The Dragon 3 – Tokyo Empire Read Online Kenya Wright

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Insta-Love Tags Authors: Kenya Wright Advertisement1

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Every now and then, I spotted small animal heads placed delicately on roofs too—some shaped like a fox, others carved into dragon heads with curved horns and gold-tipped teeth. I did catch a lion head here and there, but it was mainly dragons and foxes.

Territory markers?

It was too much to absorb. I was still cataloguing the sprawl when the sound of my heels clicked against the marble floor.

Everything slowed.

Conversations faded.

Cigars hovered midair.

Heads turned.

And then—all eyes found me.

Dozens of them.

Hardened men in designer dark suits and holstered guns. Some seated at steel desks with blueprints and open laptops. Others lined along the display, even bigger guns strapped to their hips.

And they were all now looking at me.

Alright. Here we go.

My breasts bounced with each step.

One guy’s cigar fell from his mouth and landed on the marble with a soft hiss.

I swayed my hips.

A few feet away, a man stood with his headset still clinging to his ears. His eyes were glassy and open. . .but barely. He swayed where he stood, blinking in slow, heavy drags like each second was a wave trying to pull him under. But when he caught me walking by. . .it was like someone had shot expresso into his veins. He sat up in his seat and damn near began to drool.

Another was seated on a crate of ammo, elbows resting on his knees, head down like it weighed too much to hold up. His lids fluttered, fighting gravity, and I could see the tension in his jaw as he tried—desperately—to stay awake. And the same response came, he saw me and suddenly came awake.

Not a single man in this room looked like they’d slept, yet when they got their gazes on me, they appeared fully rested.

Alright. Mission accomplished. I am definitely making an entrance.

I put my view back on the massive 3D display of Tokyo.

Another man spotted me and his hand trembled as he knocked over a tiny fox head he’d just placed on a rooftop. It clinked down and rolled into the miniature version of Shinjuku.

I didn’t falter.

I kept walking.

Every step I took sent echoes through that marble chamber—cutting across war talk, slicing through smoke, and disrupting everyone’s focus.

The hush that followed me wasn’t just awe.

It was uncertainty.

Maybe even craving.

Not one of those men had ever seen a woman in this room, especially not a Black woman. And damned sure not like this, sexy outfit, heels high, head held high.

I loved this feeling of erotic power over them.

It was chemical.

Utterly primal.

I could feel the shift ripple through the space—the way one man’s pulse jumped so hard he knocked over a stack of blueprints. Another dropped a clip of bullets.

These weren’t gangsters now.

They were horny boys in the presence of their Queen.

Now I get Kenji’s rule of no women and children in the war room. Especially for the female side of that rule.

Before I walked in, his men might have been planning the next phase of war, but now. . . they were memorizing the bounce of my breasts. I didn’t need to say a word.

I didn’t need a seat at the table.

I was the reason they couldn’t focus on the fucking table anymore.

But beneath all that illusion, I was thinking about something else.

Something softer.

Something scarier.

Looking sexy was fine, and making them turn heads was cool too, but how do I really make a difference during this war? How do I care for men who kill for a living? Who smoke through pain, gamble with death, and barely sleep between bomb strikes?

Even more important, how do I take care of the Dragon?

Hiroko’s voice echoed in my head again:

“A room full of powerful men is just a room full of little boys who were never properly loved.”

Now that I was finally in the belly of the beast—this war room full of weapons, testosterone, and wounded pride—I finally understood what Hiroko meant.

I didn’t need to walk in here with battle plans.

I didn’t need to understand all the dragon/fox heads, the black X’s on the 3D buildings, or movement of his men.

Mafia strategy wasn’t my weapon.

I had other tools.

Things every Black woman I knew carried in her arsenal—sometimes in her purse, sometimes in her eyes, sometimes in her voice.

Weapons of softness.

Tools of healing.

Magic born in kitchens and braided into childhood hair.

So I continued forward through this ball room of testosterone, war strategy, and killers. . .and I thought about what I would do if these men were mine. What would go down if I was their boss.

First? Feed them.

Not just food—but nourishment. Soul food. The kind that coated the belly and told the body and mind that it was safe to exhale. Greens with smoked turkey. Mac and cheese with five cheeses and that crispy top. Candied yams that melted in the mouth. Honey cornbread with a soft middle and crunchy edges.


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