Title: Jewel Diaries – Ruby: Guns and Roses (PART 3 of 7)
Rating: NC - 17
Warning: HISTORICALLY, MEDICALLY AND POLITICALLY INACCURATE.

Pairing: Asami/Akihito

Sixth Installment: After a single encounter that turned into fate, Akihito and Asami found themselves teetering between good and evil. When the die is cast, which will they choose? Love, money, morals or pride? TIMELINE: Two years post Pray in the Abyss.

Disclaimer: No profit was made in writing this. All rights reserved to Yamane Ayano.

Beta-edited by: mistressdi

Author's Note: New installment answers the question: 'How it all began?' in this universe. If the scene jumps confuse you, please refer to the SCENE GUIDE for clarifications. Except the first flashback, each scene happened at a different time/day of the week following Naomi's wedding in Ruby 1.

There once was a snake in the Garden of Eden with the apple of temptation at its wake.

So enticing was the seductive red and sweet juices of the fruit,

That when Man was lured, all inhibitions be damned as his soul craved the forbidden taste—

The one that was never his but still partook.

The first time he met Mikhail Arbatov, Asami got the young Russian in a chokehold—his right arm applying enough pressure to cut off the supply of spinal fluid to the brain.

A deadly whisper. "Drop your gun."

The man just laughed as if the limbs strangling him from behind couldn't cause permanent damage. "Relax. This is neutral territory. I have no plans to kill you."

Veracity of his words notwithstanding, Asami didn't ease the strain. "Why are you here?"

"No reason." Chapped lips stretched into a cheeky grin. "Just giving congeniality a try."

Then Mikhail elbowed him on the gut.

Hard.

But Asami was faster.

He twisted his body around to lessen the blow and promptly slammed the latter to the wall, seizing both wrists when the impact caused Mikhail to lose his grip on the pistol, the metal slide making a resounding clang when it hit the wooden floor. Knowing the other's penchant for carrying knives, he took no chances and slid a leg between the blonde's thighs, right knee positioned dangerously close to his crotch.

Golden orbs steeled a glare at his 'enemy.' "Tell me now why you're here. Or tell me later when I have my hands around your throat." 'And your family marbles broken into pieces.'

But Mikhail was either stupid or a masochist. "Your wife is playing tonsil hockey with my guard as we speak so I came to apologize in advance." A nonchalant shrug. "He won't be able to use a gun and protect me with a finger missing."

"I'm not yet married."

That much was true, but the impending ceremony loomed over his head like a date with the firing squad.

A snort. "Funny. That's not what I've heard."

Asami's eyes flashed briefly on the spider tattoo decorating his captive's left hand.

The symbol of an active criminal.

How ironic.

This guy was pleading mercy from the similarly damned.

After a moment's contemplation, he released him, feeling dark satisfaction when the Bratva heir wheezed a cough and massaged his neck to ensure proper circulation. Then sensing no further movement, Asami bent down and picked up the gun he noticed lying at his feet.

His reply was as detached as the cold barrel in his hand. "Who she beds with does not concern me."

After all, nothing remotely sexual existed between them.

Mikhail whistled. "Really? Then you won't mind if I—"

'CLICK.'

For someone not planning to kill him, Mikhail had no qualms barging-in prepared.

The magazine was fully loaded.

"This is my room and you're in my house. I'll watch what I'd say if I were you."

It was no secret that Nuriko had an abortion months prior, seeing as the clan was in chaos when the procedure also stole her ability to conceive. The eldest son, furious over the incident, dissolved his engagement with her in an instant, claiming that in this predominantly male society, what other benefit could he get from a woman incapable of giving birth? Sure she was smart but their world had no room for the weak and defenseless that thrived on books and papers.

It was a fruitless union.

Later on during a drinking binge, in a rare show of vulnerability, Nuriko admitted that the unborn child didn't matter to her.

It was how she got it that almost drove her insane.

Without a doubt, Fujisaki Itou—the same man who was just too happy that Asami considered his worthless daughter for marriage—had sickening ways of entertaining friends.

Asami had the misfortune of attending one.

It was filthy.

It was disgusting.

And sleeping around was the only way she knew how to deal.

Crooked as their relationship might be, Asami understood.

Infidelity was not an issue.

Nevertheless, his current adversary raised both hands in feigned surrender, a laidback smile lighting the western features. "Fine, I get the picture. It's a political marriage and all that shit. But hands off the bride."

It was a moot point in any case.

"Why are you here?" Asami repeated, putting the firearm away, stance and posture remaining vigilant even if the intruder now appeared docile on his seat—the same one he took without permission from its owner.

Apparently, the guest seemed to have lost his manners on the way here.

"I just told you."

Asami took the opposite chair, viciously thinking how the sixteen year old foreigner tainted theimpeccably kept room by his mere uninvited and undesired presence. Every breath the latter took was cancer to his ears. "Playing riddles with me, Mikhail? The clan is giving your family refuge. I suggest not testing my patience."

Said man reached forward and toyed with the globe littered by colorful spots. "You're the fifth son. Those threats mean nothing to me."

If that comment hit a nerve, it didn't show on Asami's face. "Stop touching my things."

But the nuisance ignored his warning and instead spun the device, sending little flags and pins flying up in the air.

A smirk. "Sorry. My hand slipped."

"You son of a bitch," he growled menacingly and grabbed Mikhail by the throat, thumbs pressing precariously on his Adam's apple. "Do that again and I'll start drilling holes on your head."

Asami knew that the meaning of those notes and markings was lost in the Russian. They were grand whims and fancies of his younger self—conquering Europe and Asia, even Latin America—long before he found out that hierarchy didn't work that way.

But he was better acquainted with reality now.

Asami Yoshirou's position was never 'his' to take.

Not with four eligible men borne ahead of him.

However, the eyes that stared back were cheeky and defiant. It was almost akin to threatening a brick wall when the blonde neither wrestled nor struggled for air.

"I'd like to see you try."

He froze.

And just like that, everything came to light.

This insolent brat was provoking him on purpose, the impromptu visit declaring a simple message: Mikhail Arbatov intended to show what he was capable of—the authority, the influence and the power.

Three things an insignificant fifth could only dream about.

"What are you waiting for?" A grin. "Do it."

