Page 83 of The Dragon 2
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.
