The Devil Inside (19 page)

“You going to start painting again?”

“I’ve finally got an idea.”

“Do it, girl.” Dio pours himself coffee. “You’re crazy talented. I just can’t believe you’ve been hiding it these last few years. What happened after art school?”

“Long story.” I accept a cup of instant coffee with grateful hands, inhaling the strong, bitter aroma. That’s fuel for creativity right there. “Don’t worry about it. I’m warning you though, I’m going to be a shut-in for the next few weeks. And this place is going to get messy.”

“I don’t care about that.” Dio grins. “If you’re going to finally start putting your talent to good use, then I don’t give a shit if you get paint on the walls. Whatever you come up with, I’ll support you, Adi. You know that. I can do you a website, promote your exhibition on social media, if you want.”

“Let’s not talk about exhibitions just yet.” I take a sip of my coffee. Dio’s addicted to instant coffee. It’s crazy strong. I make a face. “I’m just going to see where this goes. Talk to me in a week.”

“Can’t wait, girl. I know this is going to be good.”

“Let’s wait and see.” I take a deep breath. “Either way, it’s make or break time.”

Adele

Over the next week, I become a shut-in. I retrieve my old art materials from a plastic box stuffed in the back of my wardrobe. I cut and stretch my own canvases. I find books of thick, textured art paper and half-used charcoals. I mix palettes of oil paints, trays of watercolors and smooth, vibrant acrylics. I draw with fine ink pens. I use every technique and material I know. My style doesn’t follow any rules. I mix media and techniques, placing abstract amongst hyper-real, throwing textured gouache on top of pencil outlines.
 

I think about Kaito and try not to think about him at the same time.

I channel my frustration, confusion, passion and desire. All this creative energy has hit me like a sudden storm. This is the inspiration I’ve been waiting for, that I’ve been missing these past few years.

Dio keeps to his room, staying out of my space, doing his computer stuff. For that I’m silently grateful.

I live in my pajamas, and we make a good effort at emptying Dio’s tin of instant coffee. Even when I go to sleep at night, my head is filled with imaginary violence and beauty, of blood spilt amongst the sakura petals. I dream of vibrant koi coming to life on smooth, muscled flesh. I wonder at the meaning behind an eerily ugly, but beautifully drawn demon’s mask.
 

I’ve done my research. It’s called a
hannya
mask.

The meaning behind it is complex and contradictory, just like the man.

Dio waives my rent, and buys us both groceries. He even offers to pay my phone bill. I refuse, not caring if I go offline. Sometimes, it’s good to drop off the face of the planet.

The only time I leave the house is to go and visit my family. Dad’s gone into rehab, much to my surprise. Mom’s quietly optimistic about it all. Mina is back at school. She seems to have put the traumatic events of the past week behind her, but on occasion I still catch her staring off into the distance, a blank look on her face.

She’s much better, though. There haven’t been any more tears.

I don’t hear from Kaito. Not that I’m expecting to. It’s as if he’s disappeared off the face of the Earth and become a distant memory.
 

I’m left with nothing but my art. A concept is coming together. As soon as I finish one work, I’m starting the next. It’s as if I’ve been possessed. They all share a common theme.

Blood, sex, beauty, violence, need, desire.

Darkness.

I’m going to use it for my own ends. I’m going to turn it all into color and light.

Kaito

After I kill Vincent Mancini, everything goes silent. Strangely silent. I hear nothing for a week. That’s not a good sign. I’m left wondering what the Kuroda bosses are plotting.

My stark apartment suddenly feels empty. I spend my days visiting the usual Kuroda businesses, spiriting away cash to clean bank accounts and legitimate investments. I know how to create the kind of paper trail that would make even the most meticulous accountant proud.
 

Even though the routine makes everything feel normal again, I’m on edge, waiting for the call.

There’s always a call.
 

Some desperate, pathetic part of me is secretly hoping Adele will show up at my door. If she did that right now I wouldn’t trust myself. I’d probably cave in, lay myself bare.
 

But she won’t come near me anymore. And I won’t chase her. It’s just the way things are meant to be.
 