Asami's jaw tightened.

His arrogance despite the situation made perfect sense. Nothing prevented Mikhail from repeatedly goading and testing his patience because he was aware of the chains that restrained his body and will. Asami wouldn't be stupid enough to shoot him and jeopardize the relationship of their families.

No matter how much he wanted.

As if scalded with boiling water, the hands fell limp on his sides. "If you have nothing else to say, then get the fuck out."

Undeterred, Mikhail fixed the rumpled collar and returned on his seat. "Stop acting like a grandpa. Don't you think it's better if we became friends?"

"By ambushing me with a gun?"

Lips quirked up in amusement. "Minor details," he replied, waving a hand in dismissal. "I got tired of playing Baccarat with old people. It's about time I socialize with other kids. You feel the same, right?"

Absolutely not.

Asami was affronted at the thought of being associated with this brat.

"But getting hitched at eighteen," the Russian continued, not bothering to wait for his reply. "Pretty young don't you think? You're almost the same age as me."

A grunt. "It's none of your business."

"Ah. Like how our presence here is none of yours too?"

Silence was his dignified answer.

Last week, precisely two hours before daybreak, he woke up to the sharp knocks of his retainer, alerting him of the guests' arrival.

But there was no need to hurry.

Asami recognized the reasons why they travelled to Japan and it was certainly not to see him.

"Surely you don't believe the excuse they fed you. Why would we even bother attending a wedding bereft of merit? Seeking refuge? Yes, interesting theory but not entirely correct."

"So it's not true you're running away from the Sverdlovskaya Bratva?"

Mikhail lost his smile.

"Who said anything about running away? We're focusing on the source."

"Indeed." Asami lit a cigarette, deciding to humor him. "And there's no war either?" With an exhale of his first batch of nicotine for the day, he considered the bristling body in front of him. Blonde, blue-eyed and slightly tanned. He liked the colors but the bulky form left much to be desired. He preferred his men slender and fair.

"You're delusional. We don't have wars." The words spat through gritted teeth.

An eyebrow arched. "Of course. How remiss of me." He had studied the reports and memorized the facts. True, the Russian mafia never had turf wars. They just killed people until the enemy got the message and those fights were essentially one-sided.

Bloody, one-sided massacres.

Reality, however, indicated otherwise.

It must be really humiliating that Vladimir Arbatov, together with majority of his inner circle, had to escape the crossfire before they could retaliate.

And his father welcomed them with open arms.

That ambitious snake.

Asami briefly wondered which of the leaders was dancing in whose corrupted palm.

"So why are you here?"

Alas, they were back to square one.

Mikhail's body regained its laidback countenance. "Ever noticed my father and your mother spending so much time together these days?"

Asami's eyes narrowed.

It had been a while since he last saw Hayashi Masumi and the way they parted was not exactly pleasant. She wanted him to walk away—abandon her, the clan, the status, the glory—and to lead a normal life.

But it was too late.

The blood flowing in his veins was already sullied and dark.

"Can't say that I have."

A teasing smile. "Then are you aware that Mordinov's daughter is in Japan?"

"Why?" He didn't appreciate not knowing that piece of information. It seemed his brothers were playing the cat and mouse game again and now this monkey was determined on making him appear like a clown. "You've found her?"

"No." The offhanded reply disappointing Mikhail. "We're still looking."

"And?" Asami prompted, getting impatient with the pointless conversation. "So you wanted to shoot her and avenge your dead mother?" A sneer. "If you're here to organize a pity party then you got the wrong place, kid. I have no time for your nonsense."

The laughter that greeted him was loud and devoid of humor. "Of course not. The Pakhan won't be shaken by something simple as a shoot-out."

Asami doubted that.

According to his sources, Semion Nicolas Mordinov sent his daughter to America precisely because of the ongoing 'war.' How many years had it been? Ten? Fifteen? And now Japan? Surely, a man who took extreme lengths to keep his child safe would be devastated by her untimely death—regardless of how it was done.

"Why is that?" he asked, not expecting any answer.

"Two words: Hayashi Masumi." A sinister grin. "The Black Widow is a legend of the East. Shooting the girl will be too easy. It won't show our power. We need leverage and that's your mother."

Asami couldn't decide whether the other man was naïve or plain foolish.

What would he gain by giving such priceless information to him?

"Why, Asami? Never heard of poisons that could only affect Russian Royalty? Your mother is smart. She figured it out by herself."

Mind going into overdrive, he gripped the table-end until his knuckles turned white.

Royalty?

Asami previously heard rumors about the largest Russian Bratva having its roots from the royal bloodline. Most people considered it an undisputed fact since authorities were yet to find the missing remains to support the contrary.

How ironic would it be?

That the prince that country once heralded was the same hoodlum who tainted its society.

Fate indeed was a cruel mistress.

"I wonder what you will do if all those obstacles disappeared in an instant? Poof. As simple as that they're gone."

It took him a while to comprehend the meaning behind Mikhail's words.

"The clan will never fall." In due time, Asami would stand at the top overlooking his brethren.

A snort. "Is that conviction or wistful thinking?"

"I have no use for such things."

Sighing in mock exasperation, Mikhail stood up and walked towards the shelf overloaded with maps, figures and books, which on a closer look were of several subjects in five different languages—English, Chinese, Russian, Italian and Japanese. He retrieved the thinnest one of the lot—Il Principe di Nicolo Machiavelli—and flipped the pages. "Don't you think it'll be interesting if the underground is ruled by the three of us?"

There was no 'us.' "Three?" Asami regarded the other warily, unnerved by the careless way he handled his belongings.

"Oh yes." Blue eyes became excited, the treatise immediately being closed shut and left forgotten. "The Triad leader's second son has been found. Illegitimate. Around ten or eleven, I think. Really pretty mind you. But I call dibs. I saw him first, so no touching, ok?"

Asami's revulsion was palpable.

This brat wasn't only an idiot, but also a pedophile.

"So what do you think?" said the spider to the fly. "Want to be my friend?"

Then out of nowhere, three knives sliced the air and embedded themselves on the wall, just a millimeter away from Asami's neck.

"You don't have to answer right away." The culprit's smile was bright and angelic as the devil's grin. "Just think about it first and tell me later when you're ready, мой друг."

