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)
There was silence.
I felt the pulse of mafia politics threading beneath this conversation. Power shifting tectonic plates that were invisible until the earthquake started.
Jean-Pierre was probing our possible alliance. Now I knew why he had the female assassins in the lobby. It wasn’t to keep himself safe, it was to test how strong and smart we were. If we were worthy enough to have an alliance.
He was calculating how close he could get to cutting Kazimir’s throat without staining his own suit.
And his intended position for me?
I was sure the Butcher wanted to me to take the knife and use it on the Lion.
I must be careful. . .
The West was so fickle. This year the Butcher could want the Lion dead. Years later, he could be the Lion’s best friend.
I would need to protect my position.
Jean-Pierre studied me. Soon a smile formed on his face. “Speaking of friendship.”
I quirked my brows.
He turned and raised one hand toward the back of the box.
I turned with him.
Two men emerged from the darkness carrying items.
What does the Butcher have planned for us now?
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.”