The dragon 3 ambw mafia.., p.1
The Dragon 3: AMBW Mafia Romance (Tokyo Empire), page 1
The Dragon 3
Kenya Wright
Copyright © 2025 by Kenya Wright
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
Prologue
Where Worship Turns to War
Kenji
I’d spent my whole life believing I didn’t need saving. Thinking that love was for fools, that softness got you killed.
But when my cock sank deep into Nyomi, I wasn’t just inside her body, I existed within the very place where she kept her fear.
Her fire.
Her surrender.
She was wet in a way that didn’t feel physical. It felt emotional, like her body had wept openly for me, called to me, prepared itself for my sensual brutality and offered something better.
Belonging.
Her pussy clung to my cock in slick, merciless perfection. But it wasn’t just pleasure, it was clarity. The sort of clarity that was so sharp it could cut through every lie I’d ever told myself.
With every thrust, the wars I’d fought fell away.
The blood I’d spilled.
The rules I’d written in corpses.
None of it meant a goddamn thing compared to the rhythm of her body dragging me deeper into her belonging.
I hadn’t known until that moment that I was starving. That all the power, money, and death hadn’t touched the ache that lived in the walls of my soul.
I hadn’t realized I was empty until I met her.
Yet, she filled me. And for a man who’d only ever known how to take, her filling my soul was the most dangerous thing of all. Because, what we shared wasn’t just sex; it was a slow evisceration.
Her pussy split me open and made erotic violence twist inside me so much that I wanted to lock her to a bed, bind her in my enemies’ blood, and make her wear my last name as a collar.
I’d ruled this Tokyo empire with a steady hand and slit throats without blinking, but inside her, I was utterly submissive.
I was her servant.
Her body didn’t make me feel powerful.
It made me feel fated.
And now?
Now I would kill any man who looked at her for too long.
And, if she ever tried to escape me, I wouldn’t chase her. I would burn down every city she ran to, turn borders to bonfires, and when there was nothing left but smoke. . .I would build her cage from ashes.
That was the fury I carried in my bones when I walked out of the room to deal with whoever had attempted to ruin my perfect date.
They dared to fucking interrupt us?
“Her moans were still trapped in my jaw, vibrating through my teeth when I clenched them.
Who will I kill tonight?
My chest was bare, skin gleaming with sweat.
I hadn’t even bothered to wipe the evidence of Nyomi’s wet pussy from my mouth. I walked out with that slickness on my lips. I wanted them to see it. To smell it. To know I’d just worshipped at my Tiger’s altar and returned as a God.
I will rip their fucking hearts out of their chests.
Her scent was still on my skin—black amber and ripe plum. Now blood would be the third note to form a holy trinity.
If my enemies had hoped to kill a man caught vulnerable, they had miscalculated. I wasn’t vulnerable. I was vibrating with bloodlust.
The door shut behind me with a whisper, and the hallway met me like a stage awaiting the final act.
I closed my eyes for one heartbeat.
Just one.
Then I opened them—and the god in me woke hungry.
I looked around the massive, long corridor.
What do we have here?
The space reeked of blood, gunpowder, and the sharp tang of betrayal.
Carnage was everywhere.
Further down and at the end of the corridor, my men—those who had lived—were forming a wide perimeter and staring at something in front of them.
They must have kept some of these bastards alive. Good.
Blood slicked the wooden floors. One of our young guards had been slumped against the corner with his throat neatly sliced. Blood spattered the walls. A few of the paintings had been shredded with blades.
Another body lay two feet away.
Not one of mine.
His suit was custom—gray wool, hand-stitched with Kyoto silk. No tattoos. No Dragon ink. No Fang or Eye marks. His boots weren’t ours either—clean, imported, too polished for a soldier meant to bleed.
But bleed he had.
Badly.
I stepped closer, tilting my head as I studied him.
The body was twisted—left leg tucked under unnaturally, neck at a sickening angle, like it had been halfway snapped but not enough to kill him right away.
His right eye socket was sunken, caved in from blunt force. His jaw was dislocated. His neck bruised with the shape of fingers
His lips were peeled back like he’d been screaming, yet his tongue had been severed mid-scream.
Oh. Reo did that.
My Roar hated screams. He grew up with them, right behind doors that never stayed locked long enough. Screams that tore through paper walls and haunted futons. Screams that sounded like his mother’s voice and never came with rescue.
Therefore in a battle, if Reo could slice off the man’s tongue first, he would, with no hesitation.
I took a few steps forward and stopped.
A dead man waited two feet away—half-splayed against the railing of the staircase. His skull caved in from a single, swift strike.
Kaoru’s work.
I didn’t even need to look at the body’s posture to know. It was the elegance of the wound—blunt trauma delivered at an angle meant to preserve the face while liquifying the brain.
Efficient.
Intimate.
Beautiful.
Kaoru’s Colt .45 was more for show. Death came from his hands.
