Jason's scalp prickled, his facial muscles tightened, and cold sweat trickled down his back.
Frozen for a few seconds, he forced a casual laugh. "Boss, that's one hell of a joke. Everyone in New York's underworld knows she is your woman. I wouldn't dare, not with ten lives to spare."
"Is that so?" Kingpin's voice was chilling, devoid of warmth. "Yet on the third day I left New York, you and Vanessa had a candlelit dinner at a British restaurant."
"The fourth day, you two went shopping on Fifth Avenue and visited an art exhibit."
"The fifth day, you went to Vanessa's place, showed off your cooking, and gave her a box of her favorite milk chocolates."
Kingpin's words were slow, steady, and emotionless, but their content made Jason's heart leap into his throat.
He swore to God he hadn't told a soul about his fling with Vanessa.
These past few days, he'd gone out fully disguised—sunglasses, mask, hat, the whole deal.
He took cabs, never his own car.
Paid cash, never credit.
He'd been as discreet as possible, yet Kingpin had found out.
Jason's face grew grim, his pulse racing, his other hand clenching into a fist.
"Today, you and Vanessa spent the whole afternoon in that room. So, Jason, tell me now—how was it fucking her?"
As Kingpin's final words hit, the crushing weight on Jason's shoulders vanished.
He got it.
Fear was pointless now.
As Kingpin's right-hand man for years, Jason knew him better than anyone.
There was no middle ground left—just life or death.
"Hahaha!" Jason gripped the phone, laughing with a manic edge.
"Want the answer, Kingpin?" His laughter faded as he brought the phone to his lips, voice low. "The answer is… screwing your woman felt fucking incredible!"
Boom!
A crash erupted from the other end—probably Kingpin flipping a table.
"FUCK YOU, Jason!" Kingpin roared.
Jason shook his head, picturing Kingpin like an enraged lion.
"Oh, and Vanessa said you're garbage in bed, like some clueless virgin. Imagine if I let that slip—New York would lose its mind. The legendary Kingpin, a fucking virgin! Hahaha!"
"FUCK YOU! You're done! You're dead!"
Kingpin was unraveling, teetering on the edge of madness.
The last guy who pissed him off this bad had his head crushed in a car door.
But Jason wasn't scared—he piled on more. "Yeah? I'm still kicking. Come get me through the radio, big guy."
More crashes and bangs came through the phone.
After a moment, Kingpin reined in his fury, panting heavily. "Don't get cocky, Jason. I've sent the Vladimir brothers after you."
Jason's brow furrowed. He rushed to the window, flung it open, and looked down.
Five black Chevy vans screeched to a stop on the avenue below, a few dozen meters from the building.
Doors swung open, and over twenty masked, armed thugs spilled out.
"Haha, they should be there by now," Kingpin said smugly. "But I'm starting to regret this. So, Jason… run. Run fast. Don't let the Vladimir brothers kill you."
"I swear to God, I'll find you myself, crush every bone in your body, and shove your filthy cock in a meat grinder…"
"Fuck your mother!" Jason cursed, then smashed the phone against the wall.
Crack!
The legendary Nokia shattered into pieces, leaving a dent in the concrete.
[Ding! Mission triggered: Escape the Russian mafia's pursuit. Reward: 500 Villain Points.]
[Friendly reminder: Enemies will arrive in 30 seconds.]
"Thanks for the fucking tip!" Jason snapped, sprinting into the bedroom.
He'd been wondering why Kingpin was so talkative.
He thought the betrayal had broken him, made him ramble. But no—the bastard was stalling.
He looked like a muscle-bound moron, but he was sharper than anyone. Jason had fallen for it.
In the bedroom, he shed his bathrobe and started dressing.
"Wow, I could stare at your body forever," Vanessa said, awake now, sitting on the bed, eyes locked on him.
As she said, Jason's physique was a visual feast—broad shoulders, chiseled pecs, abs like steel, every muscle carved like a sculpture.
But what captivated her most were the scars crisscrossing his body—gunshots, knife wounds, bruises from fists and clubs.
Her favorite thing was lying on his chest, tracing those scars, listening to their stories.
"Stop drooling," Jason said, pulling on his clothes. "Kingpin knows about us. The hit squad's almost here."
"What?!" Vanessa's face paled.
Before she could say more, Jason grabbed the mattress and flipped it. She tumbled to the floor, tangled in the sheets.
"FUCK YOU, Jason!" She cursed, clutching her head, ready to let loose again.
He ignored her, pulling a shotgun from under the bed frame.
Her eyes widened, words dying in her throat.
The underworld was high-risk—getting cornered or ambushed was part of the game.
As a top player, Jason always had a backup plan.
Under the bed was an arsenal:
- Benelli M4 Super 90 shotgun *1
- Colt M4A1 carbine *1
- Beretta M9 pistols *2
- Three magazines per gun, fully loaded
- MK3A2 offensive grenades *2
- SOV-3000 full-protection ballistic vest *1
- 80-meter high-strength rappelling rope *1
- Bulging black duffel bag *1
Jason slipped on the 8-kilogram vest, pre-fitted with three ceramic plates, Level 4 protection, capable of stopping armor-piercing rounds.
His expression was calm, but Vanessa was stunned.
The thought of their afternoon romp happening above a cache of grenades sent a chill through her, her body trembling.
Madmen. They're all fucking lunatics. She needed to stay far away.
Face dark, she grabbed her clothes, wrapped the sheet around herself, and bolted barefoot from the apartment.
As Kingpin's woman, the Vladimir brothers wouldn't dare touch her.