And in five languid strides, Mikhail was out of the door.

Body operating in measured movements, Asami easily got rid of the blades and deposited them in the drawer where he kept Mikhail's gun, finally seeing the Russian for what he really was—a pitiful young master struggling-thrashing-drowning in his father's enormous shadow.

Rounding up 'friends' or allies was his pathetic idea of conquering the difference.

But he chose the wrong person to deal with.

Because Asami was no one's little slave.

Later that evening, when he exchanged cups with Nuriko in front of the whole clan, guests and other powerful figures—his mother remarkably sitting the closest to Asami Yoshirou, things suddenly came into perspective.

Should his mother succeed, it wouldn't be far behind for his father to pause, give a second look and consider even him, his fifth son, as the heir.

No wonder his brothers had been edgy lately.

If Hayashi Masumi didn't have those skills to barter, there was no doubt her fate would be similar to Nuriko's or worse, her mother. She had something to sell and the world was crawling to buy it.

A simple commercial transaction.

Women had no place in their society but only as a useful commodity. If debt needed repayment, a willing body would have sufficed—a universal truth since his father's other concubines were utilized exactly the same way.

The clan head was only possessive of his 'Little Poison Maker.'

"The Russian brat has been staring at you for a while now."

He turned to his bride, an eyebrow shooting up at the teasing whisper. "I noticed."

"Did you fuck him?"

Asami pondered over her words carefully, trying to detect any sign of jealousy. Their relationship would work best with no romantic notions or illusions involved, so when he found none, he relaxed and offered the truth. "Not my type."

She shrugged, understanding the hidden message. "Not mine either. I don't like brats." The pointed look she gave him clearly meant she wasn't only referring to Mikhail.

He smirked.

Fujisaki Nuriko was smart, beautiful and capable, perfectly knowing what she wanted in her life.

And it was certainly not Asami.

Marrying his childhood friend had its merits. She mentioned her plans of taking up law years before and although a woman shingiin was unheard of, he was willing to take the risk and allow her that much liberty in pursuing that endeavor.

Because it would redound to his benefit in the end.

Their marriage was one of convenience.

She wouldn't be under her father's influence anymore.

And Asami got himself a powerful ally.

Since wherever Fujisaki Nuriko went, Kirishima Kei was sure to follow.

Like a loyal watchdog to his queen.

Indeed, if there was one good thing the Fujisaki head had done in his miserable and dirty life, it was adopting the poor scholar and sponsoring his studies.

Slowly but surely, Asami was building his empire.

The next morning at target practice, when his bullet grazed Mikhail's shoulder, there was no question that he had made up his mind.

A smirk. "Sorry. My hand slipped."

Mikhail gritted his teeth and endured the pain. "Dreadful aim."

Golden eyes danced in amusement.

But of course.

The target-dummy was behind Asami.

"My bad."

"Do better next time."

Asami nodded curtly, knowing the next time their paths crossed, he would be aiming for the heart.

His message was clear.

They were not friends.

But Mikhail still wanted to play Baccarat.

What a fool.

November was a wretched month.

Winter blew in full force from the Ural Mountains, freezing the landscape solid and blanketing the earth in pure ghastly white—it was impossible to see anything beyond the thick fog that the lamps in the walkway were lighted all day. His watch said it was already noon but Siberia still looked as it had that evening, two months ago, when the truck had driven through the snow, carrying him and the rest of the Shestyorkas to this dark and gloomy place.

Boris Yudkovich was a Vory-in-training, proud of the Mother and Child tattoo on his arm. Young, well-built and adept with both knives and guns, he had high expectations when the Brigadier gave his first mission, looking forward to working as a Boyevik or even a Byki and not as a pathetic "sixth" watching over Chinese slaves digging their way through the walls.

He knew the drill—'Don't complain. Don't ask. Don't tell. Just obey.'

But he was not stupid.

This Uranium mine was not on the map, probably another secret of the former Soviet Union that the government had conveniently forgotten about. Neither the bone-chilling cold nor the fact that his meals for the past months only consisted of half-cooked potatoes and wild leeks sent horrors to his gut; instead, it was the highly questionable safety standards of the mine that not only endangered the workers' lives but most probably his as well.

Boris was no stranger to abuse.

He had done a number of things prior to entering the organization—drugs, smuggling, coercion, rape, robbery and murder.

But in this forsaken place, just waking up in the morning was facing death itself.

And the clock was quietly ticking.

Later that evening, when the boss arrived, sought his post and ordered him to report, he wasted no time on the preliminaries and delivered the news. "Sir, we got a problem. The digging has slowed down. Too many are dying and exhausted."

As if on cue, a young woman tripped, falling face down on the Brigadier's boots. He maintained a façade of indifference when the boss kicked her on the stomach, sending her weak and fragile body flying into the ditch.

"Trakhatʹ suka." The other man spat in disgust.

Boris remained silent.

He recognized her as one of the first batch from Hegang—mother of a two year old boy she fondly called Xiao Long. He should know because seeing him again was the only thing keeping her sane after he shot her husband and ravaged her on his bed.

"She's tired. Just like the others, sir."

But when he heard the familiar 'click' of a gun, Boris knew he had said the wrong thing.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

All three shots landing on her head.

"Anyone else tired?!" All movements ceased inside the mine shaft but not even hushed whispers greeted the man's booming voice. His broken Chinese was thickly accented but the message was clear: 'If you're tired, I'll put you to rest. Permanently.' "You know the deal. No quota. No meals. You're all here because we're sending money to your little town. You need job? We give you job. Now, make yourselves useful and start digging!" Putting the gun back to its holster, he turned to the 'sixth' with a dark glower. "Get more."

Boris dared not look away. "We've already taken most men from the villages."

The Brigadier grunted in dismissal, marching towards the newly parked truck, Boris following closely behind. "Then get the rest. Men, women, ages twelve to fifty years. Take all of them."

A pause. "They're just kids."

"Yeah?" The boss whipped around, grabbed the lapels of his jacket and snarled at him, saliva spraying with every word. "As long as they got two hands and two feet I don't care if they're sniveling brats like you. Am I clear?"

There was no other answer. "Yes sir."

Then without warning, he was pushed flat on the freezing ground.

