Page 15 of The Dragon 2 (Tokyo Empire #2)

Chapter twelve

Severed and Blood-Stained

Kenji

I frowned. “What is the update I don’t want to hear?”

Reo placed his hands in his pockets. “Another severed foot was delivered.”

“Fuck. The serial killer. So much has been going on, I forgot about him.”

“I didn’t,” Reo replied darkly. “The Footman left the gift inside one of our soaplands. This time, Silken Ruin .”

The line of my jaw twitched. “The Footman?”

Reo nodded. “That’s what we’re calling him now.”

The soapland’s name coiled in my gut like poison.

Silken Ruin was newer than Floating Garden , less opulent, more secretive, designed for Tokyo’s ultra-elite.

No signs. No website. Word-of-mouth only.

The kind of place where high-ranking politicians rubbed wet shoulders with underground art dealers and billionaires who liked to play rough but stay invisible.

How the hell did he get a box inside there?

I sneered. “What exactly did this piece of shit send?”

“Same style box. Red lacquered paper. Gold ribbon tied in a Windsor knot. But this time. . .”

“What?”

“The shoe was more expensive. Louboutin. Black patent. Limited edition.”

That wasn’t just symbolic. That was escalation.

I leaned my head to the side. “And the foot?”

“Female again. Left one. Clean cut above the ankle. Veins sealed. No bruising. The pedicure was still intact—black polish with a single red crystal at the center of the big toe. The skin was flawless. No calluses. No blemishes. Fresh. As if she’d just stepped out of a bath and into death.”

My jaw locked.

Reo went on, “the box had been placed at the threshold of Room 9. It had been booked by a trusted member who found it.”

“Did he open it?”

“No. One of our Scales did. Poor girl screamed so loud the sound hit three floors.”

“And was there a message on the box?”

“It said, ‘To the Dragon,’ ” Reo’s eyes held mine. “Like before.”

Rage rose in me. “If he wants to talk to me, he can. I just wish he would meet me face to face. I would love to give him my attention.”

My Fangs snickered.

Reo didn’t, “the Footman isn’t just sending a message to you, he is staging art, and women’s feet are his canvas.”

My blood thrummed with anger.

Reo leaned in just slightly, voice low and dangerous. “Art and obsession share the same root—devotion— twisted too tight. You, of all people should understand that, Kenji.”

"How do we catch him? Do we at least have any extra clues?”

“He left one partial fingerprint. Ali tracked it.”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “And?”

“The fingerprint matched a woman. Ali went to her apartment and found her, dead and without any feet. A coroner later confirmed that it was the woman’s foot in the package to Silken Ruin.”

I considered that information, “did he kill her at her apartment?”

“Yes but that wasn’t the only thing. I found it interesting that he would leave the fingerprint.

It seemed. . .intentional,” Reo’s eyes went wild and I knew he was fascinated with this wicked puzzle.

“I did some research this evening and the apartment itself where her body was found. . .it used to belong to one of your father’s old soldiers.

One that he killed twenty-five years ago. ”

A chill wrapped around my spine. “Of course, this points back to my father.”

“We don’t have the identity of the person yet. Ali’s digging deeper for me but we think this killer’s revenge is definitely tied to the Fox.”

“Then why not send his gifts to my father?”

“Perhaps, it is just because your father is in the hospital.”

“No.” From the window, Hiro shook his head and turned our way. “The Footman is jealous of Kenji. Whatever our father did, this guy thinks our father ruined his life while Kenji got to live a happy one, so his anger is with my brother.”

I blinked.

Not just at Hiro’s words—but at the clarity in them.

Hiro had barely spoken since we arrived in France. He’d sucked lollipops, stared at cityscapes, and fucked without true release—but this? This was the sound of a blade sharpening inside him.

I looked at him fully now. “You think this is about envy?”

Hiro’s gaze didn’t waver. “It’s not just envy, brother.

It’s obsession forged in grief. The Footman lost love.

