The 15th of every month is the membership day at "Sakura Pavilion". Sakura starts preparing special desserts as early as 4 a.m. The tiramisu she makes today is different from usual – she added an extra 10 milliliters of amaretto to the coffee liqueur syrup, and the ladyfingers are arranged at an angle precisely 45 degrees, just like bullets in a magazine.
"We're having some special guests today," Sakura says to her colleague who's come to work, a dimple faintly showing at the corner of her mouth. As she adjusts her bowtie, a tiny earphone hidden in her lace hair accessory Sato's voice: "Confirm the target is in a black Lexus with license plate Shinjuku 500か 37-68."
At 11:27 a.m., Kondo Yuto, the wakagashira fuku (deputy underboss) of the Akasuna Group, walks into the café with three subordinates. The third button of his suit is unbuttoned – this is the agreed signal.
"Welcome back, master~" When Sakura curtsies, the arc of her skirt spreading out just covers her action of checking the dagger between her boots, "Today, I recommend the freshly made tiramisu."
Kondo's gaze sweeps over Sakura's white stockings, lingering for half a second on the absolute territory: "Then bring four servings." He chooses a seat by the window, deliberately turning his back to the kitchen entrance.
As Sakura approaches with a silver dessert tray, her high heels tap out a rhythm like Morse code on the marble floor. The pattern of cocoa powder dusted on the surface of the tiramisu is special – it's four connected snake-shaped lines.
"Enjoy your meal," Sakura puts down the desserts, her little finger inadvertently brushing the edge of Kondo's coffee cup. In the crevices of her nails, there's colorless powder extracted from castor seeds, which takes exactly fifteen minutes to dissolve.
At 12:03, Kondo suddenly clutches his abdomen. His face turns from red to white, and cold sweat soaks the collar of his Armani shirt.
"Master, are you unwell?" Sakura supports his trembling arm, her voice still sweet, "There's a sofa in the lounge..."
Kondo's subordinates are about to stand up when the café lights suddenly go out. The moment the emergency lights come on, they see Sakura's smile under the blue light, which looks like a ghost. Her right hand presses against Kondo's carotid artery, and her left index finger is raised to her lips – this gesture in the yakuza world means "die quietly".
When the lights come back on, Kondo has been helped into the lounge. His subordinates continue eating the tiramisu, completely unaware that the tin foil at the bottom of each dessert is printed with the family crest of the Aosakura Association.
In the lounge, Sakura pushes the air in the syringe into Kondo's vein. She hums the café's background music, watching the pupils of this man who once killed three members of the Aosakura Association gradually dilate.
"The meaning of tiramisu is 'take me away'," Sakura closes his eyes, "But I'm afraid you can't go to heaven."
At 3 p.m., Sakura is in the warehouse checking the newly arrived coffee beans. The way she slits the sack is exactly like dissecting a human body. When the green beans pour out, a black waterproof bag is mixed among them.
"Handled cleanly?" Sato's voice comes from the earphone.
Sakura opens the bag, which contains Kondo's severed finger and the floor plan of the Akasuna Group's warehouse in Yokohama. She strokes the drawing with her fingers stained with coffee powder, marking a spot with a cream piping-like mark.
"The refrigerated truck departs at 6 a.m. tomorrow," she says into the microphone hidden in her middle finger ring, "It's suggested to act in the Bayshore Line tunnel."
After ending the call, Sakura takes out a special piping bag. She draws a small snake on Kondo's severed finger with chocolate sauce, then puts it into the microwave. When the smell of burning fills the air, she's recording today's dessert sales data in a notebook – she writes the number "4" behind the "tiramisu" column, then crosses it out and changes it to "3".
After closing, Sakura wipes the sofa in the lounge alone. Moonlight cuts black-and-white stripes on her face through the venetian blinds, just like the maid uniform she never wears again. A newly hung decorative painting on the wall covers the bullet hole; in the frame is a replica of Van Gogh's Sunflowers – it just covers the charred circular gap in the center of the sunflower.