Page 17 of The Dragon 2 (Tokyo Empire #2)

Chapter fourteen

The East and the West

Kenji

The Corsican man led us away.

The doors to the main auditorium of the Palais Garnier opened.

We stepped inside.

It was like entering the ribcage of a god. Gold leaf coated every inch of the balconies, each carved with cherubs, serpents, and sirens in various stages of ecstasy. Crimson velvet draped the plush seats.

For now, there was no one inside but us and the orchestra tuning their instruments in the pit below.

Many said Paris was a city that belonged to no one, because the French didn’t close their historical sites for politicians, presidents, or popes—but. . .apparently, they did for the Butcher.

Above us, the ceiling bloomed in elegant color.

Beautiful.

It was dream-stained with floating figures and fragments of music. Blue horses. Green violinists. Lovers and ghosts drifting through sky.

Reo must have noticed me being taken aback by it because he whispered. “The artist is Chagall. The ceiling is divided into five panels that pay homage to fourteen famous composers—Mozart, Beethoven, etc.”

That must have been why each panel appeared so surreal.

Hiro snorted beside us and popped a lavender lollipop into his mouth. “Looks more like a fever dream than tribute.”

We followed the man down the central aisle and I felt a tightening in the air.

Then Hiro’s voice came out low. “Corsicans. Left balcony. Three rows back.”

I kept my view forward. “Skill level?”

“This is not a show of force. It’s a kill squad.”

Hiro didn’t look at them anymore. “They’re heavyweights. We could take them. But we’d be limping out.”

“How many?”

“Twenty I see lingering in the shadows. I’m sure there’s more.” Hiro frowned. “We should’ve brought more men.”

Reo, calm as ever, spoke without even glancing their way. “Bringing more men would’ve looked like disrespect.”

Hiro snorted. “Better disrespect than dead.”

Without a word, Hiro lifted two fingers and scratched beneath his jaw—quick, subtle, but the Claws saw it.

They peeled off, slipping between rows and shadows and falling into an invisible arc around us.

No panic.

No retreat.

Just pressure applied to the killers amongst us.

The chandelier above us flickered and the music bled into something darker.

Reo sighed. “The Butcher still hasn’t shown his face yet and already we’ve played two of his games.”

Hiro’s face went still. "We shouldn't trust the Butcher."

I let the words land like silk-draped knives.

Hiro continued, "He and our father got along too well . Don’t forget, it was the Fox who helped him disappear after he got out of jail. They have history."

I sighed. "Everyone has a past, Hiro. We’re not asking for the Butcher’s hand in marriage. Just munitions."

"You think he won’t care what we use them for?"

I looked toward the gold-curved balconies, where shadows shifted telling me there were even more men than Hiro had guessed. "We won’t tell the Butcher what we’re using them for.”

Hiro’s voice dropped lower. "That’s a mistake. If the Butcher finds out the weapons were used to kill the man who once saved him, he might see it as betrayal."

“We’ve already considered this.” Reo nodded. "This may end up being a Faustian pact."

Hiro blinked. "A what?"

Up further ahead, the man neared the side of the auditorium, where a corridor discreetly veered into a velvet-lined passage.

We continued.

Reo explained, "A Faustian pact. It’s from this old German legend. A man named Faust traded his soul to the devil for knowledge and power. The devil gave him twenty-four years of indulgence, magic, and everything the man ever wanted."

"So what happened at the end?" Hiro asked.

"The man paid with everything. His soul. His freedom. His future. The power he got was just a beautiful leash."

The man turned the corner.

Seconds later, we did too.

A guarded door waited in front of us.

Two Corsican soldiers stood before it—suited, armed, unblinking. Their shoulders broad beneath sleek blue coats. One held a gold tablet. The other had a scar across his eye that looked like it had been carved by a wine bottle.

They opened the heavy doors to a big room.

Inside, a private elevator waited.

Marble floor.

Bronze walls.

Soft golden lighting.

The Corsican man stepped onto the elevator first.

Reo followed, then Hiro and me.

Behind us, the Claws held position outside the threshold, waiting for the signal.

“These men will have to come up on the next ride.” The man glanced back at them and smirked. “You’re not too scared to ride without your guards, are you? I promise I do not bite.”

I smiled, slow and deliberate. “If I were you, I’d be more worried about being on the elevator with us , because unfortunately. . .we do bite.”

Hiro let out a low, guttural snarl.

The man blinked, and that smirk faltered for a breath.

The doors slid shut.

Reo chuckled under his breath.

The elevator rose.

Hiro sucked on that lollipop.

Reo checked his watch for the time.

The Corsican man faced forward, trying not to fidget and failed.

When the elevator eased to a stop, the doors slid open with a hiss.

The man stepped out first and gestured with one hand.

I spotted a long, dimly lit corridor lined with priceless statues and polished wood. At the very end stood a set of black double doors, polished like obsidian and flanked by more guards in blue.

The man spoke. “The Butcher is waiting for you there.”

