Franklin gunned the engine of the black SUV, the tires humming against the cracked pavement as he and Billy rolled into Manhattan's Clinton District, better known as Hell's Kitchen. The streets reeked of stale beer, piss, and desperation—a fitting throne for the Irish Mob, the reigning kings of this gritty urban jungle.
The Irish Mob was no newcomer to Hell's Kitchen. They'd ruled these streets with an iron fist for decades, their legacy soaked in blood and whiskey, until Kingpin muscled in and kicked them to the curb. But with Kingpin's empire now a smoldering ruin, the Irish had swooped back in like vultures, reclaiming their old turf with a vengeance. According to Stan's intel, they had two to three hundred professional triggermen—hardened killers ready to die for the cause.
Franklin eased the SUV into a shadowy alley three blocks from the Irish Mob's stronghold, the engine's growl fading to a low purr. The alley was a claustrophobic slit between crumbling brick buildings, littered with overflowing dumpsters and the faint skitter of rats. He killed the ignition and turned to Billy, pulling a tiny, high-tech listening device from his pocket. "Here," He said, handing it over. "Stick this in that fucking mop you call hair."
Billy, a hulking brute with a mane of wild, greasy curls, grinned as he tucked the device deep into his hair, securing it with practiced ease. "Got it, boss."
"You remember what to say when you get in there?" Franklin asked, his voice low, eyes narrowing as he studied Billy's face for any sign of hesitation.
Billy nodded, his grin never faltering. "Hand the invite to the Irish Mob's boss, tell him Mr. Walter's hosting a dinner three days from now, and he's expected to show."
Franklin leaned closer, his tone hardening. "Good. But listen up, Billy. You're not just some errand boy—you're representing the Joker Organization, you're representing *Jason*. You walk in there with your chest out, your voice hard, and your balls bigger than theirs. Don't let those fuckers think they can look down on us."
Billy flashed an 'OK' sign with his thick fingers, his eyes gleaming with a mix of confidence and reckless excitement. He shoved open the door, the hinges creaking, and stepped out into the alley, his boots crunching on broken glass as he headed toward the Irish Mob's lair.
The mob's headquarters was disguised as a nondescript machine shop, its faded sign proclaiming "O'Malley's Precision Mechanics" to anyone dumb enough to believe it. Tucked away in a quiet corner of Hell's Kitchen, the place was a fortress hidden from casual eyes, its true purpose known only to those who swam in the city's underbelly.
Billy crossed three blocks, his heavy footsteps echoing in the predawn stillness, until he reached the factory's front gate. A handful of Irish goons lounged outside, their bloodshot eyes half-lidded from a long night of drinking. They yawned, scratching at their stubble, but snapped to attention when they spotted Billy's hulking frame approaching. Hands instinctively drifted to the guns tucked in their waistbands, their postures tensing like coiled snakes.
Billy raised his hands, palms out, a disarming smile plastered on his face as he stopped ten meters out. "Easy, boys," He called, his voice steady but laced with a subtle threat. "I'm here on behalf of Mr. Jason Walter. Got a message for your boss."
The goons froze, their eyes widening at the mention of Jason's name. One of them, a wiry thug with a scar slashing across his cheek, stepped forward, his hand still hovering near his pistol. "You're talking about *the* Jason Walter?" He asked, his thick Irish accent dripping with suspicion.
Billy's smile widened, all teeth and menace. "The one and only. The guy who fucked up New York and L.A., kidnapped Hollywood's finest, and made Tony fucking Stark look like a chump. That Jason Walter."
The goons exchanged uneasy glances, their bravado faltering. Jason's name was a legend in the underworld, a boogeyman who'd climbed from Kingpin's top gunman to a one-man wrecking crew. Even these lowlife enforcers knew his rep—knew the stories of bodies piled high and entire gangs reduced to ash.
"Wait here," The scarred thug muttered, his voice tight. He darted inside, the heavy steel door slamming behind him as he went to fetch the boss. The others kept their eyes locked on Billy, fingers twitching near their weapons, but none dared make a move.
Billy stood his ground, his smile never wavering, relishing the fear in their eyes. Back in Long Island's prison, when he'd thrown his lot in with Jason, it had been a gamble. Now, standing here as the Joker Organization's envoy, he knew he'd bet on the right fucking horse.
