𝐈𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐯𝐞.
❤︎︎❤︎︎❤︎︎❤︎︎❤︎︎❤︎︎
Living on Yakuza territory was never supposed to be her story.
But debts don't forgive.
And neither do the men who collect them.
She was a loyalist to the rules until...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
𝓩𝓪𝔂𝓷𝓪
I'd just crossed the threshold into the workers quarters when a familiar mess of red hair yanked me straight out of my thoughts. The image of Ren's hand on mine, the weight of his gaze, the way my name sounded leaving his mouth. It all evaporated the moment I spotted Soraya.
Just like two years ago, she carried herself with that mean-girl posture that dared anyone to mess with her. Arms always crossed, mouth always ready to snap, and eyes sharp enough to slice through steel. It wasn't just for show, Soraya really could be nasty when she wanted to be
She was the outcast of our intake. No one wanted to bunk with her, eat near her, or work next to her. Her temper made her a liability, and her attitude didn't help either. Eventually, they forced her onto me and my mother.
But underneath all that barbed wire and snarling sarcasm, I eventually saw the truth, her aggression was just armor. Armor she'd polished to a shine to keep people out and her emotions sealed in.
We weren't friends, not really, but we'd carved out a kind of truce. Mutual tolerance in exchange for sanity.
She spotted me and narrowed her eyes, not in delight, but in sharpened curiosity. Soraya had a nose for gossip, and in a place like this, that nose was always twitching.
She marched up to me without preamble. "Did you hear anything about who that brat's marrying?"
"No." I shook my head and winced slightly. For some strange reason, I didn't like letting her down. "She didn't really say anything about him."
"Seriously?" She groaned, clearly offended. "You're horrible at collecting tea."
I shrugged because I really didn't care about the drama, and continued to walk as she ragged along beside me.
"Anyway," she went on, voice already charged with new energy, "they're saying he's the don of the Italian mafia. Supposedly staying in one of the penthouses. Martha claims she caught a glimpse of him, says he's some old sack with a God complex, but that hag lies like she breathes, so I'm not buying it."
"Sorry, I can't confirm or deny what Martha said. I don't think Hana has even met him yet," I said.
And I was sure of it. If Hana had seen him, she would've already paraded every detail like a trophy to her equally spoiled, designer-clad entourage. How he looked, how rich he was, how powerful. It would've been all over the manor by now.
Soraya snorted. "It's obviously arranged. There's no sane man who'd actually like her, let alone settle for that."
That was a rarity we both agreed on. Hana carried herself like everyone around her was beneath her, like they were all here to orbit her existence.
Still, sometimes I tried to be fair.
She was about the same age as me and Soraya. Too young to be thinking about marriage, but the rules were different when you belonged to the upper tier. Age and consent became flexible ideas when power and wealth were involved.
