai. Katsuro looked at them jealously and tried to ignore his resentment that his father’s lack of ambition had seen them wither away while other clans—and hangure newcomers—had been allowed to flourish. Katsuro knew all the stories about his father and uncle from the seventies and eighties, the tales of their successes that had become almost legendary in the retelling. They became less credible, though, when he looked at what his father was reputed to have been and compared that to what he had become. Katsuro knew that there was a place for his family in the Tokyo underworld, and that all that it lacked was an ambitious leader who was willing to take a risk. That was not his father, not anymore; nor had it been his brother.

Perhaps it could be him.

They arrived at the building that his father owned and he nodded to the manager, ignoring the man’s alarmed look, as he led the way into the private rooms at the rear.

“Nishimoto-san,” the man said. “You’re bleeding.”

“I’m fine.”

“But your face…”

“It’s nothing.”

“And your shoulder. What happened?”

“I just need to clean up. Get us a room.”

“Room six is free. Second floor. Can I get you a drink?”

“Champagne.”

“I have a nice bottle. I will bring it for you.”

Katsuro led Sakura up the stairs and around the building until they reached the room that the manager had indicated was empty. It was a simple space: a bed with a television fixed to the wall and a small en suite bathroom. Its purpose was simple, and, because of that, comfort was not a prerequisite. He opened the door to the bathroom to check that there was no way that Sakura would be able to escape and saw, to his satisfaction, that the window was no more than a sliver.

“Clean yourself up,” he said to her. “You look awful. I’ll shower after you.”