A really important love. And once that kind of love is taken, there’s no healing.

Only rot. And he sees you looking untouched by that kind of ruin and he wants to tear your world down for surviving what he didn’t. ”

All the Claws turned Hiro’s way and watched him.

A strange silence fell on all of us.

I hated that I understood what he meant.

Sighing, I put my view back on Reo. My Dragon’s Roar was already dissecting Hiro’s words, pulling at the mental thread, unraveling everything into neat lines of logic.

Reo adjusted his glasses with the edge of his knuckle. “That actually makes sense. Hiro’s right. It is personal. You represent something to him.”

“What is it I represent?”

“You are the Footman’s resentment with a face. He wants to punish you for existing.”

“And he thinks my father already paid?”

“Or he thinks your father is dying, so it doesn’t matter, but you. . .you’re still alive. Still powerful. Still beautiful.”

I stared at him. “You’re calling me beautiful?”

“I’m calling you symbolic, Kenji.” He allowed a soft smirk. “But yeah. You’re fucking beautiful. That’s the problem.”

My Fangs laughed even Hiro huffed a single chuckle.

Only Reo could call me beautiful in the middle of a murder briefing and make it feel like strategy, not seduction.

Then, Reo’s smile faded as he looked down at his phone. “Think about it. What if the Footman was young when it happened? A kid even? That would explain the intimacy with feet. Some trauma stunted him that deals with a woman’s foot.”

I raised my eyebrows.

Reo widened his eyes. “Maybe he saw his mother die.”

I felt something stir in my chest—not sympathy but a sharp clarity.

Hiro muttered. “If his mother’s love was stolen from him by our father then he will keep on cutting women’s feet until we end up killing him.”

Reo glanced at his screen and then tapped open a message. His long fingers danced across the digital keyboard, thumbs rapid and precise. “I’m telling Ali to run a deeper trace on any women that the Fox ever disposed of.”

“Good. Get this guy. We don’t have fucking time for a serial killer. We only have time for war.” I headed off. “Now let’s meet with the French.”

Everyone followed, and we moved as one, a ferocious beast— out of my suite and through the hall.

Up ahead, Scales parted like silk being sliced. They didn’t look up. They didn’t breathe too loud. They felt the storm coming and bowed to its inevitability.

Behind me, the sound of tailored suits shifting over holstered weapons whispered like danger humming.

The air bent around us.

Reo slid his phone into his breast pocket and matched my stride on the left.

Hiro took my right. Still silent. Still grieving. His gait was calm and smooth. Even broken, my brother was a weapon.

The Claws shadowed him like wolves.

We reached the elevator.

The mirrored doors gleamed.

When they opened, we stepped inside.

The elevator doors closed and we began our descent.

I glanced at Reo. "What about the French? Any updates before I go into this meeting?"

“Our contact says Jean-Pierre just arrived back in Paris yesterday from the States.”

“That’s odd. From what I remember the Butcher hates the States,” I quirked my brows. “What part of the States did he come from?”

“Some place called Belladonna. Apparently, he’s been frequenting a brothel in their red-light district.”

“Name?”

“The Candy Shop.”

That made me pause.

The elevator dinged.

The doors parted and we stepped out into the lobby.

Lots of heads turned but no one met our eyes. Not the concierges behind their marble podiums. Not the other guests lingering near the Baccarat-lit bar. Not even the doormen standing by the grand entrance, pressed into place like obedient pawns.

Our shoes struck polished marble as we moved through the lobby.

Once we made it outside, the evening air hit us.

A black town car idled at the curb.

Our guards were already dispersing, sliding into their assigned vehicles.

Fangs into one.

Claws into another.

Only the three of us would ride in the primary car—Hiro, Reo, and me.

But before I slid in, I spoke. “Reo.”

He turned his head slightly. “Yes, Kenji?”

“Send one of our men to that brothel in Belladonna.”

Reo blinked once. “The Candy Shop?”

