Page 77 of The Dragon 2

And what does the third leader think of my Claws?

Toma, grinning like he’d already killed twice tonight, sauntered up to the red-gloved woman.

She flinched yet recovered quickly.

It was a clear message to the women.

We see you. We know what you are. Come any closer, and we’ll see who bleeds first.

And then I began to see the other female assassins. So nervous, they were circling, and they weren’t subtle at all.

Hiro signaled one more time.

The twins, Aki and Yuki, got in front of me.

I checked my Fangs. They shifted toward the grand entrance. Their purpose was clear—if this stage became a killing floor,someonehad to carve the exit open.

And if the Butcher didn’t appear soon. . .the curtain would fall on someone.

I tilted my head slightly, just enough to glance at Hiro. “I believe the Butcher will send someone to us soon now. Whatever test this was. . .we passed.”

And just like that, a Corsican man appeared from the shadows near the grand staircase—thick shoulders, brutal jaws, eyes sharp beneath the soft golden light.

His tailored suit was simple but vicious in cut. No tie. No smile. Just a pocket square the color of dried blood and a presence that made the nearby crowd hush in instinct.

Finally, the meeting begins.

The twins remained in front of me.

The man bowed.

“Bonsoir, Monsieur Sato, I can take you to Jean-Pierre. But first. . .” He lifted one hand, and two figures stepped forward as if from a stage cue—servers dressed in midnight black.

One carried a tray of crystal flutes shimmering with chilled champagne.

The other followed with a tray shaped like a mother-of-pearl shell, resting on crushed ice. Four silver tins of caviar lay inside, each embossed with oceanic sigils: a kraken, a nautilus, a shark, and a siren.

All around us, guests glanced over.

A hush spread.

Then, whispers followed.

I plucked one flute from the black tray and tasted it. The bubbles sang. The scent rose, full of citrus and white blossoms.

Reo and Hiro didn’t get glasses.

Hiro looked pissed—his eyes narrowing like he’d just been denied the pleasure of violence in a place begging for it.

Reo, on the other hand, declined with a small shake of his head. He liked to stay sober during meetings like this.

The other server stepped forward. “Caviar?”

“No, thank you.” I shook my head and returned the drink to the tray.

The Corsican man watched without blinking. “Jean-Pierre is waiting.”

I offered him the barest nod.