A/N:- You people are not donating power stones. Why?
The three Irish Mob bosses exchanged a flurry of glances, their eyes flickering with unspoken tension. The two lieutenants finally turned their pleading gazes toward their leader, their expressions practically begging him to take the fall. The head boss's face flushed with fury, his jaw clenching so hard his teeth ground audibly.
'You fucking dogs', He thought, his blood boiling. 'You're praying I walk into this death trap, aren't you?'
In front of Billy, he couldn't let his rage show. Swallowing his pride, he forced a tight, insincere smile, his voice dripping with false courtesy. "Well, if Mr. Walter's so keen on this invitation, I suppose I can postpone my overseas trip. Three days from now, I'll be right here, ready to attend his little soiree."
Billy's lips curled into a satisfied smirk, his eyes glinting with approval. "Smart fucking move," He said, his tone carrying just enough menace to remind them who he represented. "The invitation's delivered, and Mr. Walter's expectations are clear. I won't waste any more of your time. Gentlemen." He gave a slight nod, a mocking gesture of respect, and turned on his heel, striding out of the smoke-choked office with the swagger of a man who knew he'd won.
The heavy door thudded shut behind him, and the moment his footsteps faded into the distance, the three bosses collapsed onto their leather sofas, their faces pale, as if they'd just stared death in the eye. The head boss clutched his head, his voice a raw, desperate wail. "What the fuck do we do now?"
One of the lieutenants, a wiry man with a crooked nose, slammed his fist on the table. "That bastard Jason's gonna gut us like fish. We can't just sit here and wait for the slaughter."
The other, a heavyset man with a scarred cheek, leaned forward, his voice low but urgent. "The way that guy talked, Jason's not just inviting us. He's calling in every major player in New York. Let's make some calls, see who else got the invite. We need to team up, figure out a plan to deal with this psychotic fuck."
The head boss nodded, his eyes narrowing with grim determination. "Good call. New York's gangs are at a fucking crossroads—life or death. If we don't band together, Jason'll swallow us whole, one by one."
---
Billy strolled out of the factory, the cool morning air hitting his face like a slap after the stifling cigar smoke inside. He slid into the passenger seat of the SUV, where Franklin was waiting, one earbud plugged in, listening to the entire exchange through the bug in Billy's hair. A grin spread across Franklin's face as he confirmed the Irish boss had taken the bait. Mission accomplished.
Franklin stretched, his joints popping as he leaned back in the driver's seat. "We got time to kill. Wanna hit the town, make some trouble?"
Both men were decked out in ultra-thin, lifelike disguises—prosthetic masks so flawless not even a cop with a magnifying glass would clock them. As long as they didn't do anything too stupid, they were ghosts in the city.
Billy laughed, his deep voice rumbling. "Fuck yeah. I've been cooped up so long, I'd kill for a burger and a beer. Pick a spot, I don't care."
Franklin patted his pocket, the wad of cash inside crinkling. His grin turned sleazy, the kind of look that screamed trouble. "There's a 24-hour strip club a few blocks from here. Top-shelf whiskey, girls that'll make your eyes pop out. What do you say? We grab a drink and enjoy the view?"
Billy's face lit up like a kid on Christmas. "Hell yes! But you're picking up the tab, you cheap bastard."
---
Meanwhile, in Queens, John maneuvered his sleek black sedan through the borough's maze of streets, his silent intensity filling the car like a storm cloud. Beside him sat one of Jason's handpicked goons, a wiry ex-con with a nervous twitch, clutching an envelope sealed with the Joker Organization's mark. Their target: the Mexican cartel, the new kids on the block who'd cornered the drug trade—cocaine, meth, and every other poison flooding New York's veins.
Before Kingpin's fall, the city's drug market had been Madame Gao's domain, her iron grip unchallenged. After her death, Kingpin had sent his lackey Wesley to Mexico to rope in a big-time narco. But that poor bastard's luck ran dry the moment he set foot on U.S. soil—Stan's DEA crew had taken him down in a brutal sting, leaving the drug trade wide open. The promise of cutting out the middleman and raking in obscene profits drew Mexico's top cartels like moths to a flame. After a bloody turf war, the Guzman family, one of Mexico's top three narco dynasties, had emerged victorious, planting their flag in Queens.
John parked the car in a secluded corner, the sedan blending into the shadows of a crumbling overpass. He handed his goon a tiny listening device, his voice cold and precise. "Stick this in your ear. Keep your mouth shut unless you're delivering the message. And don't fuck this up."
