Page 81 of The Dragon 2

“Then let’s play beautifully.” I placed my hand into my pocket.

A Faustian pact sealed with death.

The phrase coiled in my thoughts.

We passed a statue of Orpheus with his fingers forever frozen mid-pluck across a lyre. His face was twisted in longing; eyes lifted toward a ceiling he would never reach. Orpheus had been a man who tried to bring his love back from the dead—and lost her again because he looked back too soon.

I won’t make that mistake.

Minutes later, we arrived at the door.

Corsican guards stood on either side, suited and still. One had a scar that crept from temple to lip. The other’s knuckles were bruised from something recent.

They opened the door and we entered.

The box was a study in decadence. It was not just private—it was the highest, largest, and probably the most forbidden in the entire opera house.

From here, one could look down on the city’s elite like powerful gods surveying weak mortals.

Red velvet banquettes lined the curved walls. Gilded panels gleamed. Every corner had carved angels.

To the left, a private bar shimmered, tended by a woman whose only clothing was diamonds. Crystals clung to her nipples, her hips, the delicate triangle of her sex. Her skin sparkled when she moved, as if she’d been dusted in starlight and soaked in champagne.

Reo murmured, “Well. . .this is much better.”

Across the box, more women lounged like felines, nude save for artful arrangements of diamonds on their most sacred places. They watched us with slow, sultry eyes—some stretched across velvet cushions, others rested on their knees, hands in their laps as if waiting for the command to crawl to us.

And they weren’t there to serve us drinks, they were there to seduce us.

But they could stay right where they were, I had a tiger to tame.

We continued past them.

At the edge of the box, half-lit by stage light and shadow, stood Jean-Pierre Laurent.

The Butcher.

Keeping his back to us, he had one hand resting on the gold rail.

His three cousins stood off to the side further away from him. All three were dressed impeccably. French tailored. No visible weapons.

Rafael leaned casually against the wall, his jacket undone, that signature scar running from cheekbone to jaw like a lover's scratch. The smirk on his face was permanent—half amusement, half bloodlust. They called himthe Comédienin the Corsican underworld, a man known for laughing mid-murder, like each kill was a punchline only he understood.

His eyes flicked over us now, gleaming with the promise of future entertainment.

Louis stood beside him, hands folded neatly, his expression unreadable. His gaze scanned us slowly, likely cataloging every shift in fabric, every bulge that might conceal a blade or gun.

He was the Corsicans’ top hacker.

Louis had eyes everywhere. Cameras tucked into vents. Mics hidden behind paintings. No doubt he had monitoringequipment in our suites. He’d probably watched me stroke myself to the scent of my Tiger’s panties.

I smirked at Louis.

I hope you enjoyed the show.

If Louis had seen anything, he gave no indication. Silence was his power.

And then finally, Giorgio.