It took several trips up and down the stairs before Huang Quan and the others finally managed to haul every last cash chest to the second floor.
"Sir," Albert reported, still slightly breathless, "after a quick count, it's roughly forty million dollars."
The old butler hadn't even taken a moment to rest—he'd led Wang Kun and the others to secure the loot upstairs, then done a rough tally himself. Even with his daily training, age was catching up to him. After a night of hard fighting and heavy lifting, his face looked pale and weary.
"Eddie, you've worked enough for one night," Chen Mo said gently. "Get some rest. We'll handle the details tomorrow."
The number didn't surprise him. The two great families had controlled all of Brooklyn's underground empire—casinos, brothels, breweries. During Prohibition alone, their illegal liquor profits had reached astronomical levels. Forty million dollars in assets was perfectly reasonable.
Howard, on the other hand, was staring at the money like a man possessed, eyes gleaming with the feverish light of a scientist who'd just discovered a new energy source.
He hadn't imagined that two local crime families could sit on such staggering wealth.
Albert, too tired to say another word, gave a short nod and left for his room.
Chen Mo watched the spark of greed dance across Howard's face and couldn't help but sigh inwardly. Me and the mafia—what a fated relationship.
From the moment he'd arrived in this world, gangsters had been the first to "contribute" to his success. They'd robbed him, and he'd taken everything back tenfold. His first fortune had come from them. His "travel expenses" to Europe? Mafia-funded. Now, once again, he'd slaughtered two families and used their decades of accumulated wealth to buy his way into Stark Industries—becoming the new boss of its founder, Howard Stark.
The mafia had practically become his personal piggy bank. Maybe I really am their natural nemesis, he thought dryly.
Meanwhile, the newly "acquired" Howard Stark was lost in thought, practically drooling over all the ways he could spend the money.
New lab equipment. Replace every outdated piece.
All those top-tier instruments I couldn't afford before? Buy them all.
Rare metals, exotic alloys—let's get a full stock.
One hundred kilos each? Too little. Make it a ton. Only a few million—cheap!
Howard's imagination was running wild. If he ran out of money later—well, wasn't his new "big boss" absurdly rich? Worst case, he'd just sell the rest of the company to Chen Mo. Either way, it would still end up in the family. My son will thank me one day, he thought smugly.
He'd never felt this rich before. Stark Industries might be worth over a hundred million on paper, but most of that was fixed assets. His actual working capital barely hit eight figures—pocket change for a man chasing the bleeding edge of science.
And when Howard Stark got excited, money burned faster than oxygen in one of his reactors. His "anti-gravity" project alone had already pushed the company to the brink.
Chen Mo looked at him, eyes glazed with greed and excitement, and could only shake his head. Hopeless.
The next morning, Brooklyn woke to a shock.
Every underground network, every gang, every smuggler heard the same unbelievable news:
The two great mafia families of Brooklyn had been wiped out overnight.
Their headquarters—once fortresses of vice—were now slaughterhouses. Not a single survivor. The two dynasties that had ruled Brooklyn's underworld for decades had been erased in a single night.
At first, no one believed it. Whispers turned to arguments, arguments to silence—until more details surfaced.
The culprits?
That dojo.
At the mention of the mysterious martial hall, everyone went quiet. They remembered Mad Dog Tony, remembered the legend of its enigmatic master, Chen Mo.
A man who fought like something beyond human.
When the full reports came in, cold sweat ran down every back. In one night, over a hundred armed men had been killed—and witnesses swore there had been only seven attackers.
Seven men.
Zero casualties.
A massacre.
Even imagining themselves in the same position, most gang leaders realized the result would've been the same: total annihilation.
By noon, a message spread through the entire district—clear, simple, and terrifying:
"All leaders of Brooklyn's underground organizations are to attend a meeting tonight at 7:00 PM.
Location: former Lucian Family Headquarters.
Absentees—face the consequences."
No one dared to defy the order.
After all, two entire families had done exactly that—and paid the ultimate price.
That evening, at the former Lucian estate, a grand mansion still stinking faintly of blood—
Two men met at the gates: Frank and Anderson, long-time players in Brooklyn's underworld. Once rivals, age and experience had turned their animosity into something like friendship.
They exchanged a silent nod and entered side by side.
The massive wrought-iron gates still lay twisted and shattered on the ground, mute witnesses to the carnage of the night before.
Both men paused, gazing down at the mangled metal, feeling a chill creep into their hearts.
As they stepped through the grand foyer, the faint coppery scent of blood still lingered in the air. The once-splendid marble hall bore dozens of bullet holes. Faded red stains marred the floor's polished surface.
Up the staircase, the smell thickened. In the crevices between the steps, dark streaks of dried blood clung like silent ghosts. The ornate handrails were shattered, the pillars cracked or broken entirely.
Each footstep echoed heavy and slow. When they glanced at one another, both saw the same emotion mirrored in the other's eyes—fear.
Reaching the second floor, they stopped before the meeting room. They'd both been here many times before—to negotiate profits, resolve disputes, carve up Brooklyn's spoils.
Back then, the man at the head of the table had been Floyd Lucian.
Now, he was nothing but another corpse.
And for the first time in their long, bloody careers, both Frank and Anderson felt not triumph… but the quiet sorrow of predators realizing the forest had a new apex hunter.