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)
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.