My Yakuza, A.J. Llewellyn [best book clubs TXT] 📗

much for never doing dirty work in the building. His minions lied to me.

They walked out into a long, dark corridor. It was cool and quiet. Their footsteps echoed on the cement floor. Shiro noted several doors to rooms on either side of the corridor. On their left, a Buddha had been etched in the middle. Nobuo-san opened the door and indicated that Shiro should walk ahead of him. A small, low, black-lacquered table stood in the centre. Two cushions adorned either side of it. Against a wall underneath a mirror stood a long, black side table. Shiro gulped when he saw various needles lying on it and stacks of gauze.

Nobuo-san told Shiro to sit on one side. He did, tucking his feet underneath him as Japanese custom, and especially with the Yakuza, dictated. He kept his hands on his lap, thumbs tucked in. He was petrified, afraid he would pee his pants.

“I want to know why you’ve been asking about Siono.”

Nobuo-san removed his jacket and put it on the sideboard. He came to the table with his little tray of needles. He removed his tie and rolled up his sleeves.

“I—”

“No. Wait…I want you to be honest.”

“I’ll be honest.” Shiro thought he might have a heart attack and die.

“I want you to remove your T-shirt.”

“My…” Shiro took it off, wondering exactly what his boss had in store for him.

Nobuo-san paced the small space unbuttoning his shirt sleeve when, quick as flash he lunged at Shiro, who gasped at the pain in his chest. He looked down, surprised to see a needle, about three inches long, inserted in his chest under his left nipple. It was imbedded lightly, coming out about an inch below the entry point. He stared down at it stunned by how much it hurt.

Another flash and this time he cried out when a second needle sliced into him. How did he get them in so fast? The second needle seemed to be in a little deeper. The pain was surprisingly bad. He blinked away tears. He couldn’t focus as Nobuo-san tugged his face towards him.

“Why have you been asking about Siono?”

A tear fell down Shiro’s cheek. “She is my mother.”

That surprised Nobuo-san, he could tell. Shiro had been very careful not to tell a soul about his relationship with Siono. Who had told Nobuo-san that Shiro had been asking about her?

A third needle joined the other two and he felt a different sensation, a light-headedness. Almost a feeling of being high. No. He was going to pass out.

“Who is she?” Nobuo-san asked.

“I told you. My mother.”

Shiro barfed up his entire breakfast and sobbed. A fourth needle entered his right nipple. Nobuo-san began to twist it. Shiro felt a fire in his chest, then the world slid from under his feet.

* * * *

He awoke…he had no idea how much later, to a glass of water being thrown on his face.

“Get up,” Nobuo-san said. Shiro lifted his head from the floor. He’d fallen with his legs under him, drool falling in a thin line on the white, tiled floor. He tasted blood. His tongue hurt. He must have bitten it when he’d passed out.

Nobuo-san held the door and pointed to the left. “Go and wash yourself. Report back in five minutes.”

Shiro picked up his T-shirt, but it was covered in vomit.

“Leave it,” Nobuo-san barked. “There are fresh clothes in the bathroom.”

Shiro found only one of the doors in the corridor was ajar. He pushed it open. It was a white bathroom. A shower and toilet stood at one end, a sink to his left. Solid, blinding white tiles and towels greeted him. He gasped when he saw a speck of blood on the floor near him. Was it his? He glanced and realised it wasn’t. He’d thought the parasite museum was bad. This was the real house of horrors. His gaze dropped to his chest. The needles were still there. His nipple bled from the one inserted there. A soft tap at the door made him turn.

A young man in a suit and incongruously wearing a white surgical mask and gloves, walked in. His eyes conveyed nothing as he studied Shiro’s chest. His gaze went from Shiro to the speck of blood on the tile and back again. He opened a small black bag in his hands and deftly removed the needles. The holes they left bled profusely. He dabbed them with a clear liquid that smelled like alcohol. Shiro reeked of vomit. It clung to his pants and, he realised, he’d peed all over himself.

The man left him alone again without a word. Shiro peeled off his jeans, longing for a shower. A tiny, square wedge of soap lay in the shower recess on a small tile jutting out of the wall. He took a quick shower, trying to avoid the three wounds under his left nipple. His right nipple ached. When he touched it, he realised the bud had become almost severed from the areola. It continued to seep blood.

He ran out of soap fast. It seemed to liquefy under the hot water. It had an odd, antiseptic scent. He turned off the taps and he stepped out. He found the same man waiting for him.

Shiro dried off and found the man leaning towards Shiro’s right breast with an odd, round, tubular contraption.

“This will hurt, but don’t scream. He likes that.”

The voice that came out was young and the English, halting. He placed it over the wounded bud and punched. Shiro saw stars. When the man lifted it away again, Shiro saw that his bud had been stapled to his chest with black stitches.

“They will dissolve.”

Shiro nodded. The man put some ointment and piece of tape over the nipple, then swiped some more over the other three wounds, covering them with gauze and more tape.

He pointed to some jeans and a clean T-shirt on the back of the door. They belonged to Shiro. They must have gone to his room and brought them to