Chapter 9: Chapter 9

The news of Vanessa’s death hit Jason like a cold slap, his brows furrowing into a deep frown, etching a sharp crease across his forehead. He wasn’t the sentimental type—years in the underworld had carved his heart into stone, untouched by the fleeting intimacy he’d shared with her. Her death didn’t spark grief or regret, only a flicker of surprise. ’Kingpin actually did it,’ he thought, leaning back on the creaky couch in the dim warehouse, the faint scent of old furniture mingling with the lingering tang of his own blood.

In public, Kingpin had been Vanessa’s doting shadow—charming, polished, a gentleman draped in tailored suits, his every word and gesture dripping with devotion. He’d played the lovesick puppy to perfection, a far cry from the blood-soaked titan who ruled New York’s underbelly. Yet, that same lapdog had turned feral, snuffing her out with a brutality that left her mutilated and unrecognizable. ’Cold bastard,’ Jason mused, a grim respect mingling with his amusement.

From his perspective, slipping Vanessa into his bed had been a thrill—a dangerous, addictive game of power and betrayal. But flipping the script, he could imagine Kingpin’s rage, the kind that burned through reason. No man, no matter how composed, could stomach a betrayal like that without losing it. For a kingpin who’d crushed skulls for lesser insults, Vanessa’s affair was a stain on his legacy, a humiliation that demanded blood. Her gruesome end, while shocking, made sense—a tyrant’s wrath unleashed to erase his shame.

Picturing Kingpin’s apoplectic fury, Jason’s lips curled into a wicked grin. ’There’s that saying—happiness is built on someone else’s misery.’ And right now, Kingpin’s misery was his delight.

—

The day dragged on, spent holed up in the warehouse, the hours blurring as he scrolled through his burner phone, the screen’s glow casting harsh shadows across his face. The world outside was buzzing with the fallout of last night’s chaos, but he was a ghost, untouchable in his hidden sanctuary. As dusk settled, the sky darkening to a deep indigo, he decided it was time to move. He shed the Nike tracksuit, its fabric stiff with dried blood, and rummaged through the suitcase for a disguise. A threadbare cotton jacket, its seams fraying, and a pair of ripped jeans, faded and stained, transformed him into just another vagrant haunting New York’s streets.

He ran his hands over the dust-caked furniture, smearing grime across his face, neck, and hands, the grit rough against his skin. With a quick tousle, he turned his hair into a matted mess, a perfect imitation of a street rat’s disheveled mane. Glancing at his reflection in a cracked mirror, he barely recognized himself—gone was the sharp-edged enforcer, replaced by a hollow-eyed drifter, indistinguishable from the city’s countless forgotten souls. He slipped a Glock 20, fitted with a suppressor, into his jacket pocket, its weight a cold comfort against his hip, and pulled open the warehouse door.

Outside, the night was thick, the sky a starless void above the glittering Manhattan skyline. Distant skyscrapers blazed with light, their neon glow a stark contrast to the darkness at street level. Jason stretched, his joints popping, and set off toward Midtown South, his steps purposeful but unhurried, blending into the city’s pulse.

—

Kingpin’s empire wasn’t built on brute force alone. His near-superhuman strength and ruthless cunning were matched by two key lieutenants: one a warrior, the other a strategist. The warrior was Jason, a nobody from the gutters of Hell’s Kitchen, born to powerless parents scraping by on society’s fringes. With nothing but his fists and a relentless drive, he’d clawed his way up, joining Kingpin’s ranks and proving himself a force of nature. His fearless brawls and unmatched combat skills had crushed rival gangs, carving out territory for Kingpin’s empire. From nothing to feared enforcer, Jason’s rise was the stuff of legend, inspiring wide-eyed recruits who dreamed of matching his ascent.

