Enough

“Anyone who thinks the so called gangster lifestyle is glamorous should take a look at Noki Sato and see otherwise.” The Chief of Police was stating on TV.

Hundreds of cameras jostled for position and flash bulbs cracked off as I was pictured leaving the precinct earlier this morning.

Like rabid baying animals, fangs and all, the journalists showed no mercy, shoving and pushing, trying to get through my well-paid blockade of bodyguards screaming questions at me all the while.

I watched the TV with a strange sense of detachment.

My huge sunglasses covered up my ugly bruised eyes, only I could tell my delicate jaw was slightly out and a glimpse of my neck saw four angry red welts where my husband had tried to strangle me the night before.

The room was silent as my lawyer hit the mute button but Sky News with its tabloid like subtitles still screamed at us with the news at hand.

‘Wife of notorious Yakuza boss Sam Sato found half dead in Manhattan’ ‘NYPD are appealing for the whereabouts of known Japanese underworld boss Sam Sato’. Some old modelling pictures popped up, as did a police mug shot of Sam looking handsome in a tuxedo.

It went on until somebody cleared their throat at the end of the table and switched off the TV.

Not daring to look at Sam I lit a cigarette. Despite taking a Valium earlier to calm my nerves, my hand was shaking. His eerie composure was unnerving me.

His temper was notorious and I had witnessed it first hand many times but I still never knew what to expect. What I did know is that his anger was like fire: A white- hot rage that took time to put out, unrelenting, ferocious and grew when stoked.

I flinched as I absent-mindedly leaned my sprained arm against my cherished Louis XV chair while taking a sip of champagne.

In a fluid movement Sam ripped the cigarette out of my mouth and drove me against the wall, knocking me out of my chair, his strong hand gripping the sides of my mouth.

“See what you have done.” He hissed in his broken English, spittle flicking onto my face.

“You bring me too much attention.”

“Me?” I yelled throwing my glass against the marble floor with such force a maid jumped.

I jabbed a finger in his face. “You try to fucking kill me and then it’s my fault you sick son of a bitch? Because I don’t want this life anymore you beat me beyond recognition?” Everything I say sounds like a question and I can feel myself getting hysterical.

He takes a step back and looks at me coldly.

“You take too much coke. Look and listen to yourself.” He summons his entourage with a nod and turns to leave the room.

I glare at him.

My father was right, he has become a cold-hearted controlling monster. I hate him with a vengeance that scares me.

‘We stay here this week and lie low. “ He says over his shoulder. “You bring too much attention when I try do this deal.”

I break down inside involuntarily, I hate to let him see me weak. He knows me strong. I turn my back on him trying to swallow silent sobs wishing myself away from here with childlike determination by squeezing my eyes and praying to God.

Only when the last hanger-on closes the door do I allow myself to cry. Heaving sobs that rack my entire body, the unstoppable kind where nothing or no one can console you.

The maids stand back unsure where to look or what to do.

I cry for my greed, for naivety, for everything I have lost to get here and for what? Money? I wish I listened when my father told me money was evil, I just laughed in his face. How would he know, I told him, he never had it in the first place.

Power? Sam has and covets it but I don’t. I want no part of it if power is people fearing me. It was fun in the beginning but I have no trustworthy friends and no longer speak to my family.

Designer clothes and diamonds? I drag myself to the en suite bathroom and look in the mirror.

I’m wearing an expensive cream silk blouse, stained and ripped around the neck. A cream bra is barely visible underneath. There goes $2500, I think. A tan coloured Hermes belt nips in my tight cream cashmere trousers. My fingers are dripping in diamonds and my emerald earrings are remarkably still in place. I stare at myself; I look older than my age.

The New York Times once said I was the female Jay Gatsby, I laughed at the time and showed that article to everyone. I realise now it wasn’t a compliment.

I inspect my facial injuries. The under eye bruising is still there and my jaw is sore and puffy. I’m sure my once perfect nose is broken. The left side of my hair is sticking out in tufts where the bastard dragged me around. A cap is missing from a tooth and my bottom lip is split.

What would Daddy say if he saw me now?

A groan escapes as I realise he and Mummy have probably already seen their little girl looking like she was beaten to a near pulp by the very man they begged me not to marry.

‘He bring shame on the family name Noki.’ My mother said after I’d been on just three dates with Sam five years ago.

‘Everyone here, at home in Tokyo, they know what he is. Everyone but you.’

My father would stay silent during these arguments but I could feel his disapproval oozing from every pore. His eyes said it, his body language screamed it but his mouth stayed silent. He was a hardworking man and there was his only child, a daughter at that, cavorting with a known criminal.

In those days, when I was still respectful, I would look at him; head bowed waiting for him to say something, anything but nothing would come.

It was only Mummy who came to visit me in Trump Towers six months later when I moved in with Sam.

‘He’s poorly.’ My mother had said with a nervous laugh to Sam and I at lunch.

But I knew better. I called Daddy afterwards, furious.

The heated exchange lasted less than five minutes in which he told me I would never be happy and if I married ‘this man’ he would cut me off.

I sit on a chair suddenly exhausted, the emotional memories rushing back.

I look at the phone. It’s been five years but I know the number by heart.

It’s nothing to me to pick up the phone but will he want to talk to me? Is he going to tell me I told you so? Or worse, hang up on me.

Well I’ll know soon enough I think, my fingers punching in the digits.

It rings far too quickly and my mouth is instantly dry in nervous anticipation. As I cough to clear my throat someone picks up.

“Daddy?” I whisper.

“Hello? Who’s this? “ A unfamiliar voice asks.

I pause, taken aback by the unknown person.

“Erm, hi. Can I speak to Ken or Yoiko?”

The voice now sounds surprised.

“The Tanaka family? Mr Tanaka moved back to Japan two years ago when his wife died. I have a forwarding address I can give you. Who is this calling again?”