Welcome to the Family

The cigarette was draped in his fingers, the ash slowly building as he didn’t tap it out into the ashtray. Smoke curled lazily in the dark of the bar, a low chatter permeated the atmosphere around them. The Italian man looked at his son, the slim features of the boy’s face mimicked a westernised version of his wife, and back to the man that sat in the booth opposite him. 

“He can’t join us if he doesn’t have a speciality.” The boy was watching the man who wasn’t his father, his large brown eyes taking in his weathered skin and wrinkles, “So, what is your son’s speciality?” 

Sam placed the cigarette in the corner of his mouth again, filling his lungs with a drag of the poison smoke. “Kenshi is good with a knife.” 

The boy, a teen that was slim from malnourishment his entire life, looked back at his father. His Japanese features were more pronounced here in the half-gloom of the club. He nodded, turning back to face the man who’d asked the question in the first place. “I can use a knife.” 

An eyebrow was raised as the large man, the towering beast filled a large amount of the booth, slipped his hand into his pocket. He left a small amount of space in the booth that was split unevenly between Kenshi and his father. The beast of a man looked at the teen, “What do you mean use a knife?” 

His meaty hand fished a penknife from his pocket; it was a black wood handle ringed at the top and bottom with silver, a slit of metal ran down the centre of the wood. In the murky light of the bar, the silver glistened. The man put it down on the table. 

“I gave this to my son when he turned of age,” his voice was soft and low, threatening almost, “I gave him this penknife, asked him to learn how to use it. He tried, for a while. He even got good at it, but he was ripped from me by an old business partner.”

A glance was thrown at Sam now, “Someone I trusted, someone I even loved, took him from me.” The large man shook his head, sliding the knife along the table, “But you can have it, if you can prove to me that you, little boy, will be useful to me.” 

Reaching out a shaking hand, Kenshi took the knife from the table. There was a small indent where the button for the knife blade was, he pressed it with the most delicate of touches. A sharp blade, only a few inches long, sprang out at him like a viper. The thin blade glinted in the coloured lighting, making Kenshi feel like he could cut through the air itself. The balance of the blade in his hand was perfect, it settled perfectly into the palm of his hand. 

“I won’t let you down, Sir. What do you want me to do?” 

Sam took another drag on his cigarette, reaching the final drag and stubbing the butt out against the metal of the ashtray. His body language was tense, he was watching his boss’ face carefully. The other man wasn’t paying attention to him and was instead laser-focused on the boy’s eyes. 

“I need you to kill the man that killed my son.”

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Kenshi hefted the weight of the knife in his hand, feeling the smooth cold wood and metal contraption warm up against his skin. His father had said several times that this was a bad idea, that he would break his mother’s heart, but it was the only thing he could do now. He was uneducated, unemployed and there were bills that had to be paid. 

The man he was meant to kill, the mark, was sat in his office. He was chatting to the receptionist at the office, just on the other side of the frosted glass window. Kenshi could see through parts of the pattern that the man was younger than Kenshi thought he would be; he was a young-looking man to start with, but his face was unlined by age which Kenshi hadn’t expected. 

A car drove past, the noise shocking Kenshi almost out of his skin. His heart was hammering in his chest, the weight of the penknife in his hand was more than he thought any man could carry. As he shut his eyes, he recalled the sight of his mother leaning over the kitchen table, counting pennies to find enough money to get him into school. She hadn’t found enough, although she had tried. She’d halved their already meagre groceries budget, promising to make more American and Italian food instead of her usual Japanese faire, but even that hadn’t been enough to get him through school. 

Kenshi tightened his fist around the switchblade and pulled his hood up, slipping into the all-but-forgotten alley next to the building. He’d been here the day before and discovered it was the perch of the smokers and his target – the word still meant nothing to him – was a chain smoker. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and unwrapped them, pulling the plastic from the packaging. Without a moment of hesitation, he put it into his mouth and lit the cigarette, the spark was warm against his cupped hand. 

The fire door behind him creaked open and the target walked out, already flicking the flint of his lighter. He grinned at the boy, “Enjoying your smoke break?” 

Kenshi nodded, “Yeah, I’m down in the basement,” where had that come from? He was lying, like it was natural, “It’s nice to get upstairs and actually see the sun.” 

“Ah,” the mark nodded, “I spend my time up in the penthouse, so I like to get back down to earth and see what real people are doing.” He laughed to himself, sending jolts of electricity up Kenshi’s spine. 

It took him a second to remember why he was here; he was meant to kill this man. Somehow. With the knife was the most sensible thing, he was meant to prove he was good with a knife. This meant he would have to… Oh God. 

The target stepped down from the stairs and stood next to Kenshi. He lowered his voice conspiratorially, “I know he sent you. I know everyone that works here, but I don’t know your face.” 

Kenshi tensed up, his entire body became rigid for less than a heartbeat. The movements he made were thoughtless, careless even. The cigarette in his hand was dropped, instead that hand was brought up to pull the mark’s head down and backwards. His body was fluid it its movements as the penknife in his hand contacted the soft flesh between the target’s ribs. 

Blood began filling the mark’s lungs, a soft wheeze escaped his lips. He couldn’t call out or cry for help; one of Kenshi’s hands was wrapped around the target’s mouth, pulling his head down to Kenshi’s shoulder, while the other twisted the knife and tore more flesh open. 

The cigarette was crushed underfoot. Stupid. He might get caught if they decide to search for DNA. But there were a lot of other cigarette butts, probably smoked recently, did it really matter? 

Kenshi took the weight of the body as the life left it. He pulled the blade out of the man’s lung and closed it with one hand while dropping the body to the floor unceremoniously. The hand with the knife in it was slipped back into his pocket as he left the crime scene as quickly as he could. 

He wasn’t just good with a knife, he was going to be the best.