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)
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?
Chapter fifteen
Gods and Monsters
Kenji
A woman approached—bare, radiant, and wearing diamond-encrusted stilettos.
There were no diamonds on her body.
No veil of glamour to hide behind.
Just soft flesh, curves dipped in light, and a gaze trained like a weapon.
In each hand, she held a crystal flute of champagne.
When she reached us, she extended the glasses wordlessly. Then leaned in toward me. Close. Her mouth hovered just above my collarbone, parted slightly—like she wanted to taste power but hadn’t been given permission.
She didn’t touch me.
She knew better.
The Butcher took his glass first, never breaking eye contact with me as he sipped—watching the show he’d orchestrated, waiting to see if I would blink, flinch, or fold into the woman’s seduction.
I didn’t.
My hunger wore a different face.
While this woman was exquisite, she could never be a tiger. And I was finding that from now on, I could only get hard for the real thing.
Still, the woman lingered for a breath—long enough to let her scent mingle with the champagne, long enough to see if I’d turn my head and chase pussy instead of strategy.
When I didn’t, she straightened with a smile too polished to be personal.
Then she turned, hips swaying, heels glittering with every step as she walked away.
The Butcher watched her go, then finally spoke—his voice smooth, low, and laced with something almost musical. “Paris likes to offer its pleasures first, before the pain begins.”
“Yet, Tokyo is all about pain first, and then the reward of pleasure.”
The Butcher’s smile didn’t move, but his eyes shifted—a minute tic, a recalibration. Then, he nodded and raised his glass. “Welcome to the opera, Kenji.”
“Thank you, Jean-Pierre.” I bowed my head slightly. “I am glad you were able to set time aside for me, since you just returned.”
He blinked. Not a flinch. Not a frown. Just the briefest hesitation in breath and eye—half a second too long to be casual.