"Get moving, kid. We have a schedule to keep."

And in just a few seconds, his truck was swallowed by the fog.

Four days.

Akihito had been in Kyoto for only four days but he was missing the hassle and bustle of Tokyo already. Even the noise and pollution associated with the city was a thing he pined for compared to the tranquil atmosphere and fresh air of Sakyō-ku. The peace and quiet was making him restless so he was more than tempted to just go somewhere, grab a beer and get totally shit-faced, but the thought immediately lost its appeal when he realized that neither his friends nor his guards were in the countryside to prevent him from doing something utterly crazy and stupid.

Of which, from past experiences, he would surely do.

And if he was really honest with himself, he had been suffering from Asami Withdrawal Symptoms since the other day—evident from the number of times he had to jerk off in the shower at the mere thought of his older lover every time the fabric of his shirt brushed over his nipples the same way Asami's fingers always did or whenever the cool breeze swept over his neck like the other man's kisses on his nape after their activities in bed, promising more than two rounds of heat, sweat and semen before dawn replaced night or dusk turned to day.

Ugh.

Damn hormones.

Phone sex was not an option since he accidentally (on purpose) left his Asami-phone—the one with a tracking device and heavily secured lines—underneath the sofa before he ran out of the penthouse and made trouble for the guards. So yeah, no crimelord checking up on him every hour for exactly four days and three nights now. But he was aware that if Asami truly wanted him under the radar, all he needed to do was call his old number, or better, extract the home address from one of the files Akihito knew the older man kept on him inside his office.

Was it an act of kindness perhaps that Asami had not sent his goons to retrieve him?

Akihito was betting his entire measly fortune on the opposite of that. Kindness was not the operative word when Asami's patience only delayed the inevitable from happening to his ass.

'But before that,' he thought, sobering a little to the reality of his situation, 'we need to talk and re-establish the boundaries.' Although considering how things quickly got out of hand after the debacle in Hong Kong, he was not certain if there were boundaries previously set up that required re-establishment in the first place.

On Asami's part maybe, seeing as the other man persistently kept him out of his dealings, whether legal or illegal, especially since his momentary disappearance five months ago.

And him?

Nothing was strong enough to prevent Asami from meddling in his affairs.

A free and innocent man.

Everything had come rushing down like a waterfall when he woke up the morning after his arrival. Just like that, a simple piece of paper determined his fate but opened the floodgates to more doubts and questions given that Chang's real attacker remained unknown and at large.

Unknown and at large as far as Akihito was concerned because his lawyer made it her business to hide the truth from him.

Most probably under Asami's orders.

It was nothing new, but a part of him, a very small one, still wondered if he was being kept as a lover—an equal—or as a valued pet. The latter wouldn't surprise him since there was no promise of anything permanent—a commitment—between them. They were living together out of convenience and necessity. Well, more like he forced himself in when he was left with no other place to hide. For all he knew, Asami could be keeping his other mistresses or lovers at some apartment far away from prying eyes.

'Akihito, Akihito. Are you trying to justify your sins?'

'No,' he retorted back, closing his eyes in admission.

Because he had no such sins to speak of.

Despite this belief, shame still bubbled in his gut at the mere implication that he had betrayed Asami by lusting after another man. They were not married for heaven's sake! So what if he was a little attracted to the Russian guest? He had done absolutely nothing wrong to bear the guilt of an unfaithful wife. Akihito had not jumped his bones the first opportunity he got and neither did he offer any indication that he was interested in him that way.

Alexandrei Mordinov just roused conflicting feelings in him—feelings that as of the moment he could not understand. His aura was dangerous as Asami's— double-edged and terrifying—but the familiarity of the way he carried himself fascinated Akihito somehow.

Every movement of his body, every arrogant tilt of his head and even the upturn of his lips in that condescending smirk was familiar—so familiar in fact that it was making him nauseous.

Just who was this man?

And it was the answer to that question which prompted his current position, crouching low on the hardwood floors while listening on the conversation happening behind the paper-sliding door.

It was Alexandrei and his father.

They were in the living room so he firmly believed that his eavesdropping was legitimate and in no way invaded their privacy unlike if he had done the same while they were inside their bedrooms.

But his efforts were for naught.

Both men were speaking in Slavic and he couldn't understand a bloody damned word.

Shit.

Talk about language barrier.

With a sigh, he stood up and brushed off the non-existent dirt on his pants, about ready to slide open the door and interrupt the discussion when a thought compelled him to an abrupt stop.

Akihito didn't know his father spoke Russian.

That realization was not supposed to sound like a surprise given their family history. Ever since his mother's death, Takaba Minoru had taken up a lot of overseas assignments that would span months or years before appearing again for an occasional celebration or family event.

Like the one they had this week.

But why now?

If it was his mother's birthday or death anniversary, he could understand. That man was obsessed with his deceased wife to the point that the tokonoma displayed not the seasonal flower arrangement and calligraphy but two oil-based paintings of Takaba Natalya—or Natalya Leskiev as she was more popularly known—in her glorious but short-lived years as a model and as a mother. A common friend from the industry commissioned the first for him using the one and only picture Minoru had professionally taken of a human female—the same woman whom he later on married and bore his child.

Nothing seemed amiss when they, along with Alexandrei, visited the cemetery last Tuesday. His great grandfather's grave was unchanged—still wanting of the usual engravings and lying next to his mother's plot. Akihito had always wondered why the headstone was unmarked—including the deceased's name—but was always afraid to ask. Back in elementary, a lecture in history taught him that only criminals and poor people were buried that way.

He didn't wish to sully his great grandfather's memories should it be true.

Grandpa Sergei had the kindest eyes; his large hands the strongest ones to hold until he took his final breath at ninety years old.

And the world was never the same again.

"Akihito?" Takaba Minoru's deep voice shook him from his reverie. He did not notice him opening the partition. "Do you need something?"

The inside of his mouth suddenly felt dry as his mind jumbled an excuse for standing dazedly by the door. "I-I just—" a glimpse behind his father's tall and bulky form confirmed that Alexandrei was also waiting for an explanation.

Those violet eyes seemed to be judging him, daring and questioning if he was brave enough to lie.

Akihito swallowed.

