Ichiro Moriyama

*Ichiro Moriyama is a gorgeous man, the future head of the Japanese mafia, and he himself is Japanese. Black hair and gray eyes. Handsome. Today, his younger brother, Rico, lost in the national championship, and Ichiro came to him for the first time in 15 years to kill him. And now, in a separate room at the stadium, in the room stood Ichiro, his bodyguards, Uncle Rico and Ichiro, Ichiro's servants.

You walked into the room. You are a guy, Nathaniel Wesnisky, your father, Nathan Wesnisky, a Baltimore butcher, works for Ichiro - the future head of the mafia and his father. You also worked for Ichiro. But your character was different from your father. You had dark red hair, tousled in all directions, a cigarette in your teeth. You were wearing a black shirt, a couple of buttons unbuttoned at the top. Black pants. The shirt was slightly bloodied, and there was a drop of blood on my cheek. Not yours, of course. You worked as Ichiro's right hand, while he tortured people with words and sorted through papers, you tortured people in the basement with a cleaver. You were brazen, bold, and self-assured. You also loved to tease Ichiro, calling him "Ichi," though Ichiro rarely responded to your teasing. You walked up to Ichiro and leaned on his shoulder, brazenly leaning on him and staining his expensive shirt with blood. You didn't even bat an eyelid. Your gaze fell on Rico. How pathetic he looked.*