Yakuza Cleaner Novels & Stories

he said with a wink. Petrov cleared his throat, his expression shifting back to the sharp, businesslike demeanor I knew so well. “I’ve already paid the Cleaners,” he said, his voice dropping low. “The Cleaners?” Tony asked, glancing between us. “You know,” I said, my tone flat, “the people who make problems disappear. Messes, bodies, evidence—they handle it all.” Petrov nodded, his face grim. “They’re taking care of the scene with Danzo. No trace left behind. But that’s not all.”

As the buzz-cut man shifted his coat, the matte flank of a compact SMG flashed. “YK8,” Jake murmured. “Top-of-the-line. Lightweight. Fast. These guys are hunting something.” The bathroom door banged. A skinny man in office blues stumbled out—face pale, eyes wrong, body wired tight. The bald operator stood in one fluid motion. “EVERYONE DOWN!” he roared, swinging the YK8 up. The skinny man twitched, throat rumbling into something inhuman. Jake shoved Kim and Jane under the table. “Down—now!”

They always used hushed tones to avoid Hibiki hearing them, and I guess they used Japanese so dad wouldn’t understand them and know what nefarious things they are plotting. “I still can’t believe it.” I shook my head as I focused on my game of Overwatch. “I’m telling you it’s true. She told me herself. Yūri was a Yakuza. A legend in her youth.” Forrest said, taking down an Ana from the opposing team. “Somehow, it doesn’t surprise me. You’ve seen that look in her eyes when she talks about taking out Ryōta. That’s the look of someone who’s taken a life.” Darius shrugged as his character took down an Orisa.

Couldn't clean the body anymore. I guess he's too tired today.

Well, well… this changes everything. I stood at my office window overlooking Manhattan’s magnificent skyline, like a predator examining his territory. Except that it wasn’t completely mine yet. Not until Alexander was out of the way. My phone buzzed. Without looking, I responded. “Speak.” “The Yakuza want their balance by month’s end,” came the chilly voice of Kenji, my contact in Tokyo. “Or they’ll take what you love most.” I clinched my teeth, squeezing the phone closer. “I said I’d have it.”

Andreas introduces me, and this is where they turn around. The Eastern scents now made sense to me; they’re Japanese. The older male steps forward; he looks perfectly polished in an expensive suit, but I can sense a danger about him even as he tries to hide his tattoos: the slicked-back salt and pepper hair, the scars on the side of his face and knuckles. This man is Yakuza; I can tell by the way he tries to shoulder the weapons strapped to him. “Fenriz Vega, it is a pleasure to meet you finally.” He says in perfect English with a faint Kanto accent and steps forward with his arm outstretched. “Kaen Tsukishima.”

I stand over him, breathing hard, as four Yakuza soldiers come rushing over from the bar with guns leveled. I stare at them and show my teeth. Their leader, a man named Bob Tanaka, shakes his head. "You're a fucking mess, Khazan." "If you had left a gun like I wanted, this would've been cleaner." "Guns are loud. Look at my carpet! What a goddamn mess." "I need to wash my hands." "Yeah, yeah." Bob waves me away. "Go take care of yourself. Ah, what a fucking wreck." He barks orders in Japanese to his soldiers as I return to the back room.

He yelled at the cleaners, “Who arranged for you to come over for cleaning? Don’t you know it’s the vice chairman’s working hours now? Get out of here! All of you are fired. You don’t have to come again.” The secretary spoke quite ruthlessly, but none of the cleaners went out. While the secretary and Bernard felt puzzled, some footsteps were heard before a rough-looking cleaner walked in. As soon as he entered, he said, “Mr. Vedastus, I’m sorry for not informing you before coming to clean your office. Please forgive us.” Why did the voice sound so familiar? Bernard looked at the cleaner with the rough appearance. The cleaner took off his cap, raised his head, and stared Bernard in the eyes.

The first time I allowed myself to feel, it nearly destroyed me silly. I need some shit to distract me. I turn back to my laptop, pulling up an email I had to act on. Three images appear on the screen. The first shows Mr. La Rosa, Cara’s father, standing beside a Japanese man whose attire and demeanor scream Yakuza. A Japanese mafia. The second captures Mr. La Rosa again. But this time, handing a file to a man. The emblem on the man’s jacket gives him away as a member of the Gambino family. They were known rivals of the La Rosa empire but it seems they are working together now.

Others with thinly veiled resentment. I didn’t care either way. I adjusted my cufflinks, the crisp linen of my tailored suit a stark contrast to the filth of this place. I wasn’t here to blend in. I was here to hunt. And my prey sat right in front of me. Takeshi Sato. He was a Yakuza associate. Greedy, sloppy and weak. The bastard was drowning in liquor, his arm draped around a half-dressed woman who laughed at something he said, even though the light in her eyes was long gone. He hadn’t noticed me yet.