Page 25 of The Dragon 2 (Tokyo Empire #2)

Chapter twenty-two

The Dragon Above It All

Kenji

War, when done right, wasn’t a brawl. It was flight. A hunt from above. The spread of wings—hungry, slow, spiraling.

Then the drop.

The moment before oblivion.

War was fiery breath—held tight in my chest, heating, until I exhaled and burned the world with my flames.

In this war with my father, I would not be a courageous soldier or mighty colonel.

I would be the dragon above it all.

This morning, I had returned to Japan with three planes full of death. One touched down in Chiba, one at a private airstrip near Saitama, and the last, an abandoned air hangar near the rice fields of Tochigi.

They arrived before 4:00 a.m., under cover of low visibility and mist.

No airport lights.

No flight logs.

All crew members were Scales.

No pattern.

No trail.

Each plane carried cargo bays brimming with crates, packed tight with modified assault rifles, titanium-core bullets, smoke grenades, and black-market C4 that could flatten a city block.

Many of the guns bore a grotesque kind of beauty.

There were roses carved into the butts, just like the Butcher had said.

The rifles were lacquered obsidian, inlaid with cherry blossom filigree.

Some even had piano key triggers. A few bombs had diamond-studded musical notes etched along their shells—tiny treble clefs and crescendos.

Hand grenades were sculpted like Fabergé eggs.

Only the Butcher would make death so decadent—couture instruments of war.

The plan was already moving beneath the surface.

While I spent time with my Tiger tonight, Hiro would be monitoring our people across the country and planting bombs in every major artillery warehouse my father controlled. Seventeen districts, fourteen teams, and over two hundred men—all following the pulse of my plan.

Locations had been scouted. Guard rotations were observed. Every port, warehouse, and high-rise my father’s people touched was marked. From Shinjuku to Yokohama, we were already inside.

And more than his weapons would explode. I had my scope centered on his four prefectures, shell companies, and hundreds of his secret operative headquarters.

Everything would be burning on schedule.

Plus, all targets had shadow targets.

If one failed, the second would detonate.

No hesitation.

No mercy.

Redundancy was not a precaution.

It was principle.

When time came, the Claws would carry out the strikes, the Fangs would enforce the silence, and the Scales would cover the edges—guarding the brothels, banks, and bureaucrats my father thought he still owned.

My father knew what he did in that hospital. He’d broken Hiro’s heart and enraged me. Therefore, he thought it would be wise to put his people in control of all our weapons. Surely, he wanted to make sure I didn’t take any out and move against him.

But Hiro wasn’t broken in the way my father thought. Since returning to Tokyo, Hiro hadn’t spoken. He had a neutral face, and remained watchful, but I saw it. The pain was there—in his eyes, in the way he held himself tighter than usual.

When I went over the war plan again, Hiro didn’t nod. Didn’t blink. Just stood there, silent, distant, unreachable.

But I noticed the keychain—a chipped anime figurine hung from his belt now. Reo told me it was something Nura had won in the claw machine during their date night in Akihabara.

I doubt she even meant for him to keep it.

She probably laughed when she handed it over, teasing him about luck.

But Hiro had never been good at letting go of the things that made him feel human.

While I had a date with my Tiger, I knew how this night would be for my brother. Hiro would be alone in a locked room, holding that ridiculous little charm like it was sacred. A wound he didn’t want stitched closed just yet.

And then he would go out. Carry out the plan with cold, perfect precision. Because that’s who Hiro was. A silent ache turned into the deadliest blade.

Regardless, when we returned to Tokyo, we caught the rumors in the east that said the Fox had already picked a new heir.

Not me. Not Hiro. One of his many bastard sons.

Akiro Hanabusa. They called him the Glass Thorn—sharp, pretty, and easy to underestimate.

Raised in a ryokan with a stage mother and a blade collection, Akiro was the kind of boy who smiled as he poisoned the tea.

Hiro and I met him once when we were young. I was maybe thirteen, Hiro eleven. He’d been brought to my father’s birthday party and paraded like a novelty. I think he was barely ten.

Hiro ignored him. I tried to speak to him. Akiro said nothing. Just looked at us like we didn’t deserve his attention.

Years passed.

I didn’t see him again until my father quietly moved him into control of the Osaka operations—sliding him into power like a knife between the ribs.

I reached out.

He declined.

If Akiro got in my way with this war, I would kill the brother I never got a chance to love. Not because I hated him. But because we were both our father’s sons.

Right now, I bet the Fox figured he had our empire in his full control.

But when the time came, not only would our explosives wipe out his weapons stockpile, but they would also crush his doubled security forces that had grown too confident behind metal gates.

Of course, Reo didn’t like the plan—he still worried about the insects in the building, vermin and pests we hadn’t yet identified—but I’d overruled him.

My plan would be cleaner than blood in the streets, safer than stray bullets killing innocent people.

Even more, I’d drafted three alternate outcomes. All ending with my father bleeding.

The Fox believed I’d been tamed by grief and his pathetic show of dominance in his hospital room. Let him. I wanted his soldiers slow with comfort, soft with arrogance. I wanted them asleep when the city lit up.

By the time he realized what I’d done, there would be nothing left to salvage.

Not his empire.

Not his pride.

Not even his name.

However, the bombs wouldn’t detonate yet.

Not tonight.

I needed these next few days to breathe.

To fuck.

To worship my Tiger the way she deserved.

Her voice echoed in my head—low, sleepy, tinged with that wild edge she thought she could hide. But it wasn’t her words I felt. It was the kiss. That final moment before we parted. When I pulled her in and devoured her lips like I hadn’t eaten in years.

I could still taste her breath—sweet, electric, threaded with lust.

Her hands had trembled against my chest, not from fear, but from the force of holding.

Even now, I could feel the ghost of her mouth on mine. Every time I closed my eyes, I was back inside it, devouring her all over again.

Nyomi. . .

I didn’t know what peace felt like anymore. But I knew peace sounded like Nyomi’s laughter when she forgot she was guarded, and it would also be the moans of her surrender. It probably smelled like her skin—black amber and ripe plum.

If I died in this war, I wanted that scent in my lungs.

So. . .for now. . .I’d let the city sleep while I held her.

Let my enemies dream while I fell deeper into her soul.

The reckoning could wait, just long enough for me to taste her pussy and make her voice hoarse from moaning my name.

Finally, I will see her.