"I just wanted to watch some news," the grin on his face was too wide that it almost hurt. "The television in my room is not working." He had not checked of course, but it was worth a shot.

"Sure, sure. We're all family here—"

'Including that man too?' he wanted to ask but stopped himself. Would it be really rude if he inquired out front if they were fucking each other?

"—so you don't need to ask permission for that."

"Well, I don't want to interrupt if you're discussing something important. I can just ask grandma to lend me theirs if I'm disturbing you guys." Nevertheless, he walked inside and took the nearest seat, grabbing the remote in the process.

"Nyet, nyet," then as if realizing his mistake, Minoru corrected, "I mean no. We're just talking about a rare animal I saw in my recent trip. Nothing important." Then he occupied the space next to Akihito, fully intending to bond more with his son—the one who was looking more and more beautiful like his mother each day. He couldn't decide whether to be happy or alarmed by this fact considering that most men in their twenties were supposed to take after their fathers by now.

Maybe his boy was just a late bloomer. After all, it took him thirty years of his life before he finally settled down with his first and last wife. "What channel are you looking for?"

"NHK World." To be honest, Akihito was merely browsing the guide. He didn't really enjoy seeing how politicians, criminals or celebrities around the globe make a fool of themselves. That was Asami's hobby—aside from groping him—during breakfast or lunch, as the case may be. Finding the codes at last, he turned to Alexandrei who had been silent throughout the exchange. "This okay with you?"

The other man shrugged. "I don't really like watching the news." A smirk. "But I do enjoy your company plenty."

If his heart skipped a beat, Akihito wisely chose to ignore it and concentrated on the report.

"'Russian Prime Minister Dmitry Vorotnikov was murdered in Paris in a 'state-directed' execution, the former chief prosecutor who examined the case believes.' A statement from his Office said the 67-year-old died days after drinking wine laced with a radioactive isotope, polonium 210, at a meeting with Russian contacts at Le Meurice Hotel."

"The Prime Minister was widely known for his strong opposition of the ongoing movement towards a Monarchy Restoration in Russia. Over the last 10 years, the number of Russians supporting monarchastic ideas has risen fivefold. An October poll by the SWS on Public Opinion indicated that 35 percent of Russians agreed with restoring the monarchy, but only if an acceptable candidate can be found. And majority of those who favor monarchy, particularly citizens of Moscow and St. Petersburg, believe that a sovereign drawn from one of the Romanov heirs, may hold out a solution to a variety of Russia's problems."

"To date, the Office of the President Viktor Stephasin has not given an official statement regarding the issue. Yegor Mendeleev, the Deputy Prime Minister, has assumed position as the Acting Prime Minister pending the President's submission to the State Duma of Prime Minister Vorotnikov's successor."

"In China, two men were found dea—"

Minoru changed the station before the news anchor could continue.

Akihito blinked, confused by the red puppet now dancing on the TV screen. "Dad! I was watching that!"

"Well, too bad. I want to see Elmo now." Minoru raised the remote out of Akihito's reach. It seemed his son's short stature—well, compared to him—was useful at times. "This is why I hate the news channel. I just feel depressed afterwards." With a brief glance to the side, he tried to gauge the demeanor of the room's other occupant.

The face that met him was blank.

"Ugh. You're such a kid." Akihito groused, settling on the sofa with a pout, arms crossed in front of his chest. His fifty-five year old father had degenerated to a two year old brat. 'And Asami calls him immature?' What a laugh.

Minoru chuckled, ruffling the blonde head fondly. It always amazed him how his son grew up not hating him for all the times he had been absent in his life. Akihito had his moments of course, going to juvenile detention in his teens but the offenses were nothing serious—vandalism and drunk driving were the worst he'd heard.

Unlike him.

Akihito noticed the look before its meaning even dawned on him. For days, he had been watching how his father and Alexandrei interacted—lingering touches, secret glances, hushed conversations and the like—but there was nothing remotely intimate between them at all; nothing to indicate a relationship similar to what he and Asami had. If ever, Minoru treated the foreigner like how a mentor would to his ward.

He turned to the man lounging on the seat opposite his and attempted to see past the masked indifference. Years of being with Asami taught him that it wouldn't hurt to scratch the surface in order to discover what was really inside.

He was not disappointed.

Alexandrei was actually amused by the situation.

And he was convinced it wasn't because of his father's childish antics.

"So it doesn't bother you?" The question came out only seconds after Minoru left for the kitchen to get some tea.

Those violet eyes pierced him. "Which one are you referring to?"

"The news." Akihito thought it was obvious. "Your country seems to be in chaos and things aren't looking good for the government right now."

A nonchalant shrug. "So what? It doesn't matter to me. I have no ties with the government," Alexandrei announced solemnly, as if he was deeply saddened by it.

However, the smirk on his face was a mockery of the sentiment.

For some reason, that statement chilled Akihito to the bone. He had encountered—whether he liked it or not—a lot of people having 'no ties' with the government and they were mostly amongst Asami's crowd—vain, cunning and ambitious.

This young and imposing Russian appeared like he was all three.

Fuck.

Akihito hoped in all things great and holy that he was just over-thinking the matter and not jumping to valid conclusions. There were many bad situations that could have been avoided if he was not associated with Asami but he had long become numb to the threats and dangers that came along with the package.

On the other hand, the potential risks that might be connected with Alexandrei Mordinov were not something he was willing to take.

Especially not when his innocent father would be harmed, if involved.

"Tea?"

Akihito almost jumped at Minoru's voice, suddenly feeling like a wild animal struggling to escape. He didn't want to stay in the same place as that man even a minute longer than he needed. He despised those captivating eyes. The air was suffocating whenever he was near.

Like an answered prayer, his means to getaway materialized through a phone call.

Recognizing the ringtone as Kou's, he stood up with a small "Sorry. I have to take this one," to his father and ran straight to his room, not forgetting to lock the door behind him this time. Paranoid much? Absolutely, but that was better than getting himself into big trouble by not shutting up his mouth.

"Hello?" Akihito managed between pants after the impromptu sprint. The sudden call was a pleasant surprise. He had been itching to know how things were with the newlyweds. "How's the new husband and wife? Is the sun in Okinawa really better than in Tokyo?"

