Chapter Text
The woman hanging off his arm claims to be a guest of the South American Cartel, but as the party enters its third hour, Hanzo heavily suspects she may actually be a tengu . She hasn’t extracted her talons from the flesh of his forearm since they were introduced, and her efforts to try and drag him into isolated places has not gone unnoticed. Out of concern of his own safety, Hanzo is thankful that there are so many people at this gathering; it gives her less opportunity to whisk him away on inky wings and drop him on top of a mountain.
“Shimada-san,” She crows, and Hanzo barely manages to suppress the shudder running through his body. There aren’t even mountains in Santorini, so maybe she’ll drop him into the sea instead. “Have you heard that the our gracious host is remarrying yet again?” She’s referring to the Godfather of the Greek Mafia, who called this meeting in the first place. A gathering of the greatest criminal minds in the world, he’d proclaimed. “It will be his fourth wife in as many years!”
The table they’re seated at ripples with interest as this new piece of gossip surfaces. A Russian representative smiles widely as he says, “I hear that the reason is because all his wives refuse to bear him children.” He takes a sip of wine out of a crystal glass. “But at some point, one must wonder if it is more to do with him.”
Hanzo doesn’t care about this gossip. He’s the Shimada oyabun , and any information that’s relevant at all is already available to him through the best spy network in the world, the Dragon’s Coils. Shimada-gumi may not be as wealthy as the South Americans; they may not have the military strength of the Russians, or the political sway of Vishkar. But what they do have is information, spies in every organization, and international manipulation. And that’s why he’s here, getting the life leeched out of his body by a woman whose fingers are too long and bony to be human.
The tengu gossips about publicity marriages and outward appearances. Hanzo already knows that the Godfather has several children, all mothered by women of such low status they wouldn’t be allowed to clean his floors. But let them discuss among themselves surface-level developments as if they’re news - discretion has always been his greatest form of control, and control is a skill that Hanzo has honed since he was a child.
But regrettably, the conversation suddenly shifts to him. The tengu bats her eyelashes but Hanzo can only really focus on her enormous nose. It's well known that kitsune have a hard time hiding their tails, and tengu have a hard time hiding their beaks.
“Shimada-san,” she says, “What about you? I’ve heard you’ve never been married, and that’s just as strange for a man with your looks and power.”
Hanzo has long practiced this response, but the question doesn’t annoy him any less. “Among Yakuza, divorce is considered very dishonorable. When you marry, you must be sure that your spouse is a lifelong partner.” The American mobster across the table nods in acknowledgement. Hanzo’s eyes gleam and he resists the urge to smirk, because this next part is always fun. “Of course, it also means marrying into the Yakuza can be very dangerous. Divorce is dishonorable, so many families consider an… alternate course of action. It is not uncommon for unwanted spouses to be found in ditches or forests, the circumstances of their death shrouded in mystery.”
The tengu on his arm shivers and somehow tightens her already-iron grip. Hanzo can feel the blood being cut off to his hand and regrets the second half of his explanation. “Shimada-san!” She screeches, and Hanzo’s right ear rings in the aftermath, “That’s scary!”
Before he can snap at her, the mobster interjects. “It’s all right Ms. Camilla, I’m sure it’s nothing but gangster humor,” he says, smiling. He looks to Hanzo. It takes all of Hanzo’s discipline to smile stiffly and nod back at him, even though he wants to fall through the floor and into the basement. Though judging from her talons on his arm, the tengu would just fall with him.
Honestly, Hanzo hadn’t even wanted to attend the party. His original plan had been to fly in early tomorrow morning, arriving an hour before the negotiations were scheduled to begin. But somehow his advisors had managed to convince him that attending the social function of the party would curry favor with the other leaders and their representatives. He’s still not sure how they got him to agree. Maybe he should hire less convincing advisors.
Hanzo needs a damn break. The tengu unlatches from his arm to make an exaggerated hand gesture as she’s telling a story, and he takes the opportunity to abandon the table and flee to the unused upstairs floor.
<><><>
Nighttime in Santorini is surprisingly quiet. Hanzo takes a deep breath of saltwater air as he steps onto the balcony. The warm breeze reminds him of walking along a grove of olive trees, branches heavy with dark specks of glistening fruit, or of plucking plump grapes from their vines, their sweet juice turning into wine on his tongue. The sea in Japan smells of industry and commerce; the sea in Greece smells of conquest and history, an ancient ebb and flow that has witnessed countless civilizations and leaders crumble into dust.
