Page 16 of The Dragon 2 (Tokyo Empire #2)

Chapter thirteen

The Butcher’s Opening Act

Kenji

Every time we came to Paris, the Butcher slit the city’s throat for me. What a glorious throat it was—velvet-wrapped, gold-veined, still humming old arias of empire and blood.

Tonight, we met at the Palais Garnier.

Even from the street, it looked like a scene out of an artist’s poetic hallucination—glistening columns, glowing marble staircase.

Statues of muses and monsters watched from above as our convoy arrived.

We left the vehicle and headed forward.

The grand doors parted.

We entered.

Me. Reo. Hiro.

The Fangs and Claws followed.

Our shoes struck the marble with a rhythm that didn’t belong to this century.

Above us, chandeliers burned—Baccarat crystal trembling with light and the memory of monarchs.

A string quartet played in the Grand Foyer—Debussy, perhaps. Or Saint-Saens. Beautiful, but haunted.

Music floating through gold.

The air shimmered with decadence and wasn’t just perfumed. It clung—floral and warm—brushing the back of my neck.

I adjusted my dragon cufflinks, and the pearls glinted inside their golden jaws.

In the lobby, men in tuxedos and women in gowns moved through the space. As we continued forward, they parted for us and their laughter dimmed and their conversations paused.

In this house of kings, the civilians sensed the predators had arrived.

We moved deeper into the main lobby, taking position near the grand central column.

I turned to Reo. "What will be playing tonight?"

"Phantom of the Opera. A special anniversary performance.” Reo adjusted his tie, and the silk slipped along his fingers. “They only stage it like this once every ten years. There will be a full orchestra.”

Hiro yawned. “Are we expected to watch it?”

“It’s the Butcher.” I gave him a sad smile. “Of course he would want us to remain for the full performance.”

Hiro let out an exasperated sigh.

“I am actually pretty excited to see it.” Reo glanced up at the chandelier. "This entire building inspired the novel’s author. Gaston Leroux. There’s an underground lake.”

Hiro’s head tilted slightly. “There’s a lake in the opera house?”

"Exactly. It’s real. The underground lake is located directly beneath the Palais Garnier itself, specifically under the building’s stage area.”

I raised my eyebrows. “How did that happen?”

“During construction, they couldn’t get rid of the water underground, so they built around it and later. . .that lake inspired Leroux to write about the Phantom’s lair." Reo pointed to the chandelier. “And then there’s the other stuff that inspired him.”

My gaze swept upward toward the frescoed ceilings and the massive chandelier above us.

Reo gave me a small smile. "In 1896, a counterweight on that chandelier snapped and killed a concierge. Leroux twisted that into myth. Added whispers, secrets, masked figures."

I exhaled slowly.

The building suddenly felt alive and watching.

The Phantom of the Opera.

The story played in my mind.

A man disfigured, brilliant, obsessive. Haunting beauty from beneath the stage, craving love, and punishing betrayal.

I remembered the final scene. Christine choosing between love and fear. Between the phantom and the man above ground. Between being devoured or surviving.

The opera wasn’t just about music or masks. It was about obsession. Power. What humans became when we were denied light and learned to rule in the shadows instead.

I thought of Nyomi and suddenly understood the Phantom’s hunger even more. I was tasting it now. That need to possess something so enchanting and beautiful.

Reo’s voice brought me back to the moment. “They say the Butcher once played violin here, before he ever killed a man.”

Hiro smirked. “Knowing Jean-Pierre, I’m sure he had already killed many men before performing here under the guise of an aristocrat violinist.”

Reo considered that and nodded. “You could be right.”

I looked around and saw the Butcher’s soldiers outlined along the space. Men in Saint Laurent jackets with hard stares and faces that had the topography of violence.

The Corsican were old blood—criminal nobility born from the granite spines of Corsica, a French island that knew how to raise warriors.

The kind of group the world forgot about until blood pooled beneath their boots.

The Corsican mafia originated in the early 1900s. No drugs or arms passed through the French border without them knowing. Even the French government had once whispered their names like they were curses.

It wasn’t one family.

It was many.

But when people spoke of power, only two factions were mentioned: the Unione Corse and the Brise de Mer gangs.

The Butcher and his people were Brise de Mer.

From France to Russia.

Dakar to Havana.