But his greeting was met with deep and heavy breaths from the other line.

"A-Akihito?"

That didn't sound like a happy husband at all. From the broken and raspy voice, Kou had obviously been crying.

"Hey," he answered calmly, trying not to alarm the dejected man. "Are you alright? Why are you crying? Is Naomi with you?" 'Did you fight again?' was the meaning of the last one.

"It's gone. Oh god… Akihito… it's gone. It's my fault. And Naomi, s-she—" Then the words became incoherent as he was again wrecked with sobs.

"I can't understand you, Kou. What happened? What's gone?"

"I-I don't know what to do. P-Please, I need...oh god—"

"Kou! Get a hold of yourself! What's gone?" Akihito was also starting to panic, his eyes drifting around the sparsely decorated room for his belongings.

"The baby." Two words carrying the weight of a bomb. "The baby's gone."

His hand on the phone went slack, almost sending the device on the floor.

This was not happening.

"W-What? What do you mean?"

"It was an accident. Please believe me. Naomi, sh—" deep breaths, "—Naomi had a miscarriage on the way back. She's in the hospital right now. I'm a mess and I can't think straight at all—"

'Make that the two of us.'

"—I just have to call someone. Fuck. I—I don't know what to do."

Well, shit.

"Just stay calm, Kou." He ought to take that advice too as pain shot up to his leg when it hit the side table again in a hasty effort to retrieve his bag. 'Focus Akihito. Focus! This is not the proper time to lose your head.' "Don't do anything rash. Contact her parents—"

'Hopefully they haven't gone back to America.'

"—and tell them what happened. Inform your mother, too." Watanabe-san might not think highly of Naomi but she was still a mother and could better handle and understand the pain of a woman who had lost her child.

"W-What about you?" Kou sounded lost and desperate, his apparent anguish constricting Akihito's heart. There was no other male figure his best friend could possibly rely on. His father gave up on the illusion of a 'normal' straight family a long time ago, pursuing instead the life of a homosexual man. And if Watanabe-san's wishes had indeed come true, he was probably suffering from HIV/AIDS by now if not already six feet under the ground. No grandfather, no uncles and no cousins to speak off. Even Takatou's presence was not definite considering that he had a family now and couldn't be easily pulled away from his obligations.

It was only him.

"I'm on my way."

And before he knew it, Akihito was bidding the peaceful and quiet town of Sakyo-ku goodbye, sitting inside the plane flying back to the noisy and pollution-filled city of Tokyo.

A lesson was learned.

'Be careful of what you wish for.'

Because someone up there had a cruel sense of humor.

His brain registered the blood a second before the gunshot.

"Stand up, Naumov. I shot your shoulder, not your knees."

Mikhail gritted his teeth in anger seeing the battered form of his uncle on the ground. The fingernails had been peeled off and scars from needles repeatedly stabbing flesh littered the naked torso while burns from molten iron marked a dislocated arm. "There are rules, father."

Vladimir Arbatov merely raised a brow and handed the pistol to his impudent son. "Too loud. Give me a different one."

"We don't kill family," he stressed but nevertheless placed the newly loaded weapon on the outstretched palm.

"Ah. Would you rather that I shoot your leg to test if the gun's working?"

Mikhail looked away.

"Thought so."

Bang!

Another groan escaped Naumov as the bullet passed through the same spot on his shoulder but this time, he resisted the impulse to collapse lest the Pakhan decided to drill the next hole on his knees. He could survive losing one arm but not being crippled in this lifetime.

"Now we can see inside of him. And I can see lies." Vladimir motioned two guards to hold the swaying man, the erratic movement sending red drops of liquid on his Pietra Firma floors. "Don't take this to heart Mikael," a poisonous smile, "but you deserve every piece of inconvenience I can possibly impress on you, you ungrateful little shit."

"We need him—"

"Back off, Mikhail." The clang of guns and knives in the background indicated a warning. Cold charcoal eyes regarded his son with deep-rooted anger. "If you just had the slightest prudence in keeping your men in line, then that rookie Baishie leader wouldn't have shamed me into picking up your tab. Tell me one good reason why I should let you and this imbecile scot-free after the humiliation you've put me through."

This was the first time he was asked that question since Feilong's unexpected visit two days ago and Mikhail wasn't sure if he wanted to answer.

It would only show how his incompetence had grown.

First was the deed in Macau—lost when the crossfire between Asami and Feilong ended without the expected casualties, no thanks to that meddlesome brat warming both their beds. Second was his mistake with Yantzhui—all efforts proving useless when his plans backfired and nearly cost him half his men.

And now this?

He was certainly digging his way to an early grave.

"I have a client willing to pay four billion for a kilo of polonium. Imagine how much money that is after we got everything from there."

Father and son turned to the source.

Mikael Naumov had spoken for his nephew again.

Vladimir's eyes narrowed. "By using Chinese slaves?"

"That was never a problem before." His cynical laughter sounded like a snort amidst the coughs, bloody shoulders shaking with every sound and weak body relying heavily for support from the black-suited giants flanking his sides.

"Indeed. You just entered their territory, got caught and made a mess!"

"No one was supposed to know! Even Mikhail was not aware—"

"Ah, so my son was ignorant but the Chinese whelp was so informed?"

"No! That was not part of the plan—"

"But it still happened anyways!" The muzzle of Vladmir's gun never moved an inch from Naumov's temple as venom lashed out with his every word. "In the end, the one taken as a fool was me."

No matter how he looked at it, there was no excuse for that.

"I'm retired. Not dead, brother. If there's something I've learned from this world, it's to always revere the code: When you dishonored a man, prepare for retribution."

And before Mikhail even had the chance to react, Vladimir positioned the barrel and fired.

The next morning at breakfast, Liu Feilong received a carefully wrapped package.

"I'll handle this, Feilong." The voice was deep, his face kind and eyes with the benevolence of a snake. "Blood is expensive. Let's avoid spilling it."

It was all about the money.

And Vladimir Arbatov refused to waste even a single dime.

The body was not Naumov's. It seemed the blame was put on someone else, probably a new recruit who didn't know the world he just gotten into, because like a sick joke, they also sent him the head when an arm or a leg would have sufficed.