“Yes. Have him make contact with the owner directly. I want to know why the Butcher keeps going there. What he’s chasing in that city. Who he’s watching. What is he buying when no one is looking.”

Reo nodded. “Hard contact or soft?”

I thought about it for a breath. “Soft first. Show respect. If this owner tries to bluff or play games then we let them see the weight behind our names.”

A pause.

Then I added, “and we don’t want lies. We want clarity.”

“Alright,” Reo slipped out his phone and began typing.

Satisfied, I slid into the back seat and the car swallowed me whole.

The door shut.

The engine purred.

“Are you sure about this, Kenji?” Hiro closed his eyes and leaned his head back like he was going to take a quick nap. “The French are good at catching spies. Should we risk it?”

“I think it’s important.”

Hiro yawned. “Then, I trust you, brother.”

I’d always had a deep mistrust of the West. Japanese history had taught me that.

What Western bosses called deals … we called dishonor.

What they called business , we called betrayal.

From their politicians to their gangsters, they shook hands while holding knives behind their backs, mistook decadence for dominance, and wore our culture like it was a costume.

But the French?

They were different, if only slightly. More refined. More ceremonial in their executions. More thoughtful in how they packaged their evil.

But even with all of that, I didn’t fully trust the French.

Especially not Jean-Pierre “The Butcher” Laurent. He had once been a child prodigy—an award-winning violinist. By twelve, the world called him a musical genius. By twenty-one, he was the concertmaster of the Paris Symphony.

And then came the scandal. The Butcher caught his wife cheating. When that happened, he didn’t harm her but he left her lover in a coma.

He went to jail.

The music stopped.

Eventually his cousins broke him out, and he escaped, becoming the Butcher—a warlord wrapped in a maestro’s skin.

Graceful.

Refined.

Deadly.

He understood beauty.

Understood art.

However, he understood death the most, so much that he had no need to raise his voice, people simply bled around him.

Elegant, yes.

But an absolute killer.

A man who played sonatas over fresh graves.

Our car headed off, and the city—sweet, glittering Paris—rolled out before us like a woman in a slitted dress, beautiful and waiting to be fucked or destroyed.

Outside, a woman in a fur coat leaned against a stone pillar, red lips wrapped around a cigarette, eyes tracking the car like she knew who we were. Knowing the Butcher, she probably was one of his spies, strategically placed, and was actually watching us.

With his eyes still closed, Hiro spoke. “Why are we in Paris, Kenji? How will the French help us take down our father?”

I smiled. “When we return to Tokyo, we are going to blow up all of our artillery buildings in Tokyo.”

Hiro snapped his eyes open. “We’re going to blow up our own buildings?”

“Yes. All of them holding weapons. Simultaneously. In a few days. At midnight.”

Hiro turned his gaze to Reo as if thinking I was too crazy to talk to. “Is he fucking serious?”

Reo nodded. “All the explosions will look like a rival syndicate is trying to fight with us. Your father will think it’s an outside force since our weapons are being destroyed too.”

Hiro’s jaw flexed. “Are we going to at least sneak some of our guns, bombs, and bullets out before we do this?”

“No. Our stuff will be destroyed too.”

Hiro rubbed his eyes. “This is insane, even for you, Kenji. You’re destroying our own arsenal?”

“To disarm him and make our father think we are weak when we are very much strong,” I smiled. “The Fox can’t protect himself without weapons. He’ll never see it coming because those weapons are just as much mine.”

Reo added, “so he won’t suspect us.”

“He won’t and once the Fox and his loyal men are disarmed, we move in with French weapons, ones that we will hide upon our return to Tokyo. We will strike fast, quiet, and fucking lethal.”

Hiro didn’t look exhausted anymore. Instead, he appeared like he’d just got a large cup of espresso, “then, we’re here to get weapons from the French?”

“A plane load of them at least but hopefully three plane loads.”

Hiro blinked. “And what will the French want in return for all those weapons?”

I gazed out of the window. “We will see.”