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Kassidy King

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Summary

Wallowing in self-pity, drowning in ice cream while balling my eyes out watching Bridget Jones' Diary, was never my style. That's the style of ordinary people. No, not me. Life thought it would put me through the wringer to see what I'm really made of. Now, here I stand... A thriving no-bullshit business owner and expanding my legacy. Yes, I used my issues and made a thriving business as a pub and nightclub owner. That is until I cross paths with the notorious Japanese Mafia King of the North, Mr. Raiden Kita. His name should have been 'Ayumu', which means 'walking dream', because damn! That man puts all other men to shame. He's fine as hell, sophisticated, and, most important, deadly... Trigger warning (PG18): abuse, sexual reference, violence Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental.

Genre:
Drama / Thriller
Author:
Jessica Brown
Status:
Complete
Chapters:
28
Rating:
4.8 5 reviews
Age Rating:
18+

Chapter 1

I'm nine years old, watching the adults from a corner in the living room. The smell of cigarettes and beer hang like a cloud, ready to rain.
It's times like these that I wish my mother would return to her ways of a revolving door of men.
At least none of them hurt me.

Being an only child and often, my mother's biggest regret is not an easy burden to carry. You're probably thinking: "Oh, Kassidy, you're exaggerating!"

Nope.
She's said that to me before, multiple times.

After I was born, my mother had her womb removed. It was planned as a tube tie, but the shady clinic messed up and removed it all. She couldn't afford healthcare. Of course, it was my fault that she had to go to this shady clinic in the first place.

At the time, I didn't have a retort as I would now. Something along the lines of: "Well, Mother, maybe you should have used protection."

I've been taking care of myself for as long as I can remember.

Imagine being a four-year-old, and your mother leaves you with four dollars to order pizza. I still had baby teeth! But I had to figure out how to use the phone to get food.

The first time I did this, my pizza was delivered by a police officer. My mother had to pick me up from the station after being issued a hefty fine for child neglect.

After that day, she would order the pizza before she left on her drunken escapades.

I didn't go to daycare, kindergarten, or preschool. So, I taught myself how to read and write with the help of the TV. I attempted some accents and learned a few Spanish and Japanese words.

Where was child welfare, you ask?
My mother seemed to have some sixth sense or insider information to know when they would visit. That day she would be sober and bathed.

The perfect pretentious bitch.

I dared complain once, letting slip precisely what goes on. That night, she beat me. It was a relentless tirade that had me begging for mercy.
I used to pray religiously for the Lord to save me. Or to heal me from my physical and emotional state.

Alas, nothing happened.

Instead, my mother showed up one morning with the now-monster that haunts my dreams, named Jeff. Unlike the others, he never left.

The first time he saw me, I swear I saw a flicker of something malicious in his eyes. I didn't realize how right I'd be.

Without going into detail, I'll tell you this: when I was seven, and my mother gave in to letting me go to public school, she got called in that first month.

When my birth-giver arrived at school, she was fashionably late. She saw the school principal and my teacher having horrified looks on their faces, and I couldn't understand.

It turns out that my freestyle art project in class that day did this to their faces. No seven-year-old girl is supposed to know what a grown man's anatomy looks like.

I remember being in the middle of adding details when my teacher ripped it from me.
It was merely a shadowy figure with a dim light behind him. His penis in the drawing was erect and evident.

Child protective services were called. I remember being interviewed by police, but I couldn't tell them what was happening. I was scared of the repercussions from my mother, so I denied it all.

Jeff gifted me with another one of his "secret playtime" dates for my eighth birthday when my mother walked in. She came home early and wasn't expected, and Jeff yelled at her. I remember feeling like he accused her of causing my trauma, reversing the blame on her.

She ran to the phone, yelling at him that she would get the cops. That was the only time I saw my mother really care about me, and it was short-lived.

The world slowed as I sat on my bed, hugging my knees. Watching as Jeff ran up behind my mother, grabbing her hand, and then... There was a loud bang.

Red splashed the wall. I got up from the bed and saw blood pooling on the floor around my mother's head. Jeff held his head and yelled: "Fuck!"

He heard me sniff, and his eyes locked with mine. He rushed me to bathe, washing away any evidence of what he did to me. I heard him return to the lounge and call the cops.

As water I sat in went cold, I heard him speak to the police. He convinced them she was depressed about their financial status and pulled the gun on herself during their argument.

He had me lie to the police that I heard them yelling at each other before the loud bang. I saw nothing as I was bathing.

The police said they had no evidence suggesting otherwise, so they took her body away for cremation.

When he had the papers to be my legal guardian, I realized what I was in for.


"We've made remarkable progress today, Kassi," my therapist stopped me. "Thank you for opening up."
I nod.
"I cannot imagine this was easy for you," she adds.
"Well, someone has to know the truth. Not the version of tales that monster created," I added.
She sighs and looks at the clock. "That's all we have time for today. Unless you'd like to extend your appointment to a second hour?" She asks, hopeful.
"No, thanks Doc. I need to get back to work," I greet as I leave.
"Same time next week?" She confirms.
"Yup," I respond, not having the energy for any more.
I walk out of the office building to my waiting car. I have been assigned to therapy by the courts to work through my past trauma that resulted in my current anger management.
Well, it's only been called anger management since I started therapy. Previously, it was my weapon.
My train of thought is interrupted when my eyes land on my black Jaguar SUV: a guy standing next to the car, looking like he could be an assassin in his black tux and shades.
Who wears sunglasses at night?
He opens the door and motions with his head for me to get in. "Hell no, big boy. Who the fuck are you?" I scold.
He glares at me over his sunglasses, "Mr. Kita would like to have a word."
I feel the warmth drain my face as I realize that the mafia king is waiting in my car. My body breaks out in a cold sweat as my mind races to figure out why he would want an audience with me.
The guard clears his throat, and it brings me back to reality. "Sorry..." I murmur as I slowly make my way to the car.
As I take my seat, I look at the guard by the door: "Where's my driver?" He doesn't respond, closes the door and gets in the driver's seat.
"He's been sent home," a deep voice in the front passenger seat replies.
"Mr. Kita, nice to meet you. To what do I owe the pleasure?" I ask nervously.
"I wish I could say it's a pleasure." I can't help but think they have switched all the inside lights to create the ominous vibe. "It's anything but..." his velvety voice travels through the dark car.
"I don't follow, Sir..." I reply.
"You see, your little bar is on the outskirts of my territory. I didn't interfere as it didn't affect my business. But now..." he continues.
"But what, sir? My business hasn't changed to cause you any inconvenience," I reply boldly to hide my nervousness and confusion.
"Well, that's not entirely true," he says with what sounds like a smile. "My enemies' bike club tried to use your pub as a base of operations. Yes?" he asks.
"Yes, but I caught on quickly and got rid of them," I say confidently.
"You did, and I thank you for that. Not that you know the impact of your action. That's beside the point of me accompanying you home..."
"You know where I live?" shock evident in my words.
"Oh yes, I've had you followed for a while now. I know a little more about you than the internet provides. Come, let's have some tea," he says as I realize my car has stopped in front of my house.

I've kept my life private for many reasons long before I opened my pub. No one needs to know the history that created the scars of who I am today nor where I live. My life is better alone with the monsters in my head.

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