Feilong was not new to this dirty scheme, but his group only used it when the police was concerned. It wouldn't surprise him if the retired Zvezdankaya leader had used a meat-cleaver to do the job, just like a cheap imitation of the triad's practice of chopping their straying members if found alive.

"Your orders, Master Feilong."

"Throw it into the pond." He had no use for worthless cadavers. It was not the trophy of a satisfying war. "Those fishes are getting hungry."

Seconds before the gift was taken away, his eyes flickered to the sliced arm, its Mother and Child tattoo glaring back at him.

Bloody Russians.

It was a bitter pill to swallow when the deposits from Heilongjiang almost plummeted to the ground. A faction of Mikhail's group had been putty with their hands, ignored the limits and carelessly dipped into the forbidden soil. And though the entire event begged for the reason as to how Asami got wind of the invasion, that issue was a miniscule detail compared to the bigger picture he uncovered.

Along with Vladimir Arbatov's deteriorating health, the Zvezdankaya Bratva was slowly losing its power.

No wonder Mikhail was itching for the deed in Macau.

Feilong was not aware of the facts but it seemed the ongoing feud with another organization had substantially contributed to its weakening stronghold, prompting Mikael Naumov to grasp the straws and make a deal with the government, though the fact of which side—the Purists or the Parliament—remained a question in his mind.

A glance to the phone on the sidetable interrupted his musings.

Asami.

He had the inkling that his unexpected informant was the man who knew most things, and just like a little lamb, Feilong unwittingly played right into Asami's trap, expertly manipulating him to incur a debt he was never supposed to have.

A snort.

Favor from a friend indeed.

But no matter what the other man was planning, only one thing was for sure.

Although Vladimir ultimately took the burn for the incident, it was Mikhail Arbatov who ended up a laughing stock.

It was Wednesday.

Akihito entered the penthouse at dawn, not knowing what to expect after more than a week of absence and with no communication whatsoever with Asami. He was physically tired, mentally lost and emotionally drained, the last thing he needed was returning home to an empty bed, devoid of the only person who made perfect sense in his world right now.

But like always, he underestimated how much hold he had over Asami.

He felt the warmth of an inviting chest and of the strong arms wrapping around his waist before he heard the husky whisper against the shell of his ear. "You're back."

Turning around to face the other man, Akihito allowed himself to be enveloped by Asami's intoxicating presence, the familiar scent of mixed sandalwood, scotch and cigarettes calming his frazzled nerves. "I'm home."

After those days of confusion, temptation, regret and sorrow, it really felt like he had come home to where he belonged.

Akihito was aware that the security blanketing him was a mere temporary paradise before memories came flashing back in, chased away any semblance of peace and tranquility he had acquired, and snapped him to the reality that his cowardice and actions had cost him a—

"It's a sign, you know?"

As far as Akihito could recall, he hadn't been drunk since the news of Naomi's pregnancy with Kou's child and Takatou took it upon himself to get the three of them absolutely smashed and hammered because apparently that was what intelligent, conscientious and reasonable men did when expecting a child.

That blissful occasion felt like decades ago now as Kou slugged down another mouthful of beer not in celebration, but in mourning of the child he had lost and the impossibility of him begetting one again.

"Someone up there is warning me not to do it. That a child fathered by me will only suffer."

Akihito chose to remain silent, afraid to further unsettle the anguished man. Consoling words never flowed out naturally from him. Takatou was better at handling emotional situations but his business trip in Thailand prevented him from going back in order to make use of the bottomless pit of wisdom that two and a half years of marriage had given him for free. It was just Kou and him inside the hotel room, and unsurprisingly, the most brilliant idea Akihito came up with was to get drunk, let alcohol drown the pain and simply forget about everything that turned life a shitty place to live in.

"Guess I don't have to worry about that anymore though," Kou continued with a bitter laugh unaware of the thoughts whirring inside Akihito's mind. "What with the doctor dropping the bomb, saying that my swimmers can't make it anymore."

Obviously, the 'brilliant' plan was not working.

It had been three hours since they started their drinking binge but Kou was yet to stop rambling about the same topic that caused his depression in the first place. Chromosomal abnormalities in the developing baby was the default explanation for the miscarriage, and though the news was delivered with the most compassionate words, it still failed to take away the hurt of a life gone—never to be returned again.

It was a boy.

They were supposed to have a healthy baby boy.

Naomi got released that Tuesday morning—her demeanor a stoic image of a warrior having survived a war. But the solid mask shattered too when her husband's blood tests came back, cruelly eliminating the slightest hopes of a normal pregnancy again. They could try for another child but a second or even a third time miscarriage would always be a constant curse looming above their heads.

The mother-to-be was distraught.

And Kou—

"It's my fault. I'm being punished for being a liar all my life."

Kou became an empty shell, blaming himself at every chance he could get. As a man, he was expected to be the shoulder for Naomi to cry on—strong, composed and supportive of the wife who suffered the physical pain of the lost—but keeping his feelings inside proved difficult when in his mind, everything that happened was all his fault.

The counselor wisely suggested keeping husband and wife apart for at least the night. Guilt, denial and anger clearly formed a harmful mixture for the relationship, especially since Naomi was still weak and recovering from the incident.

"Wanna know a secret?"

No. Akihito got enough of that already, but like a good friend, he simply nodded and motioned for him to continue, praying that the 'secret' was not another trigger for a heart attack. "What is it?"

Glassy orbs turned to him—the surrounding area still red and swollen—as if gravely contemplating which of his many secrets was the most worthy of sharing. They were sitting on the floor, backs against the bed with their arms touching, while the muted TV screen showed an over-the-top drama that Japanese housewives zealously watched every night.

Appearing to have decided on the topic, Kou moved even closer, like a child intending to whisper. "Mother was against me marrying Naomi, you know? Saying that she will only bring me trouble and misfortune."

Tense shoulders relaxing, Akihito shrugged and tilted the bottle of beer for another gulp. Contrary to Kou's belief, Watanabe-san's animosity towards Naomi was nothing new at all. Mentally, he started listing the instances when said woman displayed her hostility towards the bride.

"I couldn't understand her logic then, and after everything that happened, I'm still clueless as to her reasons why." A bitter laugh. "I just want them to get along. Is that too much to ask?"

