Free Bad Blood by Anthony Bruno Page A

bodies—in the hands of Yamashita of Kinki.” He knew that Mashiro hoped to add a similar inscription of his own someday.
    Nagai picked out a cherry by its stem, twirled it between his fingers for a moment, then abruptly flicked it at Mashiro. The samurai instantly drew his sword and slashed down all in one blurred motion. Nagai could see one half of the cherry a few feet from Mashiro’s foot. The other half had disappeared someplace.
    â€œVery good,” Nagai said.
    Mashiro returned the katana to its black leather scabbard. “Please continue,” he said in Japanese. His goal was perfection, not praise.Nagai admired his discipline. He thought about telling Mashiro about D’Urso’s offer—he’d been thinking about it all day and he still couldn’t decide whether it would be a smart move or not. He wondered how Mashiro would react to it. Would he follow his “lord’s” wishes without question? Or would the samurai think less of him for betraying his lord?
    Nagai selected another cherry and tossed it in a high arc. It started to fall short of Mashiro’s position, but the samurai rushed forward quickly and the blade slashed right to left, severing the target in two.
    â€œYour finger doesn’t bother you?” he asked. “It doesn’t seem to have affected your swordsmanship.”
    â€œI’m learning to compensate,” Mashiro replied. “The weakened hand must remind me of my error.”
    Nagai nodded thoughtfully. Mashiro lived by the book. There had to be some resentment, though. Nagai certainly resented Hamabuchi each time he’d been punished. “I’m sorry, Mashiro, but it had to be done.”
    Mashiro looked puzzled. “Why apologize? This is the way of the yakuza. This is how it must be. That’s all.”
    Nagai flicked another cherry off his thumb as if he were shooting a marble. It made a line drive right for Mashiro’s face. The sword waited over the samurai’s head, then cut down vertically, greeting the cherry right in front of the samurai’s nose. The two halves dropped at his feet.
    Mashiro sheathed his sword. “You seem unsettled by this, my lord. Have you lived in America so long that you’ve forgotten our ways?”
    Nagai twirled another cherry between his fingers as he stared at his samurai. Mashiro understood him. He could talk to Mashiro. They were fellow outcasts, after all. “Maybe I have been here too long,” Nagai finally said. “But life is comfortable here. I like it here now. In many ways I like it better than back home.” He stared at the spinning cherry in his hand. “But if I like it so much, why do I always think about returning? Is it just to be with my kids again? Or is it really something else?”
    â€œYour confusion is smoke. It will blow off. Your aim is to see Japan again, be with your children, and most importantly, regain your former place of honor within the Fugukai.” In Japanese Mashiro’s words were eloquently blunt. He spoke with absolute certainty. Nagai wished he could be so certain about things.
    â€œYes . . . I suppose.” He put the cherry on his tongue, pulled out the stem, and rolled it around in his cheek.
    â€œBut you are worried about Reiko,” Mashiro went on. “You would like to take your woman back to Japan with you.”
    Nagai nodded. Mashiro knew him very well. “To live honorably in Japan with Reiko, with my children . . . that would be paradise.” It was beginning to sound like a foolish dream.
    Mashiro shook his head. “There is no paradise. Only struggle.”
    â€œWinning is paradise.”
    Mashiro frowned and tilted his head, considering the statement. “Yes . . . you might say that.”
    Nagai took a cherry in each hand and suddenly pitched them underhand at the samurai. Mashiro made a choppy figure eight with his blade, cutting both targets. A lopsided half rolled back and