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scarredrainRaising his glass, Yamamoto Takeshi studied the amber liquid in it as he slowly swirled it. It was good whiskey, a Japanese brand he had become fond of—Yamazaki single malt whiskey, aged for twelve years.
Growing up, Yamamoto's father refused to make any food that wasn't Japanese unless he could give it a Japanese name. He hadn't understood it then, but now he did and took pride in who he was and where he came from. So, he took to drinking Japanese brands of drinks when he could. It was a show of power and wealth because everyone knew imported drinks were more expensive—or at least gave the impression of enjoying finer things.
It was also a constant reminder to the conservative members of the mafia underworld that he wasn't Italian. A not-so-subtle middle finger to them.
There was a groan, and Yamamoto turned to look. One of the fifteen men, goons of one of the conservative Mafia families Gokudera was negotiating upstairs with, he had knocked out using the dull side of his sword, was getting up. Impressive. That one had some potential. He was young, maybe fifteen, and needed a better Family. But recruitment wasn't Yamamoto's job. Hopefully, when this Family went under another, nicer Family would take the kid in. He made a mental note to send someone to recruit the kid when the Agosti Family finally fell apart.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the most beautiful man in the world walk out of one of the private dining areas. "Have you finished threatening Verdi already?" he asked before putting the rim of the tumbler to his lips and taking a sip.
Growing up, Yamamoto's father refused to make any food that wasn't Japanese unless he could give it a Japanese name. He hadn't understood it then, but now he did and took pride in who he was and where he came from. So, he took to drinking Japanese brands of drinks when he could. It was a show of power and wealth because everyone knew imported drinks were more expensive—or at least gave the impression of enjoying finer things.
It was also a constant reminder to the conservative members of the mafia underworld that he wasn't Italian. A not-so-subtle middle finger to them.
There was a groan, and Yamamoto turned to look. One of the fifteen men, goons of one of the conservative Mafia families Gokudera was negotiating upstairs with, he had knocked out using the dull side of his sword, was getting up. Impressive. That one had some potential. He was young, maybe fifteen, and needed a better Family. But recruitment wasn't Yamamoto's job. Hopefully, when this Family went under another, nicer Family would take the kid in. He made a mental note to send someone to recruit the kid when the Agosti Family finally fell apart.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the most beautiful man in the world walk out of one of the private dining areas. "Have you finished threatening Verdi already?" he asked before putting the rim of the tumbler to his lips and taking a sip.
