RELENTLESS [Atsumu Miya x OC]

Prologue

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Mr. Alexander Hanley never let it get this bad before.

As a man of his word, he always led with his brain, never biting off more than he could chew or promising more than he could deliver... and he always delivered what he promised. He needed to provide the best, know the best, be the best... but sometimes being the best came with certain unavoidable duties. This strategy proved to be useful as he climbed his way up the pecking order toward his goals, as he studied and shmoozed and slept his way to the top.

Eventually, he gave up his degenerate lifestyle in favor of a more wholesome image—he bought glasses, wore turtleneck sweaters, and groomed himself to perfection, a stark contrast to the wild hair, contacts, and baggy clothes he'd grown accustomed to—including finding and marrying a woman from his cohort, someone he'd trust with his life but never with his heart, and they had two children together. Before they could buy a proper McMansion in the Washington DC suburbs, Hanley received the promotion of a lifetime: on paper and in the media-dazed eyes of the world, Mr. Alexander Hanley earned the title of the new American ambassador to Japan.

A black-haired and blue-eyed wonder boy.

With his improved title and excess of power came more than his fair share of responsibilities. In under two weeks, he learned the basics of Japanese all while preparing for the overseas move with a wife and two kids under two. Hanley had to maintain a certain level of poise and austerity, even when the embassy or the Agency or the move or—god forbid—his children pushed his buttons; he wouldn't lose his cool and risk his highly sought after position. The Agency sent him missives, reminding him of his true business across the pond, and Hanley shoved it all—his emotions, his briefings, his fake little family, and himself—into his briefcase, sure that he could handle the triple life of ambassador, intelligence agent, and doting husband.

But it didn't take long before he was in over his head.

Knuckles cracked across his cheekbone, filling his mouth with blood. An arc of lightning shot through his teeth, his eyes, his spine, reverberating with the heartbeat pulse of a bruise in the making, possibly a broken orbital. Alexander Hanley had had his fair share of beatdowns and interrogations, but this one was something else. Something serious. Something that his years of CIA training only mentioned in passing.

He might actually die this time.

"So? What do ya hafta say for yerself?" said the mobster circling Hanley, bloody knuckles dripping to the floor. Yakuza tattoos crept up his neck and down his forearms. "What's yer excuse this time, big man? Betting yer retirement money on the craps table made ya feel alive? yer children asked ya ta gamble away their inheritance on the slots? Please, daddy, spend it all!"

A trickle of fear dripped into Alexander Hanley's veins – these guys obviously did their homework if they knew about Hanley's two kids, now in elementary school and making friends. He worked his jaw, feeling the telltale pop of a dislocation, and spat on the floor in front of him. All blood. He was getting too old for this. "Guess I got carried away," Hanley said, trying to distract his opponent while he fidgeted for the knife concealed up his sleeve. Unfortunately, with his hands tied behind his back, the motion wasn't simple or easy; Hanley needed new joints or a third arm to get his plan in motion, and that wouldn't be happening anytime soon.

"Sure ya did," said the mobster with a little taunting laugh. "We know all about ya and yer little double agent bullshit, Alexander Hanley... Or should we call ya August Delaney? Which would ya prefer?"

Hanley stiffened in his seat. "Don't."

"Don't lie ta me again and I won't have ta," the mobster said with a shrug. "Now," he said, grabbing the back of Hanley's chair and pulling him close, "Ya got a problem, Hanley. And we have solutions. But which one will ya pick?"

A blade flashed in his fingers, the one from Hanley's sleeve. When—?

"Don't worry about it," the stranger said, smirking at Hanley's genuine surprise. "Back ta those solutions we were talkin' about... we've got three, Hanley. Ya ready to hear 'em?"

The flat of the knife pressed warmly against the pulse at his wrist tied behind his back. Alexander Hanley was running out of options. "Fine," he grunted, hissing through grit teeth as the blade found purchase in the meat of his thumb. "Tell me."

"First, ya could join us," said the stranger with a little twist of the knife. "The crew could use a guy like ya on our side... swayin' public opinion, pushin' them to do and be better... makin' moves for us. Ya know, the usual."

"Fuck off."

The stranger nodded and pursed his lips. "I get it, man. Ya got an image to protect. Ya got kids. Ya got a wife who doesn't know anything about—"

"What's option two?"

Smiling, the stranger pulled the knife from Hanley's hand, now running the tip down the edge of Hanley's chiseled jaw. "Ya die," said the mobster with a little twitch of his lips, like he was enjoying watching Hanley squirm, reveling in the thought of Hanley kicking the bucket... which he probably was. "yer debt is consolidated and transferred to yer wife and children, who work the rest of their lives tryin' to pay it all off, probably living and dying in poverty. All because of yer dumbass decisions."

Hanley didn't like the sound of that either. "And three?"

"Well..." the stranger grinned, their voice softening, "We've got a new program here in the mob. A pay-it-forward kinda deal. It involves yer family, yer blood, and a teensy bit of paperwork." He nicked the tip of Hanley's chin, hopefully scarring his perfect face.

"What kind of paperwork?" Hanley hissed, the throbbing in his head intensifying with every cut and slice.

The mobster withdrew his blade, positively beaming.

"I'm glad ya asked."