Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 115388 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115388 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
“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.