Chapter 159: Making Sure Frank Doesn't Get a Single Dollar
"I want the two hundred thousand dollars you owe me—back."
Sitting in the chair, Peggy spoke coldly.
"And yes, I am still getting that breast augmentation."
She nodded as she said it, her tone laced with dry, humorless sarcasm.
Pitts looked at her, his emotions a tangled mess.
"You got out early…"
"Yeah. Only did twelve years. Pretty great, right?"
Pitts had no idea how to respond. He slowly set down the iPad in his hands.
Meanwhile, Peggy casually picked up a photo frame on his desk.
"Beautiful woman. Your wife? And two little girls… adorable."
Her tone sounded almost like friendly admiration—
But to Pitts, it was nothing less than a naked threat.
"Do they know you used to be a drug dealer? I don't want to be a problem for you, Doctor.
I know you've got a waiting room full of patients.
But the two hundred thousand dollars in that safe? Gone.
That was my money.
So tell me—where is it now?"
At that point, Pitts snapped.
"Alright! Enough with the threats!
I'm not one of those naïve college kids you used to scare!"
But Peggy cut him off immediately, her voice sharp and dangerous:
"My money. Where is it?"
Pitts exhaled in frustration.
"Look—you went to prison, and now you're out. That doesn't mean you can just walk in here and expect me to hand you two hundred grand!"
"Oh really? Isn't this Pitts Cosmetic Surgery Center?"
Peggy clearly didn't believe a word he said.
"I just finished my residency—I'm drowning in debt!" Pitts argued.
"We had an agreement! If things went wrong, we had a plan!
But when it actually happened—you ran!"
Peggy slammed her hand against the wheelchair, furious.
Pitts sighed.
"I'll pay you back. But it's going to take time."
"Time is the one thing I don't have," Peggy replied coldly.
"I'm giving you a deadline. Tomorrow.
I want my two hundred thousand—tomorrow."
"That's impossible!" Pitts shook his head.
"You really don't want anything unfortunate happening… do you, Noah?"
Peggy didn't care how he got the money.
She only cared about one thing—
Seeing it by tomorrow.
With that, she turned and left the clinic.
---
Outside — In a Gray Van
Peggy and Frank sat inside, eating ice cream.
Neither of them noticed—
An AMG quietly pulled up behind their van.
Inside the car, Frank glanced at Peggy, trying to sound concerned.
"Do you think he'll actually pay you?"
He didn't know the exact amount—
But he knew it had to be a lot.
Enough for booze, drugs, and everything he wanted.
What he didn't know was—
That money wasn't for him.
Not a single cent.
So Peggy had no intention of discussing it with him.
"This tastes like shit," she muttered instead, taking a bite of her ice cream.
"Shouldn't have picked almond flavor."
"How much does he owe you?" Frank pressed, ignoring her completely.
"What flavor is yours? Chocolate mix?"
Peggy glanced at his cone, deliberately dodging the question.
"I think I have a right to know! I'm involved in this now!" Frank insisted.
---
The two of them kept talking past each other—
neither had any intention of answering the other's question.
"Here—take it. Switch with me."
Peggy didn't even bother acknowledging Frank's persistence. As his mother, she knew exactly what kind of person he was—so she had zero interest in entertaining his nonsense.
Before Frank could react, she snatched the chocolate ice cream from his hand and shoved the almond-flavored one into his.
Only then did he snap out of it.
"What? No! What are you doing?!"
Peggy ignored him.
"What difference does it make? Shut up and eat it."
"I hate almond flavor!" Frank protested, reaching out to grab his original cone back.
But Peggy, now free from the burden of pancreatic cancer, was far quicker than before.
With a sharp elbow strike, she knocked him straight back into the driver's seat.
Frank yelped in pain.
"Mom! Was that really necessary?! I'm your son!"
For once, he actually sounded genuinely wronged.
And to be fair—
Peggy had never treated him normally.
After all, a mother who specialized in drug manufacturing and occasionally caused explosions wasn't exactly the nurturing type.
Grumbling, Frank kicked the van in frustration.
"This is my car!"
Peggy rolled her eyes.
"It's not your car. William rented it, you idiot."
"That's not how it works! Driver gets a share! I'm a partner!"
Of course, what he really meant was—
He wanted a cut of the money.
"Son, don't overestimate your importance."
With that, Peggy opened the car door and stepped out.
Her goal was simple—
Kidnap Pitts's two daughters.
Use them as leverage to get her money back.
Frank followed, still rambling:
"Normally, stuff like this comes with mileage compensation!"
"Shut your damn mouth and help me find those two girls."
Peggy shoved the photo frame she had taken from Pitts's office into his hands.
"You're kidnapping his kids?! Are you insane?!
That's a federal crime!
A federal crime!"
Frank's voice kept rising.
Peggy felt like she was about to develop cancer again just listening to him.
"Lower your voice, you brain-dead idiot!"
Mid-rant, Frank suddenly paused.
"…How much does he even owe you?"
For Peggy to resort to kidnapping—
It had to be a serious amount.
Just then—
A voice cut in.
"Hey, you two… what are you talking about?"
William.
Both Peggy and Frank froze, startled by his sudden appearance.
"What are you doing here?" Peggy narrowed her eyes, studying him.
She'd seen all kinds of people in her life—
But someone like William, whose intentions were completely unreadable?
That was new.
"That's not important," William said with a faint smile.
"What matters is—I'm here to make sure certain things go as planned."
He showed a row of white teeth, smiling calmly at the two of them.
---
The real reason William was here?
Simple.
He wanted to make sure Frank didn't get a single cent from Pitts.
Peggy taking the $200,000 and distributing it among her other sons—
That didn't matter to him.
It wasn't a big sum in his eyes.
But Frank?
Frank had to stay completely cut off from that money.
William had no interest in letting that man enjoy even a single good day.
In fact—
His ideal scenario was forcing Frank to keep scraping by,
Day after day,
Earning money in gay bars just to survive.
Call it… poetic justice.
After all—
Compared to the suffering he avoided by not leeching off Sheila,
This was barely repayment.
And in those dimly lit bars—
No one paid attention to his "demonic eyes" anyway.
---