In the subterranean basement of the "Lady Luck" casino, the air was so thick with the smell of copper and cordite it was almost suffocating.
Bodies lay sprawled haphazardly between the overturned blackjack tables and beneath the blinking slot machines. Blood that hadn't yet congealed pooled in the low-lying dips of the expensive carpet.
Anthony stood dead center in the room, his polished leather shoe resting casually on Raymond's unseeing face.
Just a few hours prior, Patrick Donald's most trusted lieutenant had been dreaming of taking full control of the Queens underworld. Now, all that remained of those ambitions was a dark, neat bullet hole in his forehead.
Anthony's gaze swept over the slaughterhouse he had orchestrated, his eyes reflecting neither adrenaline nor disgust. It was simply business.
The long craps table in front of him had been repurposed as a staging area for the loot.
Bundles of hundred-dollar bills, bound tightly with thick rubber bands, were stacked like green bricks into small mountains. A massive arsenal had been piled next to the cash: rusty revolvers, brand-new Glocks, sawed-off pump shotguns, and several AR-15s equipped with tactical optics.
Next to the guns lay the narcotics—transparent, vacuum-sealed bags packed with white powder, brightly colored pills, and heavy bricks of brown heroin.
Finally, there were the operational assets: property deeds, handwritten ledgers, burner phones, and encrypted laptops.
Several Tarasov enforcers stood around the table. They looked physically exhausted, but their eyes burned with the manic energy of a massive victory.
"The final count is complete, Boss," a heavy-set enforcer reported, his voice hoarse from shouting over the gunfire earlier in the night. "We secured $24.78 million in hard cash. The street value of the narcotics is roughly another $10 million."
Anthony nodded, ignoring the mountains of cash. He picked up one of the physical ledgers and flipped through the pages.
"The Crips' financial streams are much cleaner than I anticipated," Anthony muttered, tracing the columns of numbers with his finger. "Protection rackets, the casino, loan sharking, and the drug transit lines only account for forty percent of their projected revenue."
"Patrick Donald is a coward," the enforcer laughed. "He was terrified of the DEA building a RICO case, so he never dared to expand the heavy narcotics lines."
Anthony tossed the ledger back onto the table, feeling a slight twinge of disappointment. He had assumed he would seize at least a hundred million from the Crips' primary vault, but Patrick had been hoarding his capital elsewhere.
Sergei strode briskly through the blood-stained room, carefully stepping over the corpses to reach Anthony.
"Boss," Sergei reported in a low voice. "Victor's sweep is complete. Pavel performed well; the boy is fine. DeShawn's Bloods are currently outside aggressively seizing the surrounding blocks. They are making an incredible amount of noise, and their discipline is virtually non-existent."
Anthony gave a soft grunt of acknowledgment, treating the report like trivial morning news.
He reached down, gripping a heavy gold signet ring on Raymond's stiffening finger, and violently yanked it off. He tossed the bloody ring to Sergei.
"Bag the narcotics," Anthony ordered smoothly. "Reach out to DeShawn tomorrow and offer to sell him all of these seized drugs at a fifty percent discount."
Sergei caught the ring, slipping it into his jacket. A dark grin spread across his face. "We hit the Crips, steal their supply, and sell it to the Bloods. Double dipping."
A faint, almost imperceptible smile flickered across Anthony's lips.
"Furthermore," Anthony continued, "DeShawn just suffered massive casualties, and he now has seventy percent of Queens to patrol. He is going to be desperately recruiting shooters to hold the territory."
"Gramont's scouts are likely closing in on the New Jersey farm. I want you to pull ten of our Tier One PMC operators from the black site and instruct them to infiltrate the Bloods as new recruits. With his numbers depleted, DeShawn will view highly trained shooters as an absolute treasure."
"Their mission parameters?" Sergei asked.
"They have only one objective," Anthony's eyes went cold. "Locate exactly where DeShawn hides his cash. Tell the operators they get a one percent commission on whatever they find."
Sergei's grin widened. "I will handle the logistics immediately."
"Don't stop with the Bloods," Anthony added, turning away from the table. "Filter our surplus assets from the upstate and Long Island farms into the other minor gangs across Queens and Brooklyn. We need eyes, ears, and hands inside every vault in this city."
Anthony walked toward the basement exit, his leather shoes making a soft, sticky smackagainst the bloody floorboards.
Outside, the bleak, gray light of dawn was struggling to pierce the heavy smog over Queens, casting a sickly, pale hue across the dilapidated streets.
Anthony climbed into the back seat of the waiting Suburban.
Let DeShawn and Gramont enjoy their little games for a while longer, Anthony thought, lighting a cigarette and watching the smoke drift out the cracked window.
I need to make sure the Tarasovs are well-fed before the real war begins.
As the Suburban navigated the morning traffic back to Manhattan, Anthony's secure phone buzzed. It was John.
"Did the Bowery King come through with the intelligence?" Anthony asked.
"He just called me," John replied, suppressing a tired yawn. "His network located a primary transit hub. An abandoned commercial fishing pier out on Long Island. Unmarked trawlers depart every Tuesday and Thursday, heading straight up the Hudson River."
"Toward the Adirondacks?"
"Highly probable. The King's scouts didn't dare push the perimeter for fear of tripping thermal alarms, but they confirmed the trawlers are loaded with heavy-duty refrigerated shipping containers."
Anthony let out a dry, humorless laugh. "Refrigerated containers. They're transporting the live prey for the Hunting Ground, and packing the harvested organs on ice for Enrique Pritzker."
Gramont wasn't just a sadistic psychopath; he was a brutally efficient businessman. Every move he made served multiple purposes. Every game he played had layers of overlapping profit.
