Page 19 of The Dragon 2 (Tokyo Empire #2)

Chapter sixteen

An Opera of Empires

Kenji

The two men continued our way. One brought over a small table. Another carried a long, rectangular lacquered case. On top of it was a golden dragon about to swallow a full moon.

My breath didn’t catch—but my thoughts did.

That symbol.

That dragon.

That moon.

It was too precise.

Too intimate.

That was the cover of When the Dragon Swallowed the Moon .

The book I gave to Nyomi.

Was this a coincidence?

Or was it intentional?

A whispered warning cloaked as a gift.

A message that said: I see her. I see what she means to you. I know where your fire truly burns.

For the first time that evening, I felt my weakness exposed.

I should kill him. Right. Now. Just in case.

In my mind, death unraveled.

I saw my hand shoot out faster than a breath—grabbing Jean-Pierre by the throat, twisting hard enough to snap bone, muscle, and marrow in a single brutal wrench.

I could picture the elegant bastard’s limp body flying over the balcony rail—cartwheeling like a broken marionette toward the polished marble below.

I heard the screams, gasps and champagne shattering.

And my men—my Roar, Fangs, and Claws—would strike without a command.

Reo would take the upper level, knives drawn, slicing through flesh without spilling a single drop on his cuffs.

Hiro?

He would enjoy it. He’d crack skulls against the columned walls, lick blood from his knuckles, and dare anyone to keep breathing.

I could already see Giorgio reaching for his sidearm, Louis barking in French, Rafael cursing under his breath.

Yet still we would kill them all, just to keep Nyomi safe.

Just to erase whatever crack in my armor Jean-Pierre thought he’d found.

My fingers twitched—once.

The man placed the table between the Butcher and me.

The other man set down the box with the dragon and moon, and then he lifted the lid.

Inside, wrapped in blood-red silk, was a blade older than the Butcher’s empire.

A tanto .

Seventeenth century. Edo period craftsmanship. Its hilt wrapped in rayskin and cord, elegant and worn, the blade slightly curved, flawless.

It shimmered.

Even from a distance, I could smell the old oil still protecting it. Could see the tiny engraving near the guard: the family crest of a once powerful daimyō , now long dead.

“My gift to you this evening.” Jean-Pierre gestured to the blade with a quiet bow of his head. “This tanto once belonged to a French collector during the Edo period. It has passed hands for centuries. Quietly. Illegally. It should never have remained in France.”

He placed his hands to the side.

“The proper place for it is in Japan. In its rightful home.” So smooth, Jean-Pierre looked at me—not just across a balcony, but across continents, across centuries.

Across salt and sword.

And for a brief moment, the fire in me dimmed. This wasn’t a warning. It was a peace offering and even a gesture of respect . A Frenchman giving back what France had taken. A knife, returned to a warrior. This wasn’t just a gift.

It was submission disguised as respect.

I would not forget it.

Despite all my calculations, all my suspicion and cold analysis, I felt it land deeper than any blade could.

The Butcher wanted an alliance.

And this?

This was how men from my culture asked for friendship.

Not with handshakes.

Not with smiles.

But with artifacts, bloodlines, and history.

I nodded. “I’m honored.”

“And that makes me very happy.”

I made sure not to show I’d been caught off guard. Honestly, I hadn’t brought a gift. My mind had been occupied with other matters—war and my Tiger.

Damn it. How could I mess this part up?

As if Reo heard me, Toma walked over, holding a slim black box.

What is this?

Toma set the box down on the table. “This is from the Dragon.”

I glanced at Reo. He winked. Of course he’d thought of a gift. I turned back to Jean-Pierre. “I hope this gift lives up to your tastes.”

“I know it will.” Jean-Pierre opened the box and I was genuinely curious to see what Reo could have gotten him.

Inside was a bundle of something wrapped in a soft layer of archival silk. Ivory white. Carefully bound with thin cords and some special gold seal dangled from it, shaped as a musical note.

What is this?

My instinct read it as fragile—valuable.

A document.

Paper, but not just paper.

Sacred, maybe.

Historic, definitely.

I didn’t know what it was.

Not yet.

But Jean-Pierre did.

The moment his eyes fell on it, something cracked open across his face. Not fear. Not strategy, but absolute wonder.

He leaned in, breath caught halfway between inhale and prayer.

“Could it be?” Slowly, he peeled back the silk.

Underneath lay parchment—aged to a delicate amber, brittle and immaculate.

A series of handwritten musical notations trailed across the page in fading black ink, the script baroque, slanted, and fine.

Additional markings ran through the margins—thoughts that had once flickered inside a composer’s mind now trapped forever on this aging page.

Jean-Pierre let out a breath—ragged and low. “ Mon dieu. . .”

Oh. Whatever this is. . .it is good.

His finger hovered over the parchment. “I’ve been searching for this. . .for years .”

He didn’t look at me as he spoke. He was speaking to the artifact. To the past. “To get this tonight. . .from you. . .here. . .”

Jean-Pierre straightened slightly, fingers still tracing the air above the page. “This first edition. Sheet music by Jean-Marie Leclair before it was ever published. You already know. Eighteenth-century violinist. Genius. Innovator. The father of the French violin school.”

I had no idea who that was, but I was glad Reo did.

The Butcher leaned closer, eyes devouring the notes.

Then, softly—so softly I nearly missed it—he began to murmur the melody under his breath. Just fragments. A delicate hum of phrases and rests, the rhythm trembling through his lips like he was playing the piece with his tongue .

