Kurayami was a dangerous man—everything one would expect from a mber of the Yakuza—forcing Nakamura to always remain on his toes.
He had to or his actions had the chance of ruining the life he wanted to start here.
After all, Kurayami could just flee to Japan but Nakamura didn’t have that opportunity.
The truth was that Kurayami, despite his rugged appearance, was a handso man, and this naturally drew stares from both n and won alike. He didn’t speak much, rarely indulged in western culture, and seed focused entirely on his mission. What that mission was, however, Nakamura had no idea.
For the next few days, Nakamura quietly watched him, studying his every move, though Kurayami remained secretive.
"Kurayami-san, tell about yourself?" Nakamura asked, leveraging his position as the Yakuza boss’s son. Kurayami would be obligated to answer him, considering Nakamura could very well be the next Oyabun should his father pass away—or simply change his mind.
"I have nothing to tell you about..." Kurayami replied bluntly. There was no malice in his voice, only a chilling indifference.
His eyes carried a blank stare. It was as though nothing existed behind them, but perhaps that emptiness was the result of the lives he had taken.
Nakamura knew imdiately—this was going to be a hit. Kurayami belonged to one of the deadliest hit squads under his father’s command. And the target... it had to be Marcello. That was the reason his father asked him to keep an eye on the young man.
And since the father didn’t trust him enough to take a life, then there was no reason to have him pull the trigger because the chances that he would fail was exponentially high.
This wasn’t so random man on the street, this was one of the most dangerous n in Arica.
Nakamura didn’t feel much one way or the other, but he pitied Angelica. Losing Marcello would certainly affect the way she grew up. Then again, she had money and wealth—she would be fine in the world, at least from his perspective. Parental love was overrated in his eyes, shaped by his own experience. His father, after all, had always taken things too far.
"I see... let rephrase my question. Who are you here to kill?" Nakamura pressed.
Kurayami finally looked up at him. A creepy smile twisted across his face.
"My target," he answered with the emptiness in his eyes evident.
The words rolled off his tongue with a sick sort of pleasure, as if he was already aroused by the thought of taking a life before he had even done it.
Shivers crawled down Nakamura’s spine. How could soone be this twisted? What kind of experiences shaped a man into sothing so utterly detached from empathy?
Being a killer didn’t necessarily an one couldn’t feel, yet Kurayami had beco nothing more than a machine for death. His conditioning had pushed him beyond moral boundaries, beyond humanity.
Nakamura realized quickly—it was best not to pry further. His father had hidden things from him for a reason.
The Mafia was on the verge of becoming whole once again. The once fractured family was regaining strength, and the man leading the charge was Marcello. Stopping this reunion ant killing him, and Kurayami was without doubt the one chosen to do it.
Kurayami glanced at his phone, stood up, and—
—
The family eting was underway, with both the Don and Giovanni present. The atmosphere carried a sense of tense formality, yet it was moving smoothly, much to the Don’s pride.
He had always wanted Marcello to succeed him. But ever since his wife’s death, Marcello had devoted his attention almost entirely to his daughter, who was the spitting image of her mother.
The Don understood. He, too, had once been consud by grief. He was a cruel reminder of what a man could beco if he allowed loss to define him. Marcello had sworn not to beco his father, yet he would still do whatever it took to secure a future for his daughter.
Perhaps, Marcello thought, that was exactly what his father had done for him.
Giovanni had arrived with his entire family, and Marcello’s father had done the sa. If violence broke out here and now, Giovanni’s side would easily win.
Still, Marcello carried himself with composure. He was the diator today, and the formal announcent of his succession was expected.
An hour passed. The tension between Giovanni and Marcello’s father had softened.
"I didn’t think a resolution was possible, but you’ve managed it, Marcello," Giovanni said, offering him a complint. For years, he had seen Marcello as nothing more than a boy. This shift was monuntal.
The Don stood, pride radiating from him, and raised his glass for a toast. After this mont, Marcello would officially beco the new Don.
But then the father stumbled.
"Father?" Marcello rushed to catch him as he collapsed, confused. His father was motionless. Wetness spread across the floor beneath them—blood.
He had been shot. A single, precise shot that killed him instantly. No amateur could have done this.
Giovanni sprang to his feet, his n drawing weapons as the room erupted in chaos.
"F-Father... no! No, this can’t be happening!" Marcello’s voice cracked with panic. His gaze snapped to Giovanni, rage burning in his eyes.
"What the fuck have you done!?" Marcello roared.
In an instant, the room’s atmosphere shifted from celebratory to deadly.
Giovanni wasn’t the culprit, but the next shot tore into Marcello’s arm, sending him crashing to the floor.
All hell broke loose. Gunfire erupted as both families unleashed their fury on one another. To them, it looked like a setup—an attempt to eliminate the main family.
Far in the distance, Kurayami watched with a sinister grin plastered across his face.
"Targets down," he whispered, ecstasy gleaming in his eyes, a reflection of his broken mind.
He packed up his weapon and slipped away. Nobody ca after him—the chaos was too consuming. The battlefield of bullets covered his escape with ease.
.
.
.
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A/N: This flashback concludes with the next Chapter!
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