Evening is settling over the city when the call comes. It’s Erika Goto herself. “Kaito. Come to the house. We need to talk.”

“Yes. I’ll be right there.” It’s a summons from the empress. I can’t refuse.

When I arrive at the Goto mansion in Newport Beach, I’m shown to the dining room, where I find Erika and Kenichi Goto. They’re seated at the end of a long, black marble dining table, Kenichi at the head, Erika to his side, deferent.

But I know where the real power lies in this relationship.

Kenichi motions for me to sit. A maid appears on silent feet and starts pouring tea, offering me soft
mochi
cakes. I wave her away.
 

Kenichi stares at me for a while. “So you’re the one,” he rumbles, finally, speaking Japanese, his thick Kansai accent reverberating through the cavernous room. Kenichi Goto is a heavyset man in his forties. He’s completely bald, with a vicious scar running down from his left eye to the corner of his mouth. A bandage is wrapped around his left hand. He’s the beast to Erika’s beauty. “You found Mancini and took him out. His men too. The
tanto
was a nice touch. Efficient, clean and effective. I’m impressed.”

I nod, and reach into my pocket. Vincent Mancini’s finger is there, in a plastic ziplock bag, on ice. It’s been sitting in my freezer for a week. It’s turned a dusky grey color. I place it in front of Kenichi. “Although this cannot replace what has been taken from you, please accept this as proof, and consolation.”

A vicious smile appears on Kenichi’s face. “Good enough. I accept.” There’s approval in his voice. He takes the wrapped finger, and calls one of his men. “Get rid of this,” he orders.

He takes the grisly souvenir with a blank expression and disappears.
 

Kenichi sits back, sipping his tea. “You were raised by the Kuroda family, Kaito. You’re old school, like me. You know how we operate, how we think. You know what an old man like me expects and you get it done. I like that about you.” He leans forward. Out of the corner of my vision, I watch Erika. She’s staring at me with calculating eyes. “The Mancini family thought they could strong-arm us, push us out. They’ve pulled strings to block our developments here and in Vegas. We don’t tolerate that kind of behavior. America is ripe, Kaito. The government in Japan is cracking down on the Kuroda Group, limiting our activity. So we have to find ways to make money abroad. There’s opportunity here, Kaito, but we need to control the competition.”

I sit back, expectantly. I haven’t touched my tea.
 

“The job ain’t finished yet, Kaito. I’ve got another one for you.”

“Yes.” Outwardly, I’m calm. But inside, I’m seething. The problem, when you do something well, is that you get noticed, valued, used.
 

The sharpest fucking tool in the shed. What am I supposed to say?

“With all due respect, Goto-san, I’m happy with my simple existence as a crooked accountant. I want to retire from this hitman business.”

It sounds absurd. He’d hang me out to dry, questioning my loyalty to the organization.

I’m stuck with this job for life, unless I can figure out a way to disappear. That takes money, connections and planning. I’ve never had the will to make it happen before.

It’s funny. Before I met Adele, I never thought about leaving the Kuroda Group.
 

She’s stirred something in me; a stupid, secret hope that I could live differently.

Erika slides a black envelope across the table, her dark eyes never leaving my face. “The heir to the Mancini organization is dead, thanks to you. Of course, we expect retaliation. While they are in disarray, we need to strike again and deliver a blow they cannot survive.”

I nod, sliding the envelope into my jacket pocket. “It will be done.”

“Thank you, Kaito.” Erika smiles, popping a soft
mochi
cake between her cherry red lips.
 

Kaito

I leave the envelope untouched in my jacket pocket until I return to my apartment. I toss it on the kitchen bench and retreat to my bedroom with half a bottle of whiskey. I fall into bed and switch on the TV, looking at the pictures on screen but not really registering anything.

I’m numb.
 

Then, nothing.

Time passes, probably.

When I open my eyes again, it’s morning, the early dawn dusting the sky with a golden blush. There’s a bit of fog around the city today.
 

Fuck, did I fall asleep? My fingers are still curled around the empty glass.