But conquering territory was easier than holding it. Managing an empire required brains, not just brawn, and neither Jason nor Kingpin had the knack for it. Enter the strategists—Kingpin’s cadre of advisors, with James Wesley at the helm. A sharp-minded white man with a knack for logistics and diplomacy, Wesley was the linchpin of the operation, the one who kept the gears turning while Jason spilled blood. Tonight, Wesley was Jason’s target, the key to unraveling how Kingpin had uncovered his affair with Vanessa.

—

After a several-kilometer trek, Jason reached an upscale residential enclave in Midtown South, a cluster of pristine American-style villas spaced generously apart, each surrounded by manicured lawns and towering oaks. The neighborhood was a haven of quiet elegance, its streets clean, its crime rate near zero—a stark contrast to the gritty chaos of Hell’s Kitchen. Wesley lived here, drawn to its serene sophistication, a world away from the bloodshed he orchestrated. He’d once invited Jason to join him, to trade his sleek high-rise for one of these sprawling homes. Jason had declined, citing his love for the city’s frenetic energy and modern apartments over what he called “retirement-home vibes.”

At ten p.m., Midtown buzzed with life—clubs pulsing, revelers spilling across plazas in a haze of laughter and liquor. But here, the villas were dark, their windows black, the only sounds the chirping of crickets and the rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze. Jason smirked, reaffirmed in his choice. ’Me, in bed by ten? I’d rather eat a bullet.’

Wesley’s villa was modest by the neighborhood’s standards, but its sprawling 600-square-meter lawn and meticulously tended garden left an impression. Jason had visited enough times to know the layout by heart—the winding path to the front door, the rosebushes framing the porch, the faint hum of the sprinkler system. The first floor was dark, but the second-floor master bedroom glowed softly, a beacon in the night. ’Trouble sleeping, Wesley?’ Jason thought, his grip tightening on the Glock.

He circled to the back, his movements silent, and fired a suppressed shot at the rooftop security camera, the lens shattering with a faint pop.

[Ding! Damaged private property. Gained 5 Villain Points. Current progress: 465/3000.]

He tested the living room window—locked tight. The kitchen window, however, slid open with a gentle push, the frame creaking softly. He climbed through, landing noiselessly on the tiled floor, the moonlight filtering through the glass casting silver patterns across the room. The house was still, the air heavy with the scent of polished wood and lavender air freshener. A quick sweep confirmed the first floor was empty—no guards, no surprises.

Glock in hand, he crept up the stairs, each step calculated to avoid creaks. The master bedroom door was ajar, a sliver of warm light spilling through the crack, accompanied by faint voices. Jason edged closer, pressing himself against the wall, his ears straining to catch the words.

“Mm… mm…”

His face froze, a mix of disbelief and amusement. ’What the hell?’ He’d run through countless scenarios for this confrontation—Wesley plotting, scheming, or even waiting with a gun. But this? This was nowhere on his list. The unmistakable sounds of passion filtered through the door, rhythmic and unmistakable.

Jason stood rooted, torn between barging in and waiting it out. Storming in now would ruin Wesley’s night—hell, maybe his whole life. Back in the gang, they’d been on decent terms, not friends but colleagues who respected each other’s skills. Jason had decided earlier: if Wesley wasn’t behind the leak, he’d let him live. But this? ’This complicates things.’

With a sigh, he sank onto a plush second-floor couch, the leather cool against his back. ’I’m too damn nice,’ he thought, half-mocking himself. The sounds from the bedroom grew louder, more fervent, stirring memories of Wesley’s wife—her curvaceous figure, those long, sculpted legs, lips that could charm a snake. His mind wandered, the wait stretching into an agonizing five minutes, each second a test of his patience.

Finally, the noises subsided, leaving only the faint rustle of sheets. Jason’s patience snapped. He gripped the Glock, its suppressor gleaming faintly, and kicked the bedroom door open with a resounding bang. “Hey, Wesley! Got a big surprise for you—” His words died as he froze, staring at the bed. “Who the fuck are you?!”

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