Ignoring the faint restlessness brewing among the gathered men, Albert continued in his calm, steady tone.
"From now on, your way of doing business will change."
The old butler began listing the new rules and orders that Chen Mo had established.
"Smuggling, casinos, and nightclubs may continue. Protection fees may still be collected.
But once a shopkeeper pays us, their safety and interests become our responsibility.
If trouble comes their way, we settle it for them."
"However," Albert's voice deepened, "the lowly trades—extortion, theft, robbery, forced prostitution, human trafficking—will be strictly forbidden.
Anyone caught engaging in such acts will face family punishment."
As he spoke, expressions shifted across the long conference table—resentment, disbelief, barely contained anger.
Finally, someone could no longer sit still.
Seeing Chen Mo reclining in his chair with eyes closed, leaving only the white-haired butler to speak, two men exchanged a glance. One of them suddenly stood.
"We're the Mafia!" he shouted. "This is how we make our living! You think you can just tell us to quit overnight? The brothers won't stand for it!"
His words struck the room like a slap. Silence fell instantly.
All eyes turned toward the head of the table—toward Chen Mo and Albert.
Frank glanced at Anderson. The two men exchanged a grim look.
"As expected," Frank muttered under his breath, "they couldn't swallow it."
When the two great families had been wiped out, the happiest men in Brooklyn were Harris and Walker.
Their factions had been the strongest after the two families, and upon hearing the news, they were ecstatic—already plotting to take out the other and seize total control of Brooklyn.
As for the martial hall, power had gone straight to their heads. They naïvely assumed Chen Mo's people were merely skilled assassins who had infiltrated the two families by night—how else could seven people destroy over a hundred armed men without a scratch?
They had forgotten that "Mad Dog" Tony's entire gang had been slaughtered the same way—by Chen Mo himself.
In their minds, the martial hall was simply a den of elite killers.
And they blamed the fallen families for being complacent, ruling Brooklyn for too many years and letting their defenses rot.
If only they'd known, they mused, we could've hired assassins ourselves and taken the throne long ago.
When word spread that the martial hall had summoned every major underworld boss to a meeting, both men were stunned.
After killing Tony, the hall had remained silent, content in isolation.
So why change now?
Could it be… they too wanted the crown of Brooklyn's underground king?
Feeling their empire threatened, Harris and Walker grew restless.
Seven men or not, that hall was dangerous—and no one knew how strong they truly were.
By noon, Walker had found Harris. Former rivals became temporary allies.
The plan was simple: kill Chen Mo's people tonight and divide Brooklyn between them.
Of course, promises made in whispers rarely meant anything. What either man truly planned, no one knew.
From the moment Chen Mo entered the meeting room, they had been watching for their chance.
When they heard the new "rules," they realized—this was it.
Surely the others shared their anger. Surely this was the time to strike.
Yes… now was the moment.
They sneered inwardly at Chen Mo's arrogance—allowing them to enter armed, as if he could dodge bullets.
How naïve. But that would save them the trouble.
Once he was dead, fear would do the rest.
Albert, unfazed by Harris's outburst, merely gave him a calm glance.
Then he asked the room in a voice smooth as steel, "Does anyone else share that opinion?"
No one answered.
Walker chuckled, stood, and said arrogantly, "Brooklyn belongs to us—the Mafia. We decide how to run it."
Albert ignored him completely and repeated, "Anyone else?"
"We're enough!" Harris snapped. The two men exchanged a vicious look.
A heartbeat later, they drew their pistols and aimed straight at Chen Mo and Albert.
Chen Mo, who had been sitting motionless with his eyes closed, opened them at last.
Cold light flashed in his gaze—murderous, sharp, and suffocating.
"So this," he said icily, "is what you rely on?"
Under that gaze, the two gunmen felt their blood run cold.
But the solid weight of the metal in their hands steadied their nerves.
So what if he's terrifying? they thought. No one can outrun a bullet.
"You're strong, I'll give you that," Harris sneered, raising his weapon. "But can you stop a bullet?
You really are either overconfident—or stupid. No searches, no guards—just sitting there waiting to die.
See this? One pull of the trigger, and you're finished."
Chen Mo met his eyes, expression unchanging.
"Go ahead. Try."
Harris barked a laugh. "Still mouthing off? Let's see if you can dodge this—die!"
He began to squeeze the trigger—already picturing the fear in the others' faces, the power, the glory of becoming Brooklyn's new ruler.
But beside Chen Mo, old Albert didn't move to block the shot.
He simply stood there, serene as ever—watching, as if waiting for the show to begin.