"Bang!" Harris grinned viciously as he pulled the trigger. The bullet burst from the barrel, tearing through the air faster than the eye could follow, heading straight for Chen Mo's brow. For a man who'd clawed his way to the top of a criminal empire, Harris's marksmanship was far from shabby.
But in Chen Mo's eyes, time seemed to slow. He could see the spinning bullet inch closer and closer. Tilting his head slightly, he let it whistle past his ear and bury itself deep in the wall behind him.
When he straightened again, Chen Mo looked at Harris with utter disdain.
That cruel smile was still frozen on Harris's lips—but his pupils had shrunk to pinpoints. Terror washed over his face as cold sweat slid down his temples. His gun hand trembled violently.
Beside him, Walker—who'd been silently cursing himself for letting Harris steal the spotlight—had been preparing to capitalize on the chaos once Chen Mo was shot.
But as the gun fired and the bullet missed, he froze, staring in disbelief. Chen Mo had dodged a bullet.
For a long moment, no one moved.
Every boss in the room sat frozen in shock, unable to comprehend what they'd just seen. A man… dodging a bullet? That wasn't human.
The conference room fell into deathly silence—until a burst of automatic gunfire erupted from outside the window.
The sudden noise snapped everyone back to reality. Harris and Walker exchanged alarmed glances, a sinking dread rising in their chests. Slowly, they turned their eyes toward Chen Mo.
"I didn't just let you two bring in your guns," Chen Mo said coolly, his voice carrying across the silent room. "I also allowed your men to sneak into the alley across the street."
Harris and Walker's faces went pale. "How—how do you know that?"
They finally realized: their every move, every hidden arrangement—he'd known all along.
"You planned to strike the moment the gun fired," Chen Mo continued evenly.
"Your men would rush in, seize control of the room, eliminate me, then turn your guns on each other's crews—until only you two remained.
Then you'd rule what's left of Brooklyn together, right?"
"You—how could you—!" Harris's voice cracked, his mind spinning. Chen Mo had peeled their entire plan apart, word for word. It was as if they were standing naked before him, every secret exposed.
Outside, the gunfire raged for another moment, then fell silent.
Harris and Walker dared to hope—maybe their men had won. Maybe any second now, they'd burst in and turn the tide.
The door opened.
A muscular Chinese man in black combat gear strode in, rifle slung across his back.
"Master," Han Qing reported crisply, "all hostiles have been neutralized. No casualties on our side."
Harris and Walker's last hope shattered.
Chen Mo waved for Han Qing to leave, then turned his cold gaze back on the trembling pair.
"Still want to fight?"
Their hands shook, but they didn't lower their guns. Without their men, those pistols were all they had left—but after what they'd just witnessed, the weapons in their hands looked more like toys than threats.
Under Chen Mo's oppressive aura, fear twisted into desperation.
With nothing left to lose, both men chose to go down swinging.
But they never got the chance.
The instant their eyes hardened with intent, before their fingers could even tighten on the triggers, Chen Mo's hands moved.
Two flashes. Two gunshots.
When the sound faded, both men sat motionless, twin holes in their foreheads leaking thin streams of blood.
Their bodies slumped forward. The pistols clattered onto the conference table, mocking them in death.
The men sitting nearby were splattered with blood and brain matter—but none dared move.
Cold sweat mixed with crimson as it rolled down their faces.
Chen Mo leaned back in his chair, eyes closing again as if nothing had happened.
Albert adjusted his glasses and swept the room with a calm gaze.
"Well then," he said evenly, "no objections remain. Let's continue."
The bosses sat stiffly, listening as if the execution hadn't happened.
Only the blood slowly spreading across the floor reminded them that, in mere minutes, two of Brooklyn's mightiest men had ceased to exist.
Among them, Frank and Anderson were the calmest. To them, it didn't matter who ruled—so long as their families were left in peace.
If Chen Mo's rules demanded less crime and more order, so be it. Better to live quietly and grow old in comfort than to end up like the two corpses cooling at their feet.
But Albert's next words took even them by surprise.
While restricting the worst crimes, Chen Mo had also mapped out a new future for them.
The Martial Hall would provide funding and guidance to move into legitimate industries—construction, transport, food, clothing, livestock, dining, real estate.
Clean money, big profits, no blood.
At first, they had obeyed out of fear alone. Chen Mo's power was overwhelming, yes—but fear only went so far. To earn true loyalty, one needed both strength and reward.
Now, he had both.
His strength was undeniable—inhuman, almost divine.
And Albert's vision of wealth and legitimacy tempted even the most hardened criminals.
Power and profit, hand in hand.
Together, they bound every man in that room to Chen Mo's will.
That night, in the depths of Brooklyn—
a new Family was born.