My men were busy this evening.
The next corpse lay curled against the foot of a toppled bonsai display, mouth open, blood pooled from both ears. No signs of trauma.
He died from poison. Rin must have done that.
I took three steps forward.
To the left, an entire section of the wall had been splashed in arterial spray and a body was pinned to it with four knives in an X formation. One knife through the sternum. Another through the thigh. Two more through the hands.
Execution, not combat.
Satoshi killed him.
I continued forward.
Yoichi’s victim appeared next—a man folded over with a perfect hole through the temple. The entry wound was clean. The exit wound, not so much.
Hmmm.
There had to be more dead men in the building. If this was what the second floor looked like, then the first level must’ve been a banquet of blood—bodies collapsed between dining chairs, limbs draped over broken tables, lungs punctured and crushed. Blood pooling across those polished floors.
The deeper I walked into the blood-soaked corridor, the heavier my thoughts became.
Someone has betrayed me. Who could the traitor be?
These assassins knew about the dinner. The location. The timing. The fact that I would be unreachable for hours, distracted, exposed. Only a handful of people had that information. Even Reo hadn’t told the Eyes and Fangs where we would be. They’d been rerouted here only when the moment demanded it.
But this ambush?
It had required coordination. Maps. Timing. Patience. At least several hours of planning—maybe more.
They knew about the location before I fucking knew.
My jaw clenched.
I didn’t want to think Hiroko could be the traitor. But the idea clawed at me. She was the only one outside my core who'd been left with full access to this space—who’d walked freely through the halls, probably shared drinks with my men, and taught my Tiger how to leash me with silk words.
Could it be Hiroko?
I didn’t want it to be. Fuck—I needed it not to be. Because if it were, I’d have to kill her myself. I’d have to slit her throat in front of every Fang and every Eye and let her blood pool at my feet just to remind all what betrayal cost.
One thing I knew for certain, Reo would never betray me. He had walked through fire for me. Burned his past. Burned his future. He had taken bullets meant for me and stitched himself back together with rage alone.
I could leave my back open in a room full of knives if Reo was behind me.
But the others? I didn’t know. And that uncertainty—it was a slow, sick poison leaking into my chest.
Suddenly, a wet, choking sound scraped against the corridor’s walls.
I turned in that direction.
A man in his thirties—bare-chested, soaked in blood and piss—was dragging himself across the stone floor like a slug through slaughter. His body left a smeared trail of filth.
“P-please. Please. I didn’t know. They lied to me. I am just the driver. I swear. . .”
A driver made it to this level? How is that possible?
One leg shook behind him, not fully broken, but ruined beyond use. The other arm shook under his weight, wrist wobbling, the elbow locking, muscles misfiring from fear and pain.
But it was his other hand—his right—that drew my eye.
Clenched
Too tight.
Blood crusted his knuckles. Callused skin. Scar tissue rode the ridge of each finger like armor. I’d seen hands like that cave in skulls in back-alley rings and drive steel into ribcages with laughter.
He was no driver.
He was a man who fought for money, for blood, or for the sheer joy of breaking bones. And now he reached for my bare ankle with that same filthy hand.
I stepped back.
“I have a daughter.” His lips trembled. Snot bubbled from his nose. “I-I didn’t shoot anyone. My daughter is only—”
“If you want to save her, give me names. Now.”
He shook his head. “I don’t know anything.”
“Wrong answer.” I stepped forward and brought my barefoot down on his sternum. Bone to bone. The crack that echoed around us was beautiful.
He folded like rotted paper, spine slamming into stone. “Argh!”
That’s when I saw it.
His right hand, the one he’d kept clenched—wasn’t shaking from pain. It was holding a knife. He hadn’t been begging. He’d been waiting to stab me with it.
A killer is always a killer to the end.
I snatched the knife from his hand. “Was this for me?”
“I-I didn’t—”
“Don’t waste your breath” I used his blade on him.
The first slice was an arc through air, clean and brutal. It took off his left ear like it was never meant to be there.
He howled and his hand shot to the side of his head as blood sprayed the wall.
Fast, I grabbed a fistful of his hair—wet, greasy, slick with blood—and yanked his head back so hard his spine popped.
He thrashed and spat. “No! No! Please!!”
I didn’t answer. Didn’t blink. Didn’t waste words on liars. I drove the blade up beneath his jaw. The steel pierced the soft spot behind his chin and kept going—through tongue, through palate, through sin and intention.
A second later, my Eyes were next to me, watching and silently waiting.
His scream turned into a wet, gurgling rattle as the blade pushed higher, until the tip of it punched through the nasal cavity.
His eyes went wide.
His lips moved, but it was too late for prayers.
I twisted the blade.
His body spasmed like a puppet cut from its strings.
Then I yanked it free.
He crumpled.
Blood spreading.
Limbs twitching.
