Domesticity

The first rule of surviving the underworld: never play cards with someone who smiles too much. The second rule? Ignore the first if you’re the one doing the smiling, especially one that doesn’t dress properly.

Seriously, you just want to fit in with the Gen Z. Sneakers to meetings instead of dress shoes, or that you’d rather win a deal over a poker table than through bloodshed (Brain over brawn, as you dubbed). Or…rob them suckers in broad daylight by getting too fucking good at making even your enemies cackled at your 174th rendition of your Dad jokes. Either way, the underworld doesn’t quite know what to make of you — an heir of a gangster family who grin too much, joke too often, and somehow still had half the city under your thumb with what you promptly called “business senses”.

“Boss, you can’t keep calling blackmail ‘mad rep,’” your right-hand man groans as you both step out of the backroom of the casino. The air is thick with cigarette smoke and the smell of cheap perfume (home, sweet home).

You brush a bit of ash off your sleeve. “Why not? Sounds more professional. Classier. Like something I can put on my LinkedIn.”

He sighs. “…You threatened to release a video of the guy cheating on his wife.”

You grinned. “Exactly. That’s high-stakes negotiation. Will be my first line in my bio.”

The rest of your crew wait by the cars outside — black suits, too much gel, and enough bad jokes to make the cops quit their job out of secondhand embarrassment. One of your underlings nod, half-impressed, half-concerned as he follows you from behind. “You really are unorthodox, boss.”

“That’s one word for it,” you said, stretching. “I prefer…unpredictable.”

Because that is your thing. You don’t rule with terror or tradition. Leverage is how you roll — those that make rival bosses sweat in their suits the moment you mention the files. (Wait, you’re basically the loan shark. Huh. That sounds less impressive now saying that out loud.) The point is that you always had something on someone — the mayor, the port inspectors, the CEO of Lottemart, even that one police chief who thought he was untouchable. Your web of blackmail keeps everyone dancing on the palm of your hand. Every other gang in the city either hates you or owes you. Sometimes both.

One of your guys flicked his toothpick and said, “Boss, word on the street says the Enami clan aren’t happy about us taking the port deal.”

You tilt your head. “The Enami? The traditional ones? You mean the boomers who still bow before slicing someone?”

“They’re saying they’re gonna ‘teach us respect,’ if we keep going to be rowdy.” another added, air-quoting the phrase.

“Respect’s earned, not taught,” you mutter, lighting a cigarette. “Besides, I’ve got enough insurance on half the gangs in this city. They won’t risk a war.”

“Yeah, but boss, they’re not like the others,” he said. “Old-school type shyt. Tight discipline. No leaks. They don’t play dirty like we do.”

“Hey, don’t say we play dirty, dummy.” You exhaled a plume of smoke and smirked. “But they are really stinky boomers.”

Truth is, the Enami Clan is really something. Old money, old rules. They are the kind that still bowed before portraits of their ancestors and treated “honour” like currency. No gambling, no shady trades, no jokes (or none that you and the gang can really trace off, they totally have graveyard jokes). Just clean-cut precision, discipline, and ruthlessness.

And then the supposed daughter. Or mysterious, whatever works. You never see her before, only heard stories. How she once fought off a dozen armed men during an ambush and left the last one crawling back to deliver a message: “Try again, and I’ll aim for your throat next time.”

A little dramatic, sure. But she is Enami blood through and through. Living up to the clan name. According to words on the street, you heard.

And uh…you have crossed paths with her men plenty of times. You clashed, sometimes violently, but never fatally (yet). There was always this silent line neither side dared to cross. You don’t go directly after her, and neither is she.

It worked….well, until tonight.

You don’t arrive home until midnight, still humming from the adrenaline of the day’s deals, when you notice the unfamiliar cars lined up outside the estate. Black. Polished. Not something that you associate yourself with.

“Young master?” your butler calls from the hall. “Your father’s in the dining room. He’s… entertaining guests.”

“Guests?” you echo, loosening your tie. “Since when does he entertain anyone who doesn’t owe him money?”

The butler doesn’t answer — just look pale, which is never a good sign. So you just dismiss him for the night (for his own good). Kicking off your shoes, you loosen your tie, and halfway through debating if you had the energy to shower when you hear it. Voices. Calm. Polite. Out of place in a house that usually echoed with your boys cackling and the constant curse of “fuck” from your old man.

Your father sat at the head of the table, back straight, expression unreadable (very different from his usual laidback self). Across from him—a man in a crisp black yukata, posture perfect, aura colder than the grave. His hands fold neatly, movements deliberate, measured. And beside him sits a girl. Good guesses are, around your age.

You notice her eyes first — dark, steady, and completely unimpressed by your existence. Her hair frames her face in sharp, clean lines; her kimono is immaculate, not a wrinkle in sight. Everything about her screams discipline and control, right down to the way she barely blinked when you stepped in.

You clear your throat. “Wow. Didn’t know we were doing a period drama.”

Your father’s gaze flicks up. “You’re late.”

“You say that like it’s not my defining trait, Dad.”

He ignores you, gesturing to the empty chair across from the girl. “Sit.”

You hesitate, glancing between the strangers. “Jeez, you could at least tell me who I’m sitting with before I get scolded again.” Still, you obey, partly because you respect him, and partly because the last time you ignored that tone, you end up cleaning blood off the floor for three hours.

The older man spoke first — his voice deep, controlled, with a faint edge of authority that made your instincts straighten. “You must be his son.”

You flashed a grin. “Well, where are my manners? Good evening to you, sir. And you are…?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, potentially trying to measure what kind of trouble you were in. You give him a playful bow in return, because really, who didn’t love a little mischief in the house?

Then your father leaned back, steepling his fingers. “You’re both aware of the… tension between our groups.”

You tilted your head. “You mean the nerf war?”

The older man’s eyes narrowed. “If that’s what you want to call it.”

Your father sighs. “As much as I enjoyed the passionate young blood, it’s gone too far. And we think there is only one way to stop it.”

You laugh under your breath. “Please don’t say marriage. Every time someone says that in a movie, it always go shit at the end.”

Neither side breaks even a chuckle.

You blinked. “…Wait.”

“You’re going to marry her.” “I’m sorry, what the fuck?”

He continued like he didn’t just throw a grenade into the room. “The groups need peace. Everyone needs peace. And there’s no better symbol of unity than between you, our children. You’ll court her properly. Publicly.”

You turn to the girl, who was still staring at you with the same flat and surgical calm. “No offense, but are we both hearing this shit correctly?”

She tilts her head slightly. “Unfortunately.”

“Well, that’s comforting.” You lean back in your chair, smirking despite the chaos in your head. “Guess this makes us… allies?”

“You talk too much.” “And you glare too much, I guess that’s equilibrium.”

Your father pinches the bridge of his nose. “Enough. You’ll be seeing more of each other from now on. Learn to get along.”

You raise a brow, turning to the girl again. “Well, I’m gonna need your name before I start practicing my couple introductions.”

She finally spoke, voice calm and quiet, but sharp enough to leave a mark. “Asa. Enami Asa.”