'Yes,' but it was the opposite that escaped his mouth. "Not really."

A nod. "I love Naomi, you know?" This time, Kou's smile was nostalgic, his gaze deep and meaningful. "And it didn't hurt that she seems like the female version of you."

Blonde.

Gray- eyed.

Spontaneous.

And full of spunk.

Just like him.

That caused Akihito's whole body to jerk backwards, the abrupt movement sobering him up like a punch to the gut. "You're a creepy drunk, asshole." A familiar jibe, but one now accompanied by a nervous chuckle. The last thing they needed was this kind of atmosphere—brimming with sexual tension when both were inebriated, needy and drunk.

"But it's true," Kou insisted, paying no attention to Akihito's attempt of salvaging the situation, right hand reaching up on its own accord to caress the pale face, his thumb ghosting over the slightly parted lips.

Akihito was too shell-shocked to even slap the offending limb away.

The grieving almost-father focused serious eyes on his best friend, alcohol-induced mind suddenly shining with clarity. "Am I no good?"

Kou looked so tormented, his body language imploring-begging-pleading for him to accept—please, just for tonight, please!—that Akihito literally felt his mouth becoming dry and sandy, totally at loss of what to say.

Rejection would absolutely, truly and absolutely break him.

'Shit.'

And everything went downhill from there.

"Kou—"

"What are you thinking of?" The deep baritone voice seeming like a splash of hot water on his skin, Akihito stiffened within the arms caging him.

'Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.'

"Nothing." The dismissal too abrupt, it wouldn't take a genius to know he was hiding something, so when his chin was tilted up to receive a penetrating stare, he dared not resist and just obeyed.

A growl. "You look troubled." The other arm remained hovering possessively atop slim hips, the slightest movement allowing their groins to brush against each other, making his breaths hitch. "Tell me why."

Never a request, always a command.

Akihito was rendered weak whenever Asami looked at him like that—a burning gaze so powerful, so thrilling, so fascinating like sin.

It scorched him.

"I want you."

And without preamble, he grabbed the back of Asami's neck, tugging him down to wild, searing kiss, his legs hooking around the latter's waist, the obvious pressure demanding a lover's attention.

"Stop."

Yet Akihito refused to.

He knew from the lack of tongue plunging his depths that Asami had caught on what he was trying to do. However if there was one thing he learned from years of being with the other man, it was that Asami could never actually resist him.

Akihito licked Asami's ear, pink wet tongue leaving promises of more to come. "Please. Not now." As if in emphasis, he pulled the hand tipping his chin and positioned it over his throbbing member. "Tie me up, Asami."

And just like a switch, golden eyes flared.

Lust.

Passion.

Desire.

"Make me yours."

It was dirty and low of him.

But conversations could wait.

Because right now, he badly needed this man.

This man pulling him close with his large hands, stripping him bare, leather straps wounding tight—deliciously and agonizingly tight—around his body, making him even hotter than expected. This man who dominated him completely—from top to bottom, head to toe, not a bit of his pale, supple flesh left unmarked.

His moans were of pain and pleasure as he was entered roughly from behind. No preparations done save from the spit lubricating the engorged cock.

Asami understood the message—his want for raw and animalistic intensity that only Asami could provide.

The pain was a reminder, grounding him back to reality—

"All of you belong to me, Akihito. I won't expect anything less."

—and the pleasure a symbol, that whatever it was he had done, Asami would never truly hurt him.

"Because you're mine."

When Asami released inside him, but never left his side, and instead pulled him against the solid chest, one arm flung possessively around his waist, Akihito felt profound satisfaction welling up in his heart. After spending many nights at someone else's place, he realized that the most comforting-soothing-assuring thing in his world was Asami's scent and warmth.

And no one else's.

It was futile to wish for morning to never come, so he didn't bother wasting his breath and embraced a dreamless sleep—one untainted by thoughts of the three men who rendered him a difficult week.

Chang Shen-Yi.

Alexandrei Mordinov.

And now, even Watanabe Kou.

However, unbeknownst to Akihito, his dilemma was just beginning.

END OF RUBY PART 3

SCENE GUIDE:

First Scene – flashback nineteen years ago [Asami – 18, Mikhail – 16, Feilong – 11, Nuriko – late 18, Akihito – 6 ]

Second Scene – Same time as Naomi's wedding (Sunday)

Third Scene – four days after Akihito's arrival in Kyoto (Friday)

Fourth Scene – five days after Feilong's conversation with Asami (Saturday)

Fifth Scene – day after Scene 4 (Sunday)

Sixth Scene – Wednesday (dawn)

Seventh Scene – Tuesday night (Akihito's Flashback)

NOTES:

Spider tattoo (facing up) – among Russian mafia, it means an active criminal

мой друг – my friend

Boyevik – "warrior" / works for a Brigadier having a special criminal activity to run. A Boyevik is in charge of finding new guys and paying tribute up to his Brigadier.

Byki - bodyguards (literally: bulls)

Shestyorka – an "associate" to the organization also called the "sixth; an errand boy for the organization and is the lowest rank in the Russian Mafia

Madonna and her Child (St Mary and the infant Jesus Christ) – indicates a criminal lifestyle from a young age.

Polonium occurs naturally in uranium ores, but at extremely small concentrations. Arbatov (through Naumov) mined them from Siberia. The Mordinovs have a different approach. They mined Bismuth in the Ural Mountains instead since polonium can be created by bombarding bismuth with neutrons.

Trakhatʹ suka – Fucking bitch

Some of the dialogue in the mine scene was from the movie Expendables 2… so nope, those amazing lines ARE NOT MINE. All rights reserved to its awesome scriptwriter. =)

The news report (2nd paragraph) was patterned after an article I've read online. Russia: Monarchist Nostalgia Remains Powerful by Victor Gasman.

Kou is suffering from a Y-chromosome microdeletion. It occurs more frequently in infertile men, and well, he was one of the exceptions. Female fetuses(XX) from a father with a Y-chromosome deletion have no increased risk of congenital abnormalities compared to male fetuses(XY).

In this universe, the forensic DNA testing on the alleged Romanov remains discovered in 2007 never happened.

It was Boris Yudkovich's mutilated body that was sent to Feilong.

Questions, comments and constructive criticisms are welcomed. XD