15 Million Reasons For Revenge

Chapter 2: Clear out the club for me

"My Father...."

I couldn’t help but frown. My father? That had to be a joke. Or worse, a scam. I grew up in an orphanage, for God’s sake. I didn’t have a father, not one I knew of. Whoever this woman was, she must’ve found my number online and thought I’d fall for some story.

The idea that some stranger wanted to hand me fifteen million dollars was laughable. I almost hung up. But something about her tone, too composed made me hesitate.

“Pardon me, Mr. Cole,” she said softly, as if she could read my doubts through the silence. “Perhaps I didn’t explain it clearly. You’re not an orphan. You were separated from your family under tragic circumstances. Your biological father, Mr. Alexander Cole, never stopped searching for you. Two days ago, his team finally located you, and your identification has been confirmed.”

My stomach dropped. “Wait—what?” I asked, the words barely making it out. My chest felt tight, like all the air had been sucked out of the room.

Alexander Cole. That name alone made my pulse quicken. Everyone in America knew who he was—the president of the Cole Group, the man behind an empire that controlled everything from tech to energy to pharmaceuticals. The guy’s net worth made countries look poor.

And now someone was telling me that man was my father?

It was too insane to believe. Too… absurd.

“This doesn’t make sense,” I muttered. “How do I know you’re telling me the truth?”

There was no way I was about to get played by some con artist with a good story and a calm voice. “You could be anyone,” I said. “You could’ve just made this all up.”

The woman didn’t argue. “That’s understandable, Mr. Cole,” she said. “I can provide verification. Our office can send legal documents and arrange a live call with Mr. Cole’s attorneys if you prefer.”

But none of it was sinking in. My head was spinning.

“If this is real,” I said, struggling to keep my voice steady, “then why didn’t he call me himself? If Alexander Cole is my father, he should be the one talking to me right now.”

“Mr. Cole,” she said, “once we located you, we secretly obtained a sample of your hair. After running a DNA test, the results showed a 99.9999% probability that you share a genetic tie with Mr. Alexander Cole. The test was conducted at the Capital Testing Center—it’s completely authentic. If you’d like, I can show you the report when we meet.”

I blinked, completely thrown. They’d gone that far? To secretly take my hair? It sounded invasive.

“And regarding your second question,” she continued, “the situation Mr. Cole is currently in is quite complicated. It would be imprudent for you to publicly acknowledge him as your father right now. Doing so could put you in danger. For the time being, your identity must remain confidential.”

“Although your father can’t be with you at this moment,” she went on crisply, “he still wishes to assist you in any way he can. He has already transferred fifteen million dollars to your account, Mr. Cole. He hopes it can somewhat make up for all the hardships you’ve endured. Once he resolves his current affairs, he intends to personally come to Miami City to meet you.”

I sat there, speechless. Fifteen million dollars. Just like that.

The woman paused, then added in the same professional tone, “Finally, Mr. Cole, I will be your personal assistant from now on. Should you encounter any difficulties, please contact me immediately, I’ll do everything in my power to satisfy you.”

I couldn’t detect a single flaw. Everything she said fit too perfectly. My doubts faded slightly, but not entirely. Words were still just words.

The only thing that could prove any of this was real would be that bank transfer. But even that could be forged. Wire fraud wasn’t new.

“You said you’d handle all my needs, right?” I asked, stressing the word “all.”

“Yes, Mr. Cole,” she replied without hesitation. “All of them.” Her tone was firm.

I let out a humorless chuckle, my jaw tightening. “Then I need revenge.”

There was silence on her end.

“I just experienced the greatest humiliation of my life.” Images of the club flashed through my mind—the mockery, the beating, the cold stares. My blood boiled all over again. “I want them to pay.”

“Anyone who offends you, Mr. Cole, offends the entire Cole family, please tell me your current location.”

“I’m in front of the Mirage Club,” I replied. “Can you bring the DNA report with you?”

“Yes,” she said smoothly. “Please wait there for twenty minutes. I’ll arrive shortly.”

The line went dead.

I stared at my phone, my hands trembled slightly. My father was a billionaire? Fifteen million dollars? A personal assistant at my disposal?

It sounded like something out of a dream. A wild, impossible dream.

I slipped my phone into my pocket, took out a cigarette, and lit it. The first drag filled my lungs with bitter smoke, grounding me a little. I exhaled slowly, watching the smoke twist upward. My heartbeat finally began to slow.

There was no need to panic. In twenty minutes, I’d know the truth.

“Hey! What the hell are you doing here?”

A gruff voice snapped me out of my thoughts. I turned to see a burly security guard stomping toward me, he looked so irritated of me.

