The Devil Inside

by Amano, Mia

  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.

  CHAPTER NINE

  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.

  As I speed up, the car starts to wobble. The passenger side window is smashed from where I’ve rammed into Lucini’s SUV, sending it careening off the freeway.

  It happened quickly, Manzoni and the driver bursting out of the vehicle in outrage, guns drawn.

  I shot them both in the head, but not before Manzoni managed to get off a shot at me, catching me in the leg.

  At least the bleeding’s stopped.

  It’s an occupational hazard.

  I regulate my speed, glancing in the rearview mirror now and then, on the lookout for lone cops or Lucini’s people. I overtake only a few cars. No-one follows.

  I’ll need to ditch this car soon.

  The pain in my thigh has become a dull ache. I focus on the road, as the desert turns into urban sprawl.

  I’ve taken out the two most important figures in the Lucini crime family.

  Erika and Kenichi Goto will be pleased. They’ve thrown one of Kuroda’s main rivals into total chaos.

  So where does that leave me?

  Am I now their favorite hired killer in Los Angeles?

  Am I back to this shit again?

  For the past two weeks I’ve been staking out my targets, a familiar coldness settling over me. My work has been methodical and precise.

  But there have been slip ups, times when I found myself drifting, my thoughts filled with memories of Adele, of the feel of her smooth, creamy skin against mine, of her warmth and her intoxicating vanilla scent.

  I was a brute to her.

  That’s the viciousness in me that comes out now and again; the savage, uncontrollable need to take what’s mine.

  I thought she was lost to me. I thought I could forget.

  Then, yesterday, a strange piece of mail appears, messing me up all over again.

  I reach over to my bloody jacket, which is lying on the passenger seat. Inside the pocket is the envelope.

  The invitation.

  It has her writing on it. When I touch the delicate, textured paper to my nose I can almost catch her scent. I imagine her touching it with those elegant, slender fingers, sliding it into the envelope.

  And I can’t help but feel turned on.

  Driving down the empty highway, in the early hours of the morning, with a bullet wound in my leg, I somehow still manage to feel aroused just at the thought of her.

  This is becoming fucking ridiculous.

  I’ve just killed three men. I’ve been sucked back deep into the undertow and Adele and I should never meet again. But I’m drawn to her, driven by a force I can’t really explain.

  Her openness, her innocence, the way she accepts me without judgement; we’re like day and night.

  We can’t be together.

  I feel warm wetness on my thigh. The wound’s opened up again. Setting the cruise control, I balance the wheel with one knee and press my suit jacket against the wound, applying pressure.

  My face is clammy with sweat. But my vision is clear.

  I regain the wheel and drive, not entirely sure of my direction.

  I’m back in this life and now I know for sure that I don’t want it.

  I follow my instincts as I drive, my thoughts becoming increasingly scattered. I’ve never been erratic like this before. What the hell is wrong with me?

  Anger.

  Frustration.

  Longing.

  Calm yourself, idiot.

  I need to forget all this sentimental bullshit and stop being an emotional wreck. It’s going to get me killed. But I just want one last glimpse, to satisfy my curiosity, my craving for even the smallest piece of her.

  A small part of me wanted my reality to be different. But no-one cuts ties with the Kuroda Group and walks away unscathed.

  And now, the one, tiny chance I had at redemption has slipped away from me.

  Kaito

  I dump the car in a dead end street with the keys in the ignition. I call Masa and tell him to send someone to dispose of it. He murmurs in agreement, still half asleep.

  I walk two blocks, limping, one hand pressed against my thigh. The bleeding’s stopped again. But it still hurts like hell.

  It’s not a life threatening wound. It can be dealt with later.

  I feel empty inside, and somehow, it hurts.

  I need something; I’m searching for something right now. This can’t wait. I may never get another chance. I could be dead soon, or in jail. I’ve just killed the head of an old mafia family.

  I reach a dark shopfront in an old, converted warehouse. Sleek glass and metal windows contrast with weathered brown brick walls.

  The front door is secured with a deadbolt, so I limp around the back. There’s a staff entrance. I smash the glass pane in the door with the butt of my Glock, wrapped in my jacket, and let myself in.

  This is the address written on the invitation.

  It’s an art gallery, apparently.

  And it seems Adele has done her best to return the twenty grand I paid her.

  It’s dark inside. But I prefer to keep the lights off. I don’t want to draw attention. Anyway, dawn is creeping up on me, thinning the darkness. I can see enough to get around. Soon, it’ll be light enough for me to view the exhibition.

  The gallery’s a cavernous space. I can see dark outlines of pictures and prints on the walls, but it’s still too dim to make out the detail.

  I find a chair and take a seat in the centre of the room. With a sigh, I lean back, closing my eyes.

  I’ve been up all night.

  I’m tired.

  The dull throb in my leg is almost a welcome companion, reminding me
that I’m still rooted in reality. The pain anchors me and takes my mind off everything else.

  I can’t process emotions. Never been good at that shit.

  Physical pain, now that’s easy to handle.

  I drift, taking comfort in the silence and darkness.

  Dawn light bleeds through high windows, revealing slivers of detail. Lines and shapes and fragments of color start to appear, slowly forming an image.

  As I realize what’s appearing before me, I’m floored. That woman has spared no detail.

  I’m staring at a likeness of myself, painted against a dark background. She’s captured me in impossible detail. In the painting, I’m standing with my head lowered, shadows obscuring my face.

  Thank fuck for that.

  Adele must have a photographic memory or something, because she’s painted the tattoos on my arms almost exactly as they appear, right down to the coloring.

  And in the picture, standing behind me, is a woman. Her arms are around me, her head resting on my shoulder. Her hair is white, ethereal, surrounding her pale face like a halo.

  I can’t tell her age. She’s not old or young. She’s ageless, and her black eyes stare out of the canvas like twin, burning embers.

  I feel like that woman, whoever she is, is staring right into my soul.

  I can almost feel her arms around me, her small hands tracing over my bare chest.

  And somehow, there’s sorrow and pain and hell all tied up in that black gaze.

  How the fuck has Adele done this?

  She never told me she was out-of-this-world talented.

  For some reason, I think of my mother and my last memory of her, lying in a hospital bed, wasted away from the disease that slowly drained the life out of her.

  I think of my mother and the few times she held me when I was a kid, her musky perfume surrounding me, familiar and comforting.

  I think of the soft embrace of the woman I shut out of my life, of her warm eyes and teasing voice and I realize that I definitely don’t deserve her.