"John, we have to pause our pursuit of the Hunting Ground," Anthony said calmly. "The Tarasov syndicate just swallowed a massive chunk of Queens. We need time to digest the territory and fortify our borders."
"The remnants of the Crips will inevitably try to retaliate," John warned. "Stalling now gives them time to regroup."
"Which is exactly why we need more muscle," Anthony pulled the phone away and looked at Sergei in the front passenger seat. "How many active, street-level gunmen do the Tarasovs currently have?"
Sergei ran the numbers quickly. "Fifty fiercely loyal. Thirty more who are capable but untested."
"It's not enough," Anthony shook his head, speaking back into the phone. "John, I'm integrating our street soldiers into the PMC training pipeline. We're going to use the Bowery King's men to supplement our numbers in the city while our guys train."
"Are you certain the King's men are reliable?" Sergei asked, glancing back.
"Reliability is irrelevant right now," Anthony said coldly. "What matters is that they absolutely despise Gramont."
"Sometimes, shared hatred is vastly more effective than loyalty."
Anthony didn't know how long he had been asleep.
When his phone violently vibrated against the mahogany nightstand for the third consecutive time, he finally groaned, reaching out blindly to grab it.
The screen read Winnie. The time was 8:32 AM.
"Hey, Winnie," Anthony answered, his voice thick and raspy with sleep.
"Your voice sounds like you just crawled out of a shallow grave," Winnie said, a faint, amused smile evident in her tone. The dull roar of Manhattan morning traffic echoed in the background. "Are you honestly still in bed? Is the great Anthony Tarasov finally starting to slack off?"
Anthony chuckled, rubbing his eyes. "I literally just went to sleep. You're welcome to come over and join me."
"Anthony, I sincerely hope that one day I see a homeless man begging on the street," Winnie said through gritted teeth, "and I hope that man is you."
"If I ever go completely broke, you'll be the first person I call to drive me around. I still have that black Amex you gave me," Anthony laughed, finally waking up. "Are you calling to buy me breakfast?"
"I'll be waiting for you in the lobby of my corporate headquarters at 3:00 PM," Winnie ordered briskly. "I'm taking you to a late lunch."
Anthony buried his face back into his pillow. "Alright. Just let me sleep a few more hours."
"You'd better wake up," Winnie threatened playfully before hanging up.
Anthony tossed the phone onto the mattress, sighed heavily, and tried to drift back into the comfortable darkness.
However, just as his brain was beginning to conjure an incredibly inappropriate dream involving Winnie Pritzker, the phone vibrated again, ringing like a death knell.
Mad Dog Leon.
"Hello, Anthony! Are you still among the living?" Leon's voice was so incredibly loud Anthony had to pull the phone three inches away from his ear.
"Someone is treating us to a lavish dinner today. Winnie and I are both on the guest list. I'm calling to verify your attendance. Naturally, if you refuse to go, I will also boycott the event."
"Leon, I just got ambushed by Winnie with the exact same invitation," Anthony said weakly.
Leon lowered his voice, feigning absolute secrecy. "Don't say I didn't warn you, brother. The guy hosting this little soiree? He's Winnie's primary suitor."
Anthony had long ago accepted his role as Winnie's designated shield against high-society arranged marriages, but his mob-boss paranoia instantly flared. He sat up in bed.
"Who is he?"
"Oh, he's just a pretty face wrapped in a bespoke Tom Ford suit," Leon scoffed dismissively. "His father possesses enough liquid capital to purchase half of Queens, but this kid's biggest daily struggle is deciding which silk tie matches his watch."
"His name is Royce Howard. He's been actively aggressively pursuing Winnie for three years. The amount of roses he's shipped to her office could fill the Brooklyn Botanical Garden. I just wanted to warn you so you don't feel intimidated. Do not worry, Anthony! I will support you fully—both financially and intellectually!"
"I appreciate it, Leon," Anthony smiled, shaking his head. "I'll be there."
"Are you certain?" Leon sounded thrilled. "Last time we went out, you nearly triggered a mafia war at the Plaza Hotel. I am vastly looking forward to seeing your defensive maneuvers today."
Before Anthony could reply, Leon hung up.
Anthony stared at the blank screen of his phone. He seriously needed to add a new category to his system interface: [Level 10: Forced High-Society Socializing].
At 2:00 PM, Anthony dragged himself out of bed. He spent fifteen minutes showering, shaving, and throwing on a casual, tailored dark charcoal shirt and slacks—deliberately avoiding a full suit.
Sergei drove him to the financial district, dropping him off a block away from the Pritzker corporate tower.
Winnie walked out of the glass revolving doors exactly on time. She was wearing a sharply tailored, high-fashion off-white pantsuit that screamed corporate dominance.
Her serious, boardroom expression instantly melted into a bright smile the moment she saw him.
She looked him up and down, noting his deliberately casual attire contrasting with her formal suit, but she didn't complain. She simply gestured for him to get into the passenger seat of her waiting car.
"Remember what I told you last time, Anthony," Winnie said, staring straight out the windshield as the driver merged into traffic. Her tone was strictly business.
"Royce Howard. He graduated from Cornell University's School of Hotel Administration. He currently manages the New York branch of his family's luxury real estate empire. His father is the President of the New York Hotel and Real Estate Association, and the Howard family has partnered with the Pritzkers for over two decades."
"Leon told me he was an empty suit with a pretty face," Anthony said, leaning back in the leather seat.
"He is a highly capable rich kid," Winnie corrected, shooting Anthony a warning glare. "Do not let Leon corrupt your judgment."
Anthony just smiled, looking out the window.
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