Kingsman's Return

Billionaire

The numbers on the tablet screen in front of Adam were dazzlingly clear.

It started with 12, followed by eight zeros.

1.2 billion dollars.

Adam's mind went blank.

Ten minutes ago, he was a rickshaw puller haggling with a contractor over eighty dollars, living in the janitor's room of an old apartment building, eating the cheapest fast food. Now, 1.2 billion dollars had crashed down on him, leaving him stunned.

He leaned back on the leather sofa and stared at that number for a long time.

"Mr. Walker?" Viola Sinclair said softly. "Are you alright?"

Adam didn't answer. His ears were ringing. Only one thought filled his mind—the woman named Sarah Jenkins hadn't lied to him.

He really had been very wealthy. No, not had been—he still was very wealthy.

The people who had mocked him, looked down on him, abandoned him because he was poor—if only they knew.

Grace's face appeared before him. She had taken Marcus's arm and looked at him with disgust, calling him a useless nobody.

If she knew there was 1.2 billion dollars on this card, would she still say that?

"Mr. Walker." Viola spoke again, her tone warm. "Actually, the balance on the Diamond Black Card is just one of the benefits. With this card, you can mobilize sufficient funds through our bank and enjoy the highest level of private banking services. Our branch manager should be here in about fifteen minutes. He'll explain everything in detail—"

"No need," Adam interrupted her. "I need to withdraw twenty thousand dollars in cash."

"Alright, no problem." Viola didn't hesitate for a second, didn't even ask why he needed so much cash. "I'll arrange that for you right away."

Adam stood up and thought of something else: "Give me your business card."

Viola took out an elegant black card with gold lettering from her pocket and handed it over with both hands: "Call this number anytime for anything. New York Bank will solve every problem for you."

Adam took the card and looked at it—Viola Sinclair, Private Client Manager.

He tucked the card into his pocket, picked up the black garbage bag, and walked out of the VIP area.

As he passed through the lobby, Grace and Marcus were still at the counter.

When Grace saw Adam come out, she hesitated for a moment. Her eyes fell on the garbage bag in his hand, then on his bare shoulders. The corner of her mouth curled into a mocking arc.

"Done with your business?" Grace said sarcastically. "Did you check your balance? How much? Enough to buy yourself a new T-shirt?"

Adam stopped and looked at her.

He said nothing.

But something in his gaze made Grace's heart skip a beat—there was no anger in that look, no sadness, only a calmness she had never seen before. Like he was looking at a stranger.

No, worse than a stranger. Like he was looking at something irrelevant.

Adam turned and walked out of the bank.

Grace stood there frozen, an inexplicable unease rising in her chest.

Marcus patted her shoulder: "Ignore him. He's crazy."

Grace bit her lip and didn't reply.

Adam walked out of New York Bank and stood on the streets of Manhattan.

The sun shone on him, warm.

He pulled a wrinkled old shirt out of the garbage bag and put it on. Then he raised his hand and hailed a taxi.

"Where to?" the driver asked.

Adam thought for a moment. He didn't want to go back to that janitor's room. But he needed to pick something up—something from three years ago that had been under the bed in that room. He had to take it with him.

"Old district, Moretti Rickshaw Stand," Adam said.

By the time the taxi reached the old district, the sky had darkened.

Adam got off at a backstreet intersection. This was the most rundown part of the entire old district—potholed roads and piles of garbage everywhere. The air smelled of cooking oil and sweat.

He hadn't even stepped inside when he heard shouting.

"Where the hell is Adam Walker?!"

A fat man in a floral shirt with a cigar in his mouth stood at the rickshaw stand entrance, his face bright red. Behind him stood two thugs in black vests, their arms covered in tattoos.

Tony Moretti. His boss.

"He was supposed to take that group of clients to the Upper East Side today, and where the hell is he?" Tony yelled at the rickshaw pullers around him. "If my business suffers losses, who's going to pay for them?"

Adam stood in the distance, watching.

Three years ago, when he first woke up with amnesia, Tony had given him his first job—pulling a rickshaw, ten dollars a day, cash, no insurance, no contract. Tony knew Adam had no ID, knew he wouldn't dare call the police, so he squeezed him dry.

But Tony dared to be this arrogant not just because he was a contractor.

Adam knew that Tony's brother-in-law was a mid-level manager at New York Bank. Through that connection, Tony had secured the transport contracts for several New York Bank projects, allowing him to throw his weight around the old district with impunity.

Before, Adam could tolerate it.

Now, he didn't want to.