He jabbed a finger at me. “Where the f**k did you come from? Stop hanging around here—you’re scaring off customers!”

As he got closer, his eyes flicked over my face, lingering on the dried blood near my temple. His grin widened when he saw the waiter’s uniform I still had on.

“You’re one of the Mirage waiters, huh?” he said, smirking.

“Yeah,” I muttered.

“Got beaten up by a guest, didn’t you?” he asked, voice dripping with mock sympathy.

I gave a slow nod.

“Heh,” he snorted. “Serves you right. The guests here are rich as hell—you’re lucky they didn’t kill you. Now f**k off, mop boy. Go clean somewhere else before I make you regret it.”

My hands curled into fists. My anger spiked, I made an ugly expression. I was seconds away from losing it. But before I could speak, the roar of an engine cut through the night.

Vroom!

A silver-gray Aston Martin screeched into the parking lot, stopping sharply in front of the club’s entrance.

The security guard’s whole attitude shifted. He straightened immediately, plastering on a grin so fake it almost made me laugh.

“Ah, Mr. Donovan!” he said eagerly, rushing forward. “Let me park that for you, sir!” 

The man who stepped out was in his thirties, tall, sharp-featured, dressed like money. Without glancing at the guard, he tossed the keys over his shoulder and kept walking, a phone pressed to his ear.

“Are you sure?” he muttered into it, his voice tight with tension. “Ms. Clara is actually coming here? To this club?”

His hands trembled slightly as he hurried inside.

Behind him, the guard bowed deeply, practically kissing the ground. When the man disappeared into the club, the guard straightened up again, puffing out his chest like he’d just brushed shoulders with royalty.

A chilly grin crept across my face as I watched the security guard practically wag his tail in front of the newcomer. That was the power of money. It could turn men into dogs.

I knew the man who’d just arrived. Donovan Clark. Owner of Club Mirage. He’d started as a street thug—some say he used to run protection rackets back in Little Havana. But over the years, he clawed his way up from the gutters, built connections, and now ran one of the biggest underworld businesses in Miami. The club was just one of his trophies; he also had a hand in real estate, casinos, and a handful of shady ventures no one dared to mention out loud.

With the cigarette still hanging from my lips, I reached up and peeled off the blood-stained tissue from my forehead. The bleeding had stopped, but my skin felt sticky where the blood had dried. The faint scent of iron clung to me, irritating and real.

Then the noise started.

The entrance of the club suddenly turned chaotic—not because new guests were arriving, but because everyone inside was being forced out. Angry voices spilled into the night like a wave of heat.

“What the hell’s happening?!” someone shouted. “I was just getting started!”

Another voice barked from the crowd, “What’s the deal with kicking everyone out? This is bullshit!”

More followed, overlapping, angry and confused.

“Clearing out the entire club? Ridiculous! You think a refund’s gonna cover this? Pfft, I’m not that cheap!”

“Is this how Club Mirage treats its guests?” a man yelled as he pushed through the door. “Never coming here again!”

I leaned against the wall, watching the chaos unfold. The night pulsed with tension, neon lights flickering off the glossy cars in the lot.

Then I spotted them.

Damian Cross and Alina.

She was clinging to him, her face flushed, hair tousled. Her clothes were a mess—her top half undone, exposing far too much pale skin, enough to make passing men stare outright. Damian looked furious, his jaw tight as he stormed out with her in his arms. He must’ve been interrupted right in the middle of his little “fun.”

He caught sight of one of the guards—ironically, the same bastard who’d just told me to get lost.

“Hey! You, come here!” Damian barked.

The guard’s face instantly shifted into a sycophantic grin. “Mr. Cross! You called?”

“What the f**k is going on?” Damian snapped. “Why the hell was I kicked out of my own damn club?”

The guard swallowed hard, sweat already glistening on his forehead. “P-please calm down, Mr. Cross. The order to clear out came suddenly. We’re, uh, a bit confused ourselves.”

“Confused?!” Damian’s voice exploded. “I spent thousands of dollars here tonight! You think you can just throw me out like trash? Are you kidding me?”

His words hit the crowd like gasoline on fire. Guests started shouting again, demanding answers, calling for refunds. The guard’s face went pale, his hands raised as if he could calm a storm.

“Mr. Cross, everyone, please,” he stammered. “There’s no point in calling the manager. The order to clear out the club came directly from…” He hesitated, darti

ng a nervous glance toward the parking lot.

“…Sir Donovan.”

Silence.

Just like that, the noise vanished. The entire crowd froze mid-complaint.