They operated in shadows so thick even their enemies forgot their faces until they slit their throats in the dark.

And the Butcher, Jean-Pierre, was at the very top of this vicious food chain. A man who wore the skin of a violinist, an aristocrat, and a killer all at once. His blood was a cocktail of cruelty and elegance that made him intoxicatingly deadly.

I took in those Corsican soldiers and something about them felt. . .decorative.

I checked Hiro.

He was already looking in that direction and assessing the threat they posed.

I leaned toward him. “You see anything worth bleeding over?”

He didn’t look at me when he replied, “Those men by the walls? No. They’re lightweight. The Butcher put them there as ornaments. Distractions.”

“That’s what I thought. His version of smoke and mirrors.”

Hiro’s gaze swept the room, slow and unhurried. “The real threats aren’t the ones holding the walls.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Where?”

He didn’t point.

He never did.

Instead, two of his fingers moved at his side. It was an old code, something we’d invented as kids and perfected in these past blood-soaked years since.

A flick.

A curve.

A curl.

The Claws shifted subtly behind us, catching his signal too.

I checked in the other direction.

Hiro’s voice was low. “At least thirty women. Deadly. They’re separated into groups of ten throughout the lobby. Each group has a leader.”

I blinked.

Hiro continued, “The first leader is by the second column. Gold dress. Heels too sensible. Gait’s military. She’s armed under her left side.”

“Hmmm.” I found her and agreed with Hiro.

Her posture was too perfect. And her hand kept brushing her hip.

“The second leader is in the black off-shoulder gown by the champagne cart. Hasn’t blinked in over a minute. Glock in the corset. Modified to be silent and precise.”

Reo glanced that way and then looked forward. “I stay impressed with you, Hiro, every damned day.”

I turned back to him. “And the third leader?”

“Ten feet away on our right. Red gown. Velvet gloves. Just touched her ear like she’s been given an order.”

I didn’t need to ask how he noticed these special assassins that the Butcher had clearly hired for the evening. Hiro didn’t see the obvious. He saw the pattern of things none of us could ever witness, the rhythm, and even the break in them.

Hiro signaled the Claws.

Hand flick.

Two quick taps to his wrist.

The Claws adjusted formation—not enough to alarm the guests, but enough to make it clear: we weren’t just attending this opera.

We were commanding it and would kill.

I watched my brother for a moment. There was no tension in his shoulders. No rush in his breathing. Just calm and controlled.

That told me that he was more than ready to unleash violence.

And I knew—like I always knew—that while I could break a room with a look, Hiro could dismantle it without moving.

This was why I always kept him close.

Not just because of blood or love.

Not even because of our unbreakable loyalty.

But because in a world built on performance, Hiro was the one man who always knew where the exits were and who to shoot first.

Hiro frowned. “Female assassins, but no Butcher. What is this?”

“He is making us wait.” Reo’s tone was casual but eyes sharp. “He must’ve heard about the Lion’s visit to Tokyo.”

I didn’t respond.

Reo continued, “He’s probably expecting us to do something bold. Unhinged. Perhaps, he thinks we came here to hurt him.”

“We may.” Hiro scanned the space and signaled the Claws again.

A single shift of his wrist, two fingers tapped the pulse point once, then slid across his chest— kill-switch ready, masks off .

The Claws responded immediately.

Kaede was the first to move. He neared the woman in the gold dress by the second column. His real eye never left her hand; his glass one reflected the chandelier.

When he spoke to her, I was sure it was polite.

Shocked, she tilted her head, but her stance stiffened—not from interest.

From awareness.

She could surely feel that Kaede didn’t come for conversation. He came to measure the exact length of her breath before he cut it short.

I checked the second leader.

Just like that, Daisuke appeared behind the woman in the off-shoulder black gown.

She blinked.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t need to.

His mohawk caught the light as his shoulder brushed hers, making her blink again.

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, someone had 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.

He walked off and began to ascend the Grand Staircase.

We followed yet gave him space.

Reo got closer to me. “The Butcher greets us with female assassins and has us play the waiting game. We may not get the outcome we want tonight.”

“Let the Butcher play his strings. I am the one that will conduct the ending.”

Hiro got on my side. “Meaning?”

"If Jean-Pierre doesn’t hand me what I came for, we will burn this historic palace down around him."