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)
“I know it will.” Jean-Pierre opened the box and I was genuinely curious to see what Reo could have gotten him.
Inside was a bundle of something wrapped in a soft layer of archival silk. Ivory white. Carefully bound with thin cords and some special gold seal dangled from it, shaped as a musical note.
What is this?
My instinct read it as fragile—valuable.
A document.
Paper, but not just paper.
Sacred, maybe.
Historic, definitely.
I didn’t know what it was.
Not yet.
But Jean-Pierre did.
The moment his eyes fell on it, something cracked open across his face. Not fear. Not strategy, but absolute wonder.
He leaned in, breath caught halfway between inhale and prayer.
“Could it be?” Slowly, he peeled back the silk.
Underneath lay parchment—aged to a delicate amber, brittle and immaculate. A series of handwritten musical notations trailed across the page in fading black ink, the script baroque, slanted, and fine. Additional markings ran through the margins—thoughts that had once flickered inside a composer’s mind now trapped forever on this aging page.
Jean-Pierre let out a breath—ragged and low. “Mon dieu. . .”
Oh. Whatever this is. . .it is good.
His finger hovered over the parchment. “I’ve been searching for this. . .for years.”
He didn’t look at me as he spoke. He was speaking to the artifact. To the past. “To get this tonight. . .from you. . .here. . .”
Jean-Pierre straightened slightly, fingers still tracing the air above the page. “This first edition. Sheet music by Jean-Marie Leclair before it was ever published. You already know. Eighteenth-century violinist. Genius. Innovator. The father of the French violin school.”
I had no idea who that was, but I was glad Reo did.
The Butcher leaned closer, eyes devouring the notes.
Then, softly—so softly I nearly missed it—he began to murmur the melody under his breath. Just fragments. A delicate hum of phrases and rests, the rhythm trembling through his lips like he was playing the piece with his tongue.
Translating ink to breath.
His fingers followed the lines like they’d walked them before. “Sonata in D major. . .one of my favorites.”
He closed his eyes a beat—like hearing it again filled him with aching. Then he opened his eyes and looked at me, and in his gaze, I saw the moment shift.
From diplomacy to devotion.
From conversation to oath.
He sighed. “As you probably know, he was murdered in his home in Paris. Stabbed. Slumped at the foot of his own harpsichord. And no one ever solved it.”
I smiled, truly impressed with his excitement.
The Butcher continued, lost in his obsession, “I often wondered what or who could have killed him. Jealous rival? A thief? A student? His abusive brother? Some say it was the woman who loved him. Others think it was someone who envied his brilliance and hoped to take it.”
He let out a long breath. “The truth is. . . we’ll never know, but the music remains. Art. . .it always remains long after the artist is dead and gone.”
Good job, Reo.
The gifts were taken away by my man and his, handled with ceremonial care. Then the table vanished too.
A huge smile spread across Jean-Pierre's face as he turned toward the velvet curtain. "Ah, the performance will soon begin."
Below, the orchestra finished its tuning.
The guests had all been seated, their whispers dissolving into anticipation.
The lights dimmed, and a hush fell across the gilded opera house.
The curtain rose.
The overture of The Phantom of the Opera began with a deep, ominous rumble from the organ—a haunting, thunderous note that bloomed into strings trembling. The chandeliers above the stage glinted as the opera's world unfolded: firelight flickering, dancers in powdered wigs and masks.
Jean-Pierre watched it all with amusement. "Why did you truly come to Paris, Kenji?"
I put my gaze on the prima donna gliding onto the stage. Her gown was midnight black, bodice tightly corseted. She opened her mouth and let loose a note that shattered something delicate in my bones.
I glanced at him. "I would like to buy weapons from you."
Jean-Pierre turned his head slightly. "How many?"
"Three plane-loads, if possible."
"That's a lot of firepower."
"I'm in need."
He put his view back on the stage. "Yet I've been told that the Japanese have the best weapons."
"Ahhh. My dear father was the one who told you that, I imagine."
"Indeed, the Fox said that the Yakuza armories could supply five wars."
"He wasn’t wrong. But sometimes, to mislead your enemies, you must wield a foreign blade."
Jean-Pierre's gaze sharpened, the corners of his mouth lifting with interest. "French weapons for Japanese problems?"
"No one would know they were French."
He chuckled. "We have red roses carved into the butt of our guns. Certain people would know."
"Those people would be dead before they could tell the tale."
The soprano hit a high note, pure and piercing.
Below, the Phantom's shadow crept into view, half-masked, half-mad. His hand extended toward the singer like he wanted to pull her voice from her throat and keep it as his own.