Silent figures dance across the flat plane of the TV.
 

I make my way into the kitchen, fixing
natto
, fermented soy beans, and rice, for breakfast. The black envelope is still sitting on the granite bench, untouched.

I sit at the counter, eating my
natto
, staring at the envelope.
 

The first act of violence, killing the younger Lucini, was a get out of jail card offered to me by Erika. In exchange, she kept silent about my involvement in the Fat Dragon affair.

She’s a refined blackmail artist. Somehow, because I severed the finger of some asshole called Angelo Gallo, who just happens to be the late Vincent Lucini’s cousin, Kenichi Goto loses a digit.

How am I responsible for the actions of someone who was stupid enough to fuck with a man like Goto?

I shake my head. Try explaining that logic to the boss.
 

The second act of violence is a direct order from the Los Angeles head of the Kuroda Group. The minute I took that envelope from Erika’s manicured hand, my fate was sealed.

I pick it up and turn it over in my hand. Hesitating.
 

This kind of thinking is going to get me killed.

I tear open the envelope. There’s an old newspaper article folded up inside. The paper is brittle and brown with age.
 

Mob Boss Released From Prison After Successful Appeal

There’s a picture of a man in a long coat, surrounded by reporters. He bears a striking resemblance to the man I shot dead a week ago. Beside him is another man, dark haired and tall, wearing a polished suit. Both their faces are circled in red. I look at the caption.

Enzo Lucini and Paul Manzoni leaving court.
 

So this is the elder Lucini, the head of the family. And the other man? I don’t know who he is, but he’s as good as dead.

The newspaper article is old, a relic from over twenty years ago.
 

Erika must be playing games with me. She could have at least given me a recent photograph to go on.
 

But she knows I’ll find them. I always do.

Adele

Two weeks pass. I’ve been drawing and painting almost nonstop, adding layer upon layer of intricate detail to my works.

I’ve managed to collect a series of twenty one works. It’s enough for an exhibition.

Dio has somehow arranged an opening in a small neighborhood gallery for me, using his contacts.
 

We visited dad in rehab. He’s put on weight. He’s a changed man.

Mom seems happy.

Mina’s quieter than she was before the incident. She doesn’t say much about it.
 

I haven’t heard from Kaito since the night he took me over his kitchen bench.
 

I still owe him a piece of my art.

Dio and I are sitting in the kitchen, sending out invitations by post, email and social media. I’m doing the letters, hand writing them in ink on rice paper.
 

One of the invitations is special. I’m not sure if I’ll even send it. I write the recipient’s name on the envelope:
Kaito Araki.

Dio glances over at my messy handwriting. “Don’t tell me you’re still hung up on that guy?”

I look sideways at him. “You’ve seen my paintings.”

“Yeah.” Dio raises an eyebrow as he taps away on his laptop. “They’re amazing, but I sense a theme running through your work. Revenge through art? That might not go down so well.”

I simply smile and nod.
 

Kaito

I’ve been shot. It’s a been long time since that’s happened.

The bullet has burrowed into the top of my left thigh, somewhere in the muscle. The pain is excruciating. A little higher and it would have hit my femoral artery. I would have been dead by now.
 

I’ve managed to slow the bleeding, folding my jacket and pressing it against the wound.

The man who shot me is dead.

I start my mangled car, gritting my teeth and ignoring the burning pain in my leg. I accelerate away, swerving around the battered black SUV that’s come to a stop on the side of the interstate.
 

Enzo Lucini and the man who I found out was his
consiglieri
, Paul Manzoni, lie dead, along with their driver.

It’s just past three o’clock in the morning. On either side of me, the Nevada desert stretches out, mysterious and seductive. It’s a moonless night. I speed past several cars, blinking through the pain. My leg feels numb. But it’s only a superficial wound. I’ve survived worse.

Lucini and Manzoni were returning from a meeting in Vegas. I know, because I’ve been tailing them for the past two weeks. Finally, I found an opening. They’re usually well guarded. Maybe they thought no-one would be crazy enough to follow them at three in the morning on a deserted highway.