Chapter 128 – Lip Feels Like He's Got His Groove Back
"Fuck off."
Lip wasn't stupid enough to sell a gun to some random kid he didn't know.
"My cousin Jimmy said you sell guns," the chubby Black kid shot back, clearly annoyed.
"Then tell your cousin Jimmy to come himself."
Lip took a drag from his cigarette and didn't even bother looking at him.
Getting brushed off like that, the kid had no choice but to leave.
"Yo, Lip—what's up?"
"Hey, Craig. What's going on?"
This guy Lip actually knew. He'd even helped him prep for the SATs before.
"Got into a bit of trouble with someone recently," Craig said carefully.
"Heard you've been moving… stuff. Thought I'd see if you could help."
He never said the word gun—but every sentence pointed straight at one.
"Then you came to the right place," Lip said.
"Go down that alley. There's a black van parked inside. Knock on the window three times. Don't talk. Take what you want. Pay."
"Cool, man." Craig nodded and headed off.
Sure enough, a black van sat quietly in the alley.
Craig walked up and knocked on the window three times.
The door slid open.
Nastya stepped out—silent, expressionless—and pulled open the rear doors.
Inside, everything was stacked neatly: guns, magazines, ammo.
Craig swallowed hard.
He picked up a Beretta M9 and grabbed a box of bullets, tossed two hundred dollars onto the floor, and turned to leave.
Bad idea.
Because the moment he underpaid, Nastya calmly raised an M4 and aimed it straight at him.
Craig froze.
In the end, he paid the full amount before leaving with his gun and ammo.
Time passed quickly. Night fell.
Lip's business wrapped up for the day. Cigarette butts littered the ground near where he'd been standing.
He'd smoked a lot.
But compared to what he'd made selling weapons, a few packs of cigarettes were nothing.
Walking into the alley, Lip saw Mandy and Nastya counting inventory.
"So—how'd today go?" Lip asked.
"How much did we move?"
Mandy finished tallying things up and looked up.
"Not bad. Seven M9s, two 745s. Plenty of ammo, too."
She handed Lip a stack of cash.
"Your cut."
Lip took the money, a strong sense of accomplishment washing over him.
Right now, his life finally felt like it was getting back on track—
except for one very specific problem that still wasn't working.
And honestly?
For the South Side's so-called King of Getting Laid, that was a special kind of torture.
Still, the satisfaction of helping support Fiona and the family gave Lip a temporary escape from that frustration.
---
The Red-Light District
William walked down the street at an unhurried pace.
Back at the Alibi, Frank had put up a fight—but the guy he'd mouthed off to was built like a tank.
In the end, Frank had no choice but to accept the debt.
The real problem was this:
With even Sheila refusing to take him in now, where the hell was Frank supposed to come up with ten thousand dollars?
That was a real question.
William didn't know what Frank planned to do, but all he saw was Frank slinking out of the Alibi with his tail between his legs—probably off to figure out how not to die over a bar bet.
After Frank left, William chatted briefly with Tommy about the house.
The construction was completely finished.
After settling the final payment, Tommy was all smiles and told William to call him again if there was more work.
Now, William was on his way to the Russian girl's base.
"Sir… would you like some company?"
A voice stopped him mid-step.
William turned.
A red-haired girl stood there—distinctive features, a little nervous, clearly new to this.
"You don't recognize me?" William asked, mildly curious.
Ever since the Russian operation took off, pretty much everyone in this area knew who he was—or at least had a guess.
Most people assumed he was the guy behind the arms trade.
Hard not to, when he was always around the Russian boss, plus Tasha and Nastya.
Even most of the street girls recognized him.
She shook her head.
"What's your name?" William asked, studying her with interest.
She wasn't conventionally beautiful.
Not ugly either.
But she had a look that pulled your attention in.
"Er… Margot," she said quickly. "My name's Margot."
A fake name—first day on the street logic.
William saw through it instantly.
"That's not your real name, is it?"
"I…"
Her face flushed with embarrassment.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to bother you."
She hesitated, then decided to back out.
First night, zero experience.
She'd seen a handsome guy and worked up the courage—
only to fumble it immediately.
"I'm terrible at this," she thought.
"Wait."
William stopped her.
If he remembered correctly, Margot—real name Erin—was the lead from The Menu.
That movie had come out not long before his transmigration, which was why it stuck in his mind.
Simple plot.
A street girl gets hired by a client to attend an exclusive dinner.
Turns out the dinner is a psychotic chef's murder-performance art piece.
Everyone dies on the island—guests, staff, chef.
Everyone except Erin, who survives by sheer wit.
She paused and turned back.
A handsome client wasn't something you just walked away from.
And if she was going to give away her first, she wouldn't mind it being someone like him.
"Why'd you choose this line of work?" William asked casually.
Pure curiosity.
Her expression soured immediately.
"What, trying to play savior?" she snapped.
"Here to talk a hooker into going straight?"
"No," William said calmly.
"Just curious. You don't have to answer."
Then, after a beat:
"You got a place?"
Truthfully, he was interested in her—her kind of unconventional charm.
Her shoulders relaxed.
"Oh. No."
"It's my first time. Still figuring things out."
"At least she's honest," William thought.
"Come with me," he said.
"I've got a place nearby."
He meant the apartment the Russian girl had rented.
A few minutes later, they arrived.
Erin stopped short.
"Holy shit—why did you bring me here?"
She'd done her homework before stepping onto the street.
She knew exactly who not to mess with in this district.
And this place?
This was one of them.