Translating ink to breath.

His fingers followed the lines like they’d walked them before. “ Sonata in D major. . . one of my favorites.”

He closed his eyes a beat—like hearing it again filled him with aching. Then he opened his eyes and looked at me, and in his gaze, I saw the moment shift.

From diplomacy to devotion.

From conversation to oath.

He sighed. “As you probably know, he was murdered in his home in Paris. Stabbed. Slumped at the foot of his own harpsichord. And no one ever solved it.”

I smiled, truly impressed with his excitement.

The Butcher continued, lost in his obsession, “I often wondered what or who could have killed him. Jealous rival? A thief? A student? His abusive brother? Some say it was the woman who loved him. Others think it was someone who envied his brilliance and hoped to take it.”

He let out a long breath. “The truth is. . . we’ll never know, but the music remains. Art. . .it always remains long after the artist is dead and gone.”

Good job, Reo.

The gifts were taken away by my man and his, handled with ceremonial care. Then the table vanished too.

A huge smile spread across Jean-Pierre's face as he turned toward the velvet curtain. "Ah, the performance will soon begin."

Below, the orchestra finished its tuning.

The guests had all been seated, their whispers dissolving into anticipation.

The lights dimmed, and a hush fell across the gilded opera house.

The curtain rose.

The overture of The Phantom of the Opera began with a deep, ominous rumble from the organ—a haunting, thunderous note that bloomed into strings trembling. The chandeliers above the stage glinted as the opera's world unfolded: firelight flickering, dancers in powdered wigs and masks.

Jean-Pierre watched it all with amusement. "Why did you truly come to Paris, Kenji?"

I put my gaze on the prima donna gliding onto the stage. Her gown was midnight black, bodice tightly corseted. She opened her mouth and let loose a note that shattered something delicate in my bones.

I glanced at him. "I would like to buy weapons from you."

Jean-Pierre turned his head slightly. "How many?"

"Three plane-loads, if possible."

"That's a lot of firepower."

"I'm in need."

He put his view back on the stage. "Yet I've been told that the Japanese have the best weapons."

"Ahhh. My dear father was the one who told you that, I imagine."

"Indeed, the Fox said that the Yakuza armories could supply five wars."

"He wasn’t wrong. But sometimes, to mislead your enemies, you must wield a foreign blade."

Jean-Pierre's gaze sharpened, the corners of his mouth lifting with interest. "French weapons for Japanese problems?"

"No one would know they were French."

He chuckled. "We have red roses carved into the butt of our guns. Certain people would know."

"Those people would be dead before they could tell the tale."

The soprano hit a high note, pure and piercing.

Below, the Phantom's shadow crept into view, half-masked, half-mad. His hand extended toward the singer like he wanted to pull her voice from her throat and keep it as his own.

Jean-Pierre watched.

Minutes passed in silence.

Then, I spoke again. "This weapons deal would not just be business. It would be a gesture of friendship between us."

Jean-Pierre didn't turn to look at me. He watched the stage as though trying to read a message from the dead. "And how deep would that friendship be, Dragon?"

"As deep as your loyalty to this deal, Butcher."

“I would need your assistance with a very big cat.”

“It just so happens to be that trapping big cats is a hobby of mine.”

He smirked. “I give you weapons. You handle your problem, and then you assist me with our mutual problem.”

“Once my problem is solved, I will assist you.”

Jean-Pierre nodded and thought it over.

More music unfurled.

The Phantom now sang, a duet rising into a violent ache.

The opera swelled.

Masks fell.

Secrets howled from red-draped wings.

Jean-Pierre finally turned to me. "I will give you your three planes full of enough fire power to kill thousands and flatten cities. I just need twenty-four hours to make this happen."

I wanted it faster. I needed to be back with my Tiger before the next dusk. But I nodded and then gestured behind me.

The twins—Aki and Yuki—carried over sleek titanium cases.

"Payment upfront," I gestured to them. "In honor of our new friendship."

Jean-Pierre raised a brow, but his smile was satisfied. He signaled Rafael. His cousin came over, opened the case, and inspected the contents.

A chuckle came as he spotted the bundles of crisp euros, tightly packed. Rafael checked the other case that held gold bars, stamped with Yakuza sigils—a mark of lineage, not just value.

Rafael closed the cases. "You always pay beautifully, Dragon, and quickly."

"My father always said the longer the delay, the closer you are to betrayal."

Jean-Pierre nodded. "He is a clever man. Please tell him I said hello."

“I will.” I put my attention back on the stage.

I’ll tell my father that and so much more.

I watched the Phantom reach for the woman on stage. Fire blazed behind his mask.

So did mine. This deal was struck, and soon I would be home to taste my Tiger.

Rafael headed away with the cases.

My phone buzzed.

Curious, I pulled it out and checked the screen.

Nyomi.

My breath didn’t hitch. But my pulse betrayed me.

Had it been any other woman, I wouldn’t even have flinched and I definitely would have silenced the phone. Thoroughly finishing a deal was always more important.

But for my Tiger?

I would pause from burning down a city to make sure no ash got on her white dress.

Jean-Pierre watched me. “Important?”

“Very,” I nodded. “Excuse me.”

I headed off.

Reo’s brow lifted just a touch.

Hiro’s eyes tracked me in silence.

But, neither said a word.

What does my naughty tiger want?