I BUILT THE UNDERWORLD WHILE YOU CALLED ME USELESS

Chapter 2

The heavy scent of ozone and rusted iron filled the narrow alleyway as Lucian knelt over a discarded server rack. He wasn't looking for scrap metal; he was looking for the gold-plated processors that held the keys to the city’s digital vaults.

"Drop the bag, trash."

Lucian didn't look up. He kept his fingers steady, unscrewing a heat sink with a precision that didn't match his ragged clothes. "You’re late, Boxer. Usually, you hit this alley at 10:00 PM. It’s 10:15."

A massive, scarred hand gripped Lucian’s shoulder and spun him around. Boxer stood there, six-foot-four of muscle and bad intentions, flanked by two lean, hungry-looking street thugs.

"I don't care about the time," Boxer growled, nodding toward the black bag at Lucian's feet. "I care about what's in there. High-grade tech? Copper? Give it over and maybe I won't break your fingers."

"It's just trash to you, Boxer. To me, it's data."

"Data don't pay the rent," one of the lackeys piped up, flicking a switchblade. "The bag. Now."

Lucian stood up slowly, wiping grease onto his jeans. He didn't take a defensive stance. He didn't even look at the knife. He looked straight into Boxer’s bloodshot eyes.

"How is Mia?" Lucian asked.

The air in the alley seemed to turn to ice. Boxer’s grip on Lucian’s shoulder tightened, his knuckles whitening. "Don't you say her name. Don't you ever say her name."

"The hospital called you this morning, didn't they?" Lucian’s voice was calm, almost conversational. "The experimental treatment for her heart condition. The one that costs eighty thousand dollars per session."

"Shut up!" Boxer roared, raising a fist. "How do you know about that? You’ve been stalking me? You think because you’re a street rat you can dig into my life?"

"I know the hospital told you the bill was settled," Lucian continued, ignoring the looming fist. "I know they told you an anonymous donor cleared the entire three-hundred-thousand-dollar arrears yesterday afternoon."

Boxer paused, his fist trembling in mid-air. His voice dropped to a cracked whisper. "The social worker... she said it was a miracle. A glitch in the system or a ghost."

"It wasn't a glitch, Boxer. And I'm not a ghost."

Boxer stepped back, his eyes darting from Lucian’s calm face to his own scarred hands. "You? You're a beggar. You sleep in a basement on 4th Street. You don't have that kind of money."

"I don't have it," Lucian said, "because I gave it to St. Jude’s Cardiac Wing. Check the receipt timestamp on your phone. 2:14 PM."

The two lackeys looked at each other, confused. "Boss, what's he talking about? Let's just take the bag and go."

"Shut up!" Boxer snapped at them. He lunged for his pocket, pulling out a battered smartphone with a cracked screen. His thumbs flew over the glass. His face went through a dozen emotions—denial, shock, and finally, a crushing weight of realization.

"The donor ID..." Boxer whispered, looking at the screen. "It says 'L.V.' Your name is Lucian, isn't it?"

"Lucian Vale," Lucian corrected. "But the 'Vale' part doesn't matter anymore."

Boxer dropped his phone into the mud. The giant of a man, who had spent the last decade terrorizing the district, suddenly folded. His knees hit the grime of the alley with a heavy thud. He put his head in his hands and sobbed, the sound raw and guttural.

"Why?" Boxer choked out. "I was going to kill you for a bag of scrap."

"Because you were doing it for her," Lucian said. "And because I need a man who knows these streets. Stand up, Boxer. You don't owe me money. You owe me your life. There's a difference."

The two lackeys backed away, shearing off into the darkness, terrified by the sight of their leader broken on the ground. Boxer stood up, wiping his eyes with a trembling hand.

"Anything," Boxer said, his voice thick with a new kind of steel. "Whatever you need. If you want this city burned down, I'll find the matches."

"Not yet," Lucian said, picking up his bag. "I just need—"

He stopped.

The low hum of high-performance engines suddenly drowned out the sound of the rain. At both ends of the narrow alley, blinding LED headlights cut through the dark. Four jet-black SUVs, windows tinted to a mirror finish, skidded to a halt, boxing them in.

Boxer immediately stepped in front of Lucian, his fists clenched. "Get back, Lucian. I've got this."

"No," Lucian said, placing a hand on Boxer's back. "You don't."

The doors of the lead SUV opened simultaneously. Six men in tactical gear stepped out, but they didn't draw weapons. Instead, they formed a perfect corridor from the car door to where Lucian stood.

A man stepped out of the back seat. He was dressed in a three-piece suit that cost more than most people made in a year. His silver hair was slicked back, and his expression was one of absolute gravity. This wasn't a thug. This was Julian Thorne, the Chief Operating Officer of the very empire Lucian had just started to dismantle.

Thorne walked past the trash cans and the mud, his polished oxfords splashing through the oily puddles. He stopped exactly three feet from Lucian.

Boxer lunged forward, but Thorne’s security didn't even flinch.

Thorne ignored Boxer entirely. His eyes were fixed on Lucian. Slowly, deliberately, the most powerful executive in the city bent his waist, bowing so low his forehead almost touched his knees.

"Sir," Thorne’s voice rang out, echoing off the brick walls. "The board has been dismissed. The jet is fueled. We have been searching for you for three years."

Lucian didn't move. "I told you never to come here, Julian."

"The situation has changed, sir," Thorne said, remaining in his bow. "He’s found out you're alive. And he’s coming for the ten dollars."