Less than three minutes later, the scarred thug returned, out of breath and sweating. He bent slightly at the waist, a gesture of deference that made Billy's grin widen. "This way, sir," He said, his tone respectful. "Boss'll see you."
Billy gave a curt nod and followed, striding into the factory with the confidence of a man who knew he was untouchable. Inside, the air was thick with the stench of oil and rust. Dim, flickering lights cast a sickly yellow glow over the workshop, where ancient lathes sat covered in cobwebs, their surfaces pitted with neglect. The place was a front, a hollow shell hiding the mob's true operations.
The thug led Billy through a maze of corridors, their footsteps echoing off the concrete walls, until they reached a brighter room that reeked of a dive bar. The space was alive with the clink of glasses, the low rumble of laughter, and the acrid bite of cigarette smoke. A dozen burly men lounged around, their muscles straining against tight shirts, guns resting casually on tables or tucked into holsters. They eyed Billy like wolves sizing up prey.
The thug guiding him lowered his voice, almost apologetic. "Sorry, sir, but we gotta check you for weapons before you see the boss. House rules."
Billy spread his arms wide, his expression cool as ice. "I know the drill. Go ahead, pat me down."
Two beefy enforcers stepped forward, their hands rough but thorough as they frisked him, checking every inch for hidden blades or guns. Finding nothing, they stepped back, and the lead thug gestured toward a heavy wooden door at the far end of the room. "Boss is in there, sir."
Billy gave a mock salute and sauntered through the gauntlet of hard stares, his steps deliberate, his posture radiating authority. He pushed open the door, stepping into a spacious office thick with the choking haze of premium cigar smoke. The air was so dense it stung his eyes, and he waved a hand to clear it, muttering, "Fuck, they trying to hotbox this place?"
Four leather sofas formed a square in the center of the room, three occupied by middle-aged men in tailored suits, their faces weathered by years of violence and power. The fourth sofa sat empty, waiting. As Billy entered, the men shot to their feet, their movements tense, their eyes flickering with a mix of curiosity and dread.
"You're one of Jason Walter's men?" The lead boss asked, his voice gravelly, his Irish accent thick. He was a broad man with a ruddy face, his suit straining against his barrel chest.
Billy nodded, holding up the sealed envelope with a flourish. "That's right. This is from Mr. Walter himself."
The boss gestured to the empty sofa. "Take a seat."
Billy sank into the leather, the cushions creaking under his weight. He placed the invitation on the polished table and slid it forward with a deliberate flick of his wrist. "Mr. Walter wants to discuss the future of New York's underworld. A brighter future, one where everyone gets a piece. Three days from now, at six p.m., he's hosting a dinner. A car will pick you up."
The boss tore open the envelope, his eyes scanning the elegant script—Harley's handiwork, no doubt. He passed it to the man beside him, forcing a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "An honor to be invited by Mr. Walter," He said, his tone strained. "But, uh, as it happens, I've got business overseas that day. Might not make it."
Billy's smile vanished, his eyes darkening as he leaned forward, his voice rising with a sharp edge. "Let me make this crystal fucking clear. This isn't a suggestion—it's a summons from Jason Walter. He's expecting every single one of you to show up, on time, ready to talk business. If you blow him off, if you make him even a little pissed…" He let the words hang, his grin returning, cold and predatory. "Do I need to spell out what happens when you cross a man who makes Tony Stark look like a bitch?"
The three bosses exchanged glances, their faces a kaleidoscope of fear, frustration, and resignation. They were older than Jason, had watched him rise from a punk street thug to Kingpin's deadliest enforcer, only to turn on his mentor and tear his empire apart. Jason Walter was a ruthless, amoral bastard—a killer who didn't blink, a predator who didn't spit out the bones. To them, he was the devil incarnate.
This dinner, three days away, was a trap—a fucking Hongmen Banquet. Show up, and they'd be handing their lives to Jason on a silver platter. Refuse, and they'd face the wrath of a superpowered lunatic who'd already humiliated billionaires and toppled empires. Their measly crews, with their outdated guns and street muscle, didn't stand a chance against him.
The lead boss swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "We'll… consider it," He said weakly, his voice barely above a whisper.
Billy stood, towering over the table, his smile all teeth. "You do that. Mr. Walter doesn't like to be kept waiting."
.
.
.
.
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.