CHAPTER 4 – BANGKOK BURNING
| 18+ |
Dawn cracks the sky like a broken egg, yolk spilling gold across Phuket's water. I wake tangled in Sea's arms, his breath hot on my neck, Tsunami snoring at our feet. The mattress smells like us—sweat, salt, sex. My body aches in the best way: bites blooming purple, stitches pulling taut, cock half-hard against Sea's thigh from dreams of his knife on my skin.
He stirs, eyes opening black and steady. No words. Just a kiss—slow, deep, tongue tracing the split in my lip from last night's cage. His hand slides under the sheet, fingers dipping between my thighs to check the mess he left inside me. I whimper, arch into it.
"Morning, Prince," he murmurs against my mouth.
I smile. "Morning, Kraken."
Surf and Java are already up, frying eggs on a camp stove in the kitchen. Surf's got Java pinned against the counter, hand down his pants, but they pull apart when we walk in. Java smirks, tosses me a shirt. "Clothes. You can't storm Bangkok naked."
We eat fast—eggs, rice, black coffee strong enough to wake the dead. Plan is simple: private jet from Phuket airport (Surf's contact, no questions), land at Don Mueang, straight to Father's tower. Guns in a duffel: two Glocks, a sawed-off, knives. Tsunami stays with Java—too risky for the city.
Sea hands me a Glock. "You ready?"
I chamber a round. Steady hands now. "Born ready."
The jet is a Gulfstream G650—stolen or borrowed, doesn't matter. Leather seats, champagne chilling. We buckle in. Sea's hand on my thigh the whole flight, thumb circling a bite mark like a promise.
As we climb, Bangkok sprawls below—steel spines piercing smog, my father's empire glowing like poison. Memories hit like turbulence. I lean my head on Sea's shoulder, close my eyes.
Let me tell you about my father.
The man we're about to break.
His name is Vorasit Suvijak. Born in the slums of Klong Toey, 1965, to a fisherman who drowned drunk and a mother who sold herself for rice. He clawed out young—ten years old, running errands for triads, smuggling opium in toy boats. By fifteen, he'd killed his first man: a rival kid who stole his corner. Knife to the gut, body in the Chao Phraya. No remorse. Just ambition.
He built the empire on blood and bribes. Real estate first—buying shanties cheap, torching them, building towers where families burned. Then steel mills, shipping, shadows deals with generals and gangs. Married my mother at twenty-five: a general's daughter, pretty as porcelain, broken as glass. She gave him me, then jumped from the 50th floor when I was three. Postpartum, they said. I know better. Father's fists left bruises no makeup could hide.
The abuse started small. Age five: locked in a dark closet for crying at her funeral. "Weakness is death," he said, voice cold as the marble floors. Age seven: whipped with a belt for losing a school race. "Suvijaks win or die." The leather split my back; I still have the scars, faint lines Sea traces with his tongue.
It got worse as I grew. Age twelve: he caught me staring at the pool boy's abs. Dragged me to the sauna, held my head under hot coals until I passed out. "No son of mine is soft." Burns on my scalp I hid with hair gel. Age fourteen: first "lesson" in business—forced me to watch him beat a debtor to death with a golf club. Blood on my shoes. Vomit in my throat. "This is power," he said, handing me the club to finish it. I couldn't. He broke my fingers instead.
Age sixteen: the lemongrass soap. I smiled at a classmate—a boy with kind eyes. Father drowned me in the sink, water flooding lungs, his hand like iron on my neck. "You are property. Act like it." I coughed blood for days.
Age eighteen: college in the States, but tracked like a dog. GPS in my phone, guards in shadows. I tried to run once—to a boy in Boston who kissed like freedom. Father flew in, dragged me back, broke the boy's legs. "Love is weakness. Empire is everything."
Last week: the marriage proposal. Oil heiress. I refused. He cuffed me to the bedpost, starved me three days. "You'll learn."
I learned to hate.
To plot.
To cut the tracker and steal the Lambo.
That's why I came to the island. Not for a thrill. For a weapon. Sea—the myth, the killer. I wanted him to ruin me so Father couldn't own me anymore.
But Sea didn't ruin me.
He remade me.
The jet lands smooth. Black SUV waiting on the tarmac—Surf's contact again. We drive through Bangkok's veins: traffic like blood clots, skyscrapers stabbing sky. Father's tower looms—Suvijak Spire, 88 floors of glass and greed.
We park in the underground. Sea hands me a mask—black, anonymous. Gloves. No prints.
Elevator to 77. Code: my birthday. Irony bites.
Doors open to the penthouse: marble, gold, views that own the city. Guards at the door—two, suited, armed.
Sea moves first. Knife to the first's throat, silent slit. Blood arcs. I shoot the second—headshot, silencer puff. Body drops.
We step over them. Tsunami would love this.
Hallway: memories everywhere. The sink where he drowned me. The closet door, still scarred from my nails.
Father's office: double doors, carved teak.
Sea kicks them open.
He's there—Vorasit Suvijak, sixty, silver hair, suit sharp as his tongue. Sitting at a desk big as a throne, phone in hand, barking orders.
He looks up. Eyes widen. "Keen?"
I pull the mask down. "Father."
Sea levels the sawed-off at his chest. "On your knees."
Father laughs—cold, familiar. "You brought a thug? Island trash?"
Sea fires once—into the desk, splintering wood. "Kneel."
Father kneels. Slow. Hands up. "What do you want? Money? The empire?"
I step closer. Glock steady. "I want you to remember."
Flash: age nine, him burning my mother's photos because I cried over them. "Sentiment kills."
"I remember the closet," I say. "The belt. The sauna. The sink."
His eyes flicker. Not remorse. Calculation.
Sea tosses me the duffel. I pull out the gold—melted bounty coins from the quarry, forged into two rings by Java on the flight. Crude, heavy, etched with kraken tentacles.
I slide one on Sea's finger. He slides the other on mine.
"We're married now," I say to Father. "In blood and gold."
Father's face twists. "You're disgusting. Weak."
Sea growls. "He's stronger than you ever were."
I press the Glock to Father's forehead. "Beg."
He doesn't. Eyes hard. "Suvijaks don't beg."
I pull the trigger.
Click. Empty chamber.
He flinches. Pisses himself. Stain spreading on silk pants.
I laugh. First time in years.
Sea hands me gasoline. We douse the desk, the curtains, the empire's heart.
Father begs then. "Please. Son. I built this for you."
I strike the match. "Burn it."
Flames roar. Alarms wail. We walk out holding hands, rings glinting.
Elevator down. SUV out. City blurring.
Father lives—for now. Humiliated. Empire in ashes.
We drive south. Back to the island.
Our throne.