The Last Minute of Poverty

chapter 2

The moon hung low over Silver Bridge, but Jason barely noticed the cold wind biting through his thin jacket. He stood by the roadside, waiting for someone he hadn't seen in four years.

The heavy glass doors of the Snakehole Lounge swung open. Rose walked out, her arm looped tightly through John’s.

When her eyes landed on Jason standing under the dim streetlamp, her expression immediately soured into disgust. She clearly assumed he was waiting for her.

"Are you seriously still here?" Rose sneered. "Do you have any dignity left?"

John let out a condescending chuckle, adjusting his expensive collar as he looked down his nose at the young man. "Don't waste your breath, babe. People this broke don’t actually have dignity. They just have stubbornness."

To emphasize his point, John pulled a sleek key fob from his pocket and pressed the button. Nearby, the headlights of a pristine, matte-black Lamborghini flashed to life, slicing through the darkness of the alley. He smirked, making sure the luxury logo on the key caught the neon glare, soaking up his own status.

Rose’s smile widened. She pressed herself closer to his side, practically clinging to him as if to shield her prize from the shadows.

Despite the mocking, a faint, knowing smile touched Jason's lips. John frowned, confused by the reaction, but he didn't have time to dwell on it.

The roar of a heavy engine shattered the quiet. A black, armored SUV surged out of nowhere, speeding straight at the parked Lamborghini. Before John could even shout, the SUV slammed into the sports car with a sickening crunch of metal and shattering glass, completely caving in the driver's side door.

The SUV ground into reverse. Its heavy steel brush guard was deeply scraped and dented from the impact, but the beast of a vehicle was still perfectly functional. The driver's side door opened, and a young woman stepped out.

"What the hell did you just do? Who are you?" John raged, his face turning an ugly shade of red. "You're going to pay for—"

His voice hitched in his throat.

The woman standing by the crushed SUV carried an aura that demanded absolute attention. She was stunning, tall and sharply dressed, but it was the cold, mischievous smile playing on her lips that silenced the alleyway.

A few wealthy patrons leaving the lounge paused, recognizing her instantly. Murmurs of "Gina Pike" rippled through the small crowd, followed by hushed warnings to step back. She wasn't someone to cross.

John’s fury faltered. He was caught between rage over his ruined car and a sleazy, desperate instinct to charm his way out of the confrontation. He took a hesitant step forward, his anger giving way to a forced, oily smile. Rose, sensing the shift, tried to pull him back, but he yanked his arm free.

Gina completely ignored John, walking past him as if he were nothing but dirt on the pavement. She walked straight to Jason. The fierce, untouchable air surrounding her melted the second she looked at him.

She threw her arms around him, pulling him into a tight embrace.

"I missed you so much," her voice was soft, naked emotion written across her face.

Standing a few feet away, John and Rose froze, entirely stunned by the sight.

When Gina stepped back, her eyes caught the dried blood on Jason's forehead. The warmth in her expression vanished, replaced instantly by an icy glare.

"Don't fall for his tricks, he's just a broke loser," Rose hissed, stepping forward and pointing a manicured finger at Gina. "And who do you think you are, driving like a—"

A sharp, ringing slap cut her off.

Gina had moved faster than Rose could track. The impact was hard enough to stagger the other woman, sending her stumbling backward until she fell hard onto the concrete, clutching her stinging cheek in shock.

"No one asked for your opinion," Gina said coldly. She turned her piercing gaze back to John. "Now, you tell me. Is this your handiwork?" she asked, gesturing to Jason's bruised head.

"Take them down!" John roared, his face purple with humiliation and panic. "Break them both!"

At his command, a dozen heavy-set bodyguards rushed out from the shadows of the lounge's exterior, lunging straight at Gina and Jason to box them in.

But before a single hand could touch Jason, a dark figure detached itself from the shadows behind the armored SUV.

A blur of motion cut through the air. A brutal kick landed squarely against the chest of the leading bodyguard, launching the massive man backward until he crashed violently into a nearby dumpster.

The new arrival stepped into the light, his posture perfectly rigid. It was Seth Sting, Jason’s personal bodyguard from the days before his four-year trial had even begun.

John screamed frantically at his men to swarm them, but Seth moved with lethal precision. In less than a minute, he tore through the crowd. He dodged wild, heavy swings and dropped almost every single bodyguard to the asphalt with brutal, efficient strikes.

Finally, only one man remained standing.

It was John’s strongest enforcer—the exact same scar-faced bodyguard who had struck Jason earlier and thrown him into the alley. The large man lunged forward, trying to tackle Seth one-on-one. But despite his massive size, he was completely outmatched. Seth parried a heavy punch, broke the man's guard, and drove him to his knees with a punishing strike to the solar plexus.

Seth looked back at Jason, his voice flat and professional. "Young Master, was it this man who caused your injury?"

Jason didn't have to say a word. His silence was answer enough.

Without a shred of mercy, Seth gripped the scar-faced man's arm, locking the joint. A sharp, sickening crack echoed down the alleyway as he dislocated and broke the bodyguard's limb on the spot, leaving the man groaning in the dirt.

Gina turned back to her brother, a dangerous, satisfied smile returning to her lips. She glanced at Rose, who was cowering on the ground, and then locked eyes with John, who was now visibly shivering.

"Now, back to you," Gina purred, slowly walking toward him. The alley fell dead silent, save for the terrifying, rhythmic click of her heels against the concrete.