We stepped off in unison, but Hiro paused, tilted his head toward the man, pulled out the lollipop, and blew him a slow kiss. “Guess I’ll bite you next time.”

The man flinched—just slightly—then cleared his throat and looked away, pretending not to notice the grin that curved Hiro’s mouth.

We moved down the corridor, and behind us, the elevator doors whispered shut again.

Reo snickered one more time, which was a world record for him.

Hiro put the lollipop back in his mouth, crunched on it, and spoke between bites. "So, you’re saying, Reo, if we make this deal, it might look like power, but we’re actually walking into ruin?"

Reo nodded. "If we’re not careful."

"Then we’ll be careful." I kept my focus on the black door ahead.

"That’s the thing about Faustian pacts, Kenji," Reo sighed. "They never feel dangerous in the beginning. They feel like winning. We just should never forget that."

I said nothing.

Because he was right. Because even now, I could feel the thrill threading through my spine. Power. Proximity. The momentum of strategy and war. And beneath it all. . . a tick.

A clock.

Finishing the lollipop, Hiro placed the stick in his pocket. “Why do you think the Butcher picked this venue for the meeting?”

Reo’s expression went neutral. “Opera is all about pretending. Lovers, gods, kings—none of them real. Just men playing roles until someone bleeds onstage.”

“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 him the Comédien in 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 monitoring equipment 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.

He stood a little removed from the others, spine straight, silent, unmoving. White gloves covered his hands, pristine and spotless.

From what I understood, the man was obsessive about germs.

Therefore, Giorgio didn’t kill quickly. Before he laid a finger on a man, he’d scrub him down with hospital-grade disinfectants, muttering prayers for sterility.

Germs disgusted him.

But pain?

Pain, he adored.

He was their secret enforcer—their ghost in tailored wool—and he hadn’t blinked once since we entered the box.

I checked Reo. He scanned the box, eyes narrowing at the angles, exits, and tech tucked into the velvet and gold. Then, with a quick nod to me, he moved to the side, choosing a spot with a full view of the Butcher’s cousins.

Hiro followed, unwrapping another lollipop with one hand, his other never straying far from the knife he kept tucked under his jacket. He took a seat on the arm of a banquette, one leg draped lazily over the edge, but I knew better—he was coiled, watching everything.

They were giving me space.

The Butcher still hadn’t turned. His hand rested on the gold rail like a monarch surveying the land he ruled in shadow.

So, I crossed the room alone and as I got closer, I saw something that put me on edge. There—leaning casually against the front of the balcony rail, just beside Jean-Pierre—rested his black violin case.

Slim.

Worn at the edges.

Elegant in its deception.

There was no violin inside. Only a bow, and this bow was not one strung with horsehair or gut. This bow was a blade. Thin and gleaming, honed from steel and shaped like an instrument of art.

I’d heard what he could do with it. How he would draw that blade across flesh like a virtuoso, summoning notes of agony no man should be able to orchestrate.

Apparently, the Butcher didn’t like to torture, but he did love to compose—melodies of suffering, symphonies of screams, concertos of bone and blood.

And tonight, he’d brought that bow with him.

You take that bow out and we will have a serious problem, Butcher.

I continued past more naked women glittering in diamonds and past the Cousins of Death, each one more unnerving than the last.

Next, I stopped just behind him.

The air changed.

Not from words.

Not from weapons.

But from the arrival of my Claws and Fangs.

I glanced over my shoulder.

They didn’t make a sound—not a boot scrape, not a breath out of place. The Claws came in first, slipping in from the hallway. They took their posts along the wall.

Then came the Fangs. Their entrance was slower. Deliberate. The moment they entered, the temperature of the box dropped.

I felt it in my bones.

And I wasn’t the only one.

Jean-Pierre’s cousins reacted. Rafael’s smile vanished, replaced by a straight line that said, “so this is how we’re playing it.”

Louis flicked his fingers toward the back of the room, two short gestures that summoned more guards. Five more Corsicans emerged near the rear doors. Subtle, but telling.

Giorgio shifted in place and tightened his white gloves at the knuckles. Surely, a man like him didn’t like contamination, and this level of testosterone in the air was as close to unclean as it got.

Below, the orchestra tuned in dissonant harmony—strings quivering, bows slicing tension into the air.

Finally, Jean-Pierre turned. Muscled, yet slim. Styled brown hair. Sculpted jaw. Pale blue eyes, too pale for comfort.

Where the Lion was a seething, massive beast, the Butcher was quiet twisted violence in expensive silk.

I didn’t speak.

Neither did he.

We simply looked at each other—two men forged in the blood of empires, standing above the city in its most sacred hall, as the orchestra tuned their instruments.

Below us, the theater was beginning to fill. Elegant men in tailored suits. Jeweled women in backless gowns. They took their seats in slow ceremony, unaware of the storm that hovered above them in this box of gods and monsters.

The Phantom of the Opera performance hadn’t begun yet.

But this meeting?

This deal?

It was already an opera.

And the Butcher had written the overture.

How will this go?