A cat, coat white and pristine, jumps on the balcony’s waist-high ledge. Hanzo has heard of Santorini’s infamous strays, but this cat is too plump to be anything but pampered. It probably belongs to his host, and was almost certainly napping in the dark room Hanzo had just emerged from.
Hanzo reaches out to pet it, and the cat turns its head away from his touch. Such a haughty thing! Now he’s positive it’s well cared-for, but he can’t help but let out a small huff of equal amounts amusement and annoyance.
“Your master bowed to me in greeting when I first arrived,” he chides the cat in Japanese. “Yet you won’t deign to be pet, when I have found you worthy of my attention? Arrogant little thing.”
The cat doesn’t even bother looking at him; it’s staring at its paws. Hanzo reaches out again and it dodges him once more, moving just outside his reach, fluffy tail flicking in the air. Vaguely, Hanzo wonders if this is a bad portent for tomorrow’s negotiations.
“Don’t be stubborn,” he says again. He takes a step forward but then freezes, staring at the cat. It hadn’t been looking at its paws; it had been staring down from the balcony, and the motion of its tail was not out of irritation, but warning.
Hanzo squints down the side of the balcony, but it’s too dark to make out anything against the amorphous blob of blue-domed buildings. There’s a bit of light coming from the downstairs party, and the sky is clear with a luminous moon, but against the backdrop of the sea and the rocks on the cliff, it’s not enough.
Maybe the cat’s just being moody. Maybe there’s nothing there. Hanzo strains his ears for anything that might be out of place - the pull on a rope, the rustle of cloth, the scrabble of shoes against the wall, but the only thing he hears is the muted murmur of the party downstairs, and the quiet roar of the sea.
Hanzo reminds himself that in the eyes of trained assassins, he is a high-value target. He’s never been caught by surprise before, and he won’t be caught now. If there was someone trained well enough to sneak up on Hanzo Shimada, they would be within the Dragon's Coils, and he'd know of them by now.
He steps away from the balcony and starts to scold the cat for scaring him, when a pair of gloved hands grabs the balcony railing and, in a quick flash, a figure pulls himself up onto the ledge. Hanzo snaps around and reaches for his gun, but his hand at his hip grasps only at the bottom of his coat. That’s right - he was disarmed when he entered the mansion. Which means his defenses right now are purely martial.
Unfortunately, his attacker hasn’t come unarmed, and as Hanzo remembers his pistol being taken from him, the thin barrel of a revolver gets pressed against his lips.
“Don’t make me shoot that pretty face o’ yours, darlin’,” says the man. His voice is like rough leather, his words drawn out like a cat stretching.
Hanzo has little choice but to remain silent. But from the way his attacker worded it, it doesn’t seem like he’s an assassin after all? The man’s had plenty of opportunity to kill him, if that was the end goal, but instead he’s just standing there, staring. Hanzo can’t make out too many features, but he sees a cloak wrapped around the left side of his body. A scarf covers most of his face; a mask obscures his eyes. A hat hides his hair; all in all, the intruder almost looks like a character out of American comic books.
“Now, much as I’m inclined to, I can’t stay here all night with ya. I’ve got a job to do, too. But I can’t be lettin’ ya get in my way, either. So I’ll make you a deal. You give me ten minutes after I let you go before ya start raisin’ the alarms, and I don’t knock you out and tie you to the bed. Nod twice if ya follow.”
Hanzo nods, his chin dipping up and down less than a centimeter. Then he does it again, and the man seems satisfied.
“Always could count on that Japanese honor. Thank ya kindly, darlin’, see ya back at the party in ten.”
The intruder tips his hat, and his left arm glints in the moonlight. Some kind of armor? No, a prosthetic - upon closer inspection, Hanzo can see the metal connectors, the segmented joints. Big mistake. If he’s planning to blend in at the party, that arm will be a dead giveaway.
Before he can memorize all the details, the intruder has slipped into the darkness of the room and out into the second floor hall. Hanzo gives him ten minutes, as promised, because he’s still unarmed and the man has a revolver that could take his jaw out with one shot. But when those ten minutes are up he rushes back to the main room of the party, staring over the second-floor balcony to the ballroom below.
What he’s looking for is the gleam of a metal arm, a hat, any odd movement that would indicate a concealed gun, anything. But either his eyesight is getting weaker in his old age, or the intruder is particularly good at blending in. In the constant movement of the ballroom dance floor, he doesn’t have a clue who the intruder might be.
Hanzo silently curses his inattention and licks his dry lips. He can still hear the rough leather texture of that voice in his ears, and he can still taste the tang of metal on his lips.