Angel of my Dark Heart [Last Days 1.5]

Chapter 8-a

New York,
Some hours earlier

Feeling the weight of the angelic sphere in the stolen lab coat’s pocket, Akito entered his father’s house with grim purpose. He needed more men and a place to set the last battle against the accursed Italians, and thanks to his divine ally, he had the means to acquire them. 

The Larsa family and all their goons would pay for murdering his older brother. No one messed with the Yamaguchi-gumi and lived to talk about it, not even demons.

Making his way through the lavish, labyrinthic corridors of the family’s mansion, the young man finally found his father in the inner garden. The old oyabun was tending to his bonsai collection as if they weren’t waging a war outside of their walls.

Fool.

How could he be tending stupid plants when his son’s murder still needed to be avenged? What Vergil Larsa did nine months ago was an afront to their family’s honor. Then why wasn’t he using every last second to take back what they had lost?

Cold anger burned his veins as Akito made his way to his old man. The thought of killing the oyabun crossed his mind, making the black roots show under his fair skin, but his father turned around, staying his hand without meaning to.

 The mob boss swept his gaze over his youngest son and second lieutenant, taking in every detail. The black veins showing through Akito’s fair skin, the dark gray pants that seemed a little too big around the waist, the black loafers at least a size too big for his feet, and a coffee-stained lab coat with the name “Dr. Caster” embroidered in cursive blue letters. The oyabun pressed his lips into a thin line and went back to his bonsai. “They told me you were dead,” old Yamaguchi said in Japanese, his dark gaze never lifting from the small cherry tree before him. “I guess you are in a way. That power you sought isn’t right, my son.”

“I’m doing what you should have done,” the younger man answered in English. Contrary to his late brother, Isao, Akito was born in the United States and considered English his primary language. Knowing his dear old dad hated that notion, made him use English even more. At the end of the day, he lived to spite his father. “Aren’t you angry they murdered your precious, perfect heir and left you with the spare one? You, such a traditional Japanese, don’t want your honor back?”

The old man finally stopped fusing over the cherry tree and faced the only flesh-and-blood son he had left. “Not at the cost of your humanity.”

“We are gangsters, dad, there’s no humanity left in us.” Akito’s dark brown eyes became pools of tar while his skin took a sickly paleness, making the oyabun take a step back. “I’m going to ask you this one more time. Are you going to help me regain our honor or not?”

The man shook his head slowly with the gleam of fright in his russet irises, but he refused to look away. He would die facing his enemy like a true warrior, if it came to that.

Akito nodded and the black roots under his skin darkened and grew, covering every bit of unexposed flesh. “Then it’s time I start giving the orders around here.” The root inside his index finger grew, breaking through skin and covering the distance between the mobsters until it pierced the oyabun’s forehead in a matter of seconds. Blood trailed down between the eyes of old Yamaguchi before his body slumped to the ground.

The son breached the distance and gazed at the corpse of his father with cold eyes. His hands reached inside the left pocket of the borrowed white coat until his fingers brushed against the silky threads of his triumph card. The molten gold feather glowed in the afternoon sunlight, bathing the inner garden in its brilliance. He had no clue how something so pure and beautiful could turn humans into twisted abominations, but it served his purpose. Thanks to such angelic feathers, the Yakuza had the strength to take on demons and send them back to where they came from.