The saltwater stung every open wound across Eduardo’s body. He coughed violently, expelling the last of the murky seawater from his lungs as his hands clamped onto the edge of Freya’s speedboat deck. His back felt like it had been smashed by a giant hammer from the shockwave of the Fort San Jago explosion. Behind him, the night sky still burned red, dotted with fireballs devouring the remains of the old fortress into ash. “Get up, Boss! Move it before those sharks smell your blood!” Gord shouted, yanking Eduardo up by the collar of his jacket with brute force. Eduardo collapsed onto the wet wooden deck, gasping for air. He looked toward Freya, who stood firmly at the helm. “Go… Freya, go now! To the Upper North private dock!” “I’m already pushing it to the max, Eduardo! This engine’s at its limit!” Freya shot back without turning, her hands skillfully steering around chunks of concrete falling into the sea like a meteor shower. Eduardo crawled toward the bow, his e

Thick red blood seeped between the cracks of the white marble, its warm vapor blending with the cold air from the mansion’s still-humming AC. Eduardo stared at his severed pinky finger lying a few inches from his knee. It no longer felt like pain, but a burning numbness, as if his nerves were hovering on the edge of a discordant death song. Claude flinched. He stepped back, the Glock in his hand trembling. “You… you’re seriously insane. Just because of one finger, you’re laughing like a damn demon? Huh?!” Eduardo didn’t answer with words. He slowly lifted his head. His sweat-soaked hair partially covered his eyes, which now glowed with a dim red light, a side effect of a system that had reached its boiling point. “Grandpa,” Eduardo whispered, his voice like the grinding of two rusted blades. “Take the rest of my lifespan. Take whatever’s left in my head. I want him capable. Now.” Inside his mind, Grandpa’s laughter no longer sounded mocking. It shifted into a deep,

The metallic scent of still-warm blood filled every corner of the luxurious living room in Upper North. On top of a Persian rug worth as much as three mid-range apartments, Claude the Sark lay with his neck nearly severed. His eyes were still wide open, staring at the ceiling as if he could not believe his throne had fallen to a “dockside loser.” Eduardo stood frozen beside the corpse. His four-fingered hand still gripped the apple-peeling knife now drenched in blood. His breathing was heavy, hot vapor escaping his mouth despite the cold air conditioning that hummed relentlessly through the mansion. “So the dog finally died,” a voice with a thick Italian accent broke the silence. A tall man in a white silk suit stood by the shattered doorway. Luigi, Don Vladimir’s envoy, stepped inside with calm, measured movements. He covered his nose with a silk handkerchief embroidered with the letter “V,” then looked down at Claude’s body with disgust, as if it were nothing more th

The black marble floor in the penthouse atop Sark Tower was so polished that Eduardo could see the reflection of his haggard face staring back at him. This room was the pinnacle of all the luxury this rotten city could offer. A six-meter-high ceiling, bulletproof glass walls presenting a view of the city as if the entire world lay beneath his feet, and a minimalist interior expensive enough to feed an entire harbor district for a year. Claude the Sark was no longer here. The scent of his expensive cigars had been replaced by the sterile smell of disinfectant and bland sandalwood air freshener. Yet to Eduardo, the place still felt like a lion’s den freshly cleared of a carcass. A palace too clean, too quiet, as if it were waiting for the next spill of blood to stain its floors again. “Damn... Ed! You seeing this?!” Emily’s voice rang out, echoing against the glass walls. She had just rushed out of the master bedroom, her face flushed with overflowing excitement. There w

The aroma of expensive Arabica coffee lingered in the air, mixed with the scent of fresh paper and stiff leather upholstery. The meeting room on the top floor of Sark Tower no longer looked like a chaotic mafia den. Belerik had transformed it into a cold, efficient corporate office. The walls no longer displayed Claude’s vulgar paintings, replaced instead by rows of monitors showing stock charts and cryptocurrency movements. The atmosphere felt sharply contrasted with what this place used to be, as if past chaos had been polished into something lethally orderly. Eduardo sat in his executive chair, dressed in a three-piece charcoal gray suit. His black leather gloves tapped rhythmically against the teak desk. "Blood is hard to wash off with regular soap, Ed," Belerik began, placing his tablet in front of Eduardo. "But if you dip that blood into a charity account or an art gallery, the smell disappears instantly. Money doesn’t smell, especially after it’s passed through