I dropped the knife. It fell to the floor. Then, I wiped my hands on my pants and looked at my Eyes. “What happened?”
Itsuki spoke first, “Over fifty men took over the building. We killed pretty much everyone.”
“Who told them the location?”
Arata sighed. “Reo is working on that now.”
I stepped over the dead man and headed off.
My Eyes followed.
Outside of the building, a fresh round of gunfire boomed through the air like thunder splitting the block open. Sharp and merciless. The windows rattled. Glass trembled in their frames. Somewhere below, something heavy crashed hard against the building.
The fight hadn’t died down.
It was escalating.
I could hear it in the rhythm of the shots—tight groupings, return fire, someone screaming.
They were pushing inward from every angle. Vehicles probably had rammed the back alley gates. The perimeter would be splintering.
We’re probably surrounded. Damn it.
Terror surged through me.
I wasn’t worried for myself. Let them come. Let them stack bodies at my feet until the hallways clogged with the dead. I would kill until the barrels melted, until my fists split open and the bones in my hands showed.
But Nyomi?
My Tiger.
For a breath, I saw her again. The way she’d looked up at me several minutes ago—flushed, laughing, her voice still hoarse from moaning my name. The air around her had been peace.
And now that peace was dead, gutted on this floor.
I could keep her safe—of that, I had no doubt. But I couldn’t stop her from knowing.
From seeing.
From realizing the dragon she’d tamed had never lived in a castle but a kingdom of corpses.
She was near, her body still trembling from the way I’d worshipped it, and I hated that this was what would follow our amazing night—the sound of war erupting.
I bared my teeth into a snarl.
Who the fuck is to blame for this?
For these next days, I had planned to give her nothing but diamonds, champagne, long mornings tangled in silk bedsheets, and my tongue on her pussy.
Goddamn it.
Even worse, there was another complication in the mix.
Please don’t let Hiro hear about this.
Even with so many after us right now, I knew we could get out. My men weren’t just trained—they were bred for this. Reo had already prepped the building for at least five different ways out. Add the fact that my Fangs didn’t bleed easy and my Eyes saw every angle before it formed, and there would be no one that could stop us tonight.
But none of that mattered if Hiro found out about this.
He’d just buried Nura. His grief was raw. If he caught even a whisper of what was happening right now, he would come.
With the Claws.
With his swords and guns.
With his heart torn open and ready to die for me without even thinking of the fact that we would be fine.
Fuck.
I could already see Hiro bursting through the front entrance, barefoot in blood, wild-eyed and too quiet. Shirtless. Still smelling like the whiskey he was currently using to drown Nura’s memory. Screaming in rage with a lollipop clenched between his teeth.
He would fight everyone and give no thought to his own safety.
Damn it.
After Jobon’s and my mother’s death, I couldn’t lose Hiro too.
This had to end now.
Clean.
Fast.
Total annihilation within the next hour.
Before the calls started, and Hiro discovered what was going on.
Tick. Fucking. Tock.
Chapter one
A Language of Pain
Kenji
I reached the rest of my men. All of them were battered, bruised, and coated in blood that wasn’t theirs.
In front of them, Reo kneeled over someone in the center. My Roar’s knuckles were split and stained. His glasses were gone, and a cut sliced across his eyebrow. Yet his spine was straight and his hands methodical as he tortured a huge man lying on the ground.
I took in the other five bound people beyond them.
Good. They kept several alive.
My fingers itched to kill more.
They better have some fucking answers to my questions.
The five assassins were roped and bound to chairs—each one slumped, bloodied, and trembling in the aftershock of failure. But it wasn’t regular rope that held them.
Reo and our men had clearly grabbed whatever was around them. Whips had been used to lash their torsos to the chairs. Coiled floggers wrapped like serpents across their chests.
One man’s arms had been strapped behind him with a braided red shibari rope, the knots tight and expertly placed, biting into the flesh.
Another had his ankles spread and locked to the chair legs with leather cuffs torn straight from a display cross.
A thick O-ring gag had been shoved between a third assassin’s teeth. Blood drooled down from the corners of his mouth.
One man’s face was swollen and purple, and I spotted the broken handle of a riding crop stabbed into his thigh. Blood seeped around the silicone shaft.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I put my view back on my Roar.
The assassin’s left hand was pinned under Reo’s knee. A blade glinted in Reo’s right hand.
“This man. . .” Reo stared at the five assassins and then gestured to the flayed body beside him, flicking blood from his fingertips. “He will be a prelude. A visual aid. Something to set the tone for us. A way for you all to understand my current state of mind.”
Kaoru snickered.
Yoichi and Satoshi went over, lowered to the ground, and held the man still for my Roar.
“Allow me to show you all what I mean.” Reo nodded toward the bound assassins, then turned back to his work with the cold grace of a man performing surgery. His blade kissed the assassin’s cheek and then he sank the sharp edge an inch deep.
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