The goon nodded, his Adam's apple bobbing as he tucked the device into his ear. He stepped out, clutching the envelope like a lifeline, and ventured into the slum. The uneven pavement crunched under his boots, potholes brimming with filthy water. Piles of trash loomed like mountains, their stench choking the air. Eyes watched him from every corner—desperate, bloodshot, feral. The slum's residents, driven mad by poverty and hunger, saw him as prey, a walking paycheck in a world where a few bucks could mean another day alive.
The goon's heart pounded, his palms slick with sweat as he felt the weight of those stares. A group of vagrants began to circle, their movements slow but deliberate, like wolves closing in. One man, his face gaunt and scarred, trailed him, his footsteps eerily silent. The crowd grew thicker, hemming him in, their eyes gleaming with violent intent. He swallowed hard, his hand twitching toward the empty holster at his side—John had made sure he was unarmed to avoid trouble.
Just as panic set in, a group of dark-skinned, heavily armed Mexicans emerged from a ramshackle building, AK-47s slung across their backs. Their leader, a stocky man with a shaved head and a gold chain glinting against his chest, barked, "Who the fuck are you, and what do you want?"
The goon exhaled, relief flooding his system. "Thank fucking Christ," He muttered under his breath, then straightened, forcing authority into his voice. "I'm here on behalf of Mr. Jason Walter. I need to see Mr. Guzman."
He swept his gaze over the crowd, daring them to challenge him. The mention of Jason's name sent a ripple of shock through the onlookers. The vagrants hesitated, their predatory stares shifting to fear or disbelief, and they turned their attention to the cartel enforcers, waiting for a cue.
The lead enforcer's eyes narrowed. "Wait here," He growled, disappearing into the building to report to his boss.
Five minutes later, he returned, his expression grim. "Boss'll see you. Let's go."
The goon's relief was short-lived. A black hood was yanked over his head, plunging him into darkness. Rough hands patted him down, searching for weapons, their fingers lingering just long enough to make him flinch. Satisfied, they shoved him forward, guiding him through a twisting path of corridors that reeked of weed and gun oil. After what felt like an eternity, the hood was ripped off, and he blinked against the harsh light of a gaudy, over-decorated room.
The space was a tacky monument to narco excess—gold-plated fixtures, velvet drapes, and a massive chandelier that looked wildly out of place. A group of men lounged on plush sofas, dressed in T-shirts, cargo shorts, and flip-flops, their casual attire clashing with the room's opulence. These were the Guzman family, the cartel's elite, and to the goon, they looked like a bunch of tasteless, nouveau-riche hillbillies who'd struck it rich selling dope.
"Where's the fucking letter?" One of them barked, a lanky man with a neck tattoo of a snarling jaguar.
The goon bristled, his pride stung. He was Jason Walter's fucking emissary, and these lowlife drug lords had the gall to talk to him like some street punk? He opened his mouth to snap back, but the cold, murderous glint in the man's eyes stopped him cold, a shiver racing down his spine. Swallowing his retort, he handed over the envelope with a forced nod. "Here."
The man snatched it, tearing it open with a sneer and passing the invitation to the head of the family, Mr. Guzman, a stocky man in a tailored suit that did little to hide his brutal aura. The goon cleared his throat, channeling John's instructions. "Three days from now, Mr. Walter's hosting a dinner for New York's top bosses. He expects you there."
Guzman scanned the letter, his face unreadable, then tossed it to the floor like it was trash. "Tell Jason I'm busy. Cartel business doesn't stop. I'm not going."
The goon's jaw tightened, but he remembered John's warning—don't back down. He squared his shoulders, his voice cold and deliberate. "Mr. Walter's put a lot of fucking weight on this dinner. If you no-show, he's gonna be pissed. And you know what happens when Jason Walter gets pissed. Don't make me spell it out."
The room erupted. Guzman's crew leapt to their feet, curses flying like bullets.
"Fuck you, cabrón!" One shouted, his face twisted with rage.
"Are you threatening the boss? You're fucking dead!"
"Throw this pendejo in the dog cage!"
"Yeah, the mutts haven't eaten in days!"
They surged forward, fists clenched, ready to tear him apart. The goon's heart raced, his instincts screaming to fight back, but before he could move, a pair of hands grabbed him from behind, pinning his arms. A meaty fist crashed into his face, the impact like a sledgehammer. Blood sprayed as his nose snapped, cartilage crunching. Two teeth shattered, the coppery taste flooding his mouth as he staggered, vision swimming with pain.
.
.
.
.
You can read advance chapters and view R-18 images of the characters on pat reon page.
pat reon.com/GreenBlue17
500 power stones.
Top 50. All time.