Kyle sat in his car, staring at the glowing screen of his phone. The numbers stared back: $2 billion in net worth, built from scratch, he had co such a long way and this was thanks to his rebate system.
He leaned back in his leather chair, fingers drumming on the armrest. Isabeau’s offer replayed in his mind—an invite to the Dons’ eting. A chance to sit at the Mafia’s table. But he knew better than to jump in blind. The Mafia wasn’t a ga; one wrong move, and he’d end up dead.
He weighed the risks. Blending in could work, thanks to his skill. It let him act like anyone—copy their walk, talk, even their habits. He could pick a tough guy from a movie, like a calm mob boss, and slip into the role. No one would spot the fake. But death lood large. These people killed without a second thought. If they sniffed out his lies, a bullet would end it all. He had too much to lose now.
His thoughts shifted to the won in his life. Jane, with her kind heart; Cassandra, strong and steady; Ella, fierce and new to his world and the rest of the won that were tied to him one way or another.
If he died, they would lose the safety he had built. His billions could give them hos, security, freedom. Jasmine and Cassandra’s kid—they’d rise too. He’d set up funds for school, hos, a fresh start. At least his life would count for sothing, not just vanish like smoke.
Kyle sighed, rubbing his temples. The rebate system had made him rich, turning losses into gains. But money couldn’t buy life. Power players hated threats like him—soone rising too fast. He needed allies, real backing, before he aid higher. Cleopatra could help, with her ties. Or he could use Ella’s link to her sister as a last play. But that felt wrong, like betraying trust.
He activated his rebate system and a cyan screen appeared right in front of him, it had been a while since he saw this.
It was ti to act. He explored the rebate system with his bank account balance staring right at him, fingers flying over screen. He set it to transfer everything to Jane if he died—she was the one he trusted most, steady and true. No splits; she’d share fairly. It felt right, a safety net. He hit save, then stood.
it would make no sense for him to make all this money and die with it with no trace of it in the world especially in the lives of those he cared about.
Kyle grabbed his jacket from the backseat, heart pounding. It was ti. He drove to et soone before the showdown which took approximately three hours, a hidden spot in the city outskirts.
Guards nodded him in, eyes sharp. He was going to et soone and the person who waited for him in that location was soone familiar.
-
In the dimly lit back room of a nondescript warehouse on the city’s edge, the air hung thick with cigar smoke and tension. Marcello Vescari paced slowly, his polished shoes clicking against the concrete floor like the ticking of a bomb. The other family heads sat around a scarred oak table—Viktor Sokolov slouched in his chair, his massive fra dwarfing the seat, a fresh bruise blooming on his knuckles from so recent "interrogation"; Lucius Moretti, the Italian with the fedora tipped low over his eyes, nursing a glass of aged scotch; and the others, their faces etched with frowns.
Isabeau Delacroix perched at the end, her elegant black dress a stark contrast to the gritty surroundings, her fingers drumming lightly on the table’s edge.
The eting had been called in haste, sparked by Viktor’s gruff report of his encounter with Kyle.
"The kid held his own," Viktor had growled earlier, his Russian accent thick as gravel.
"But he ntioned a mole. Pointed right at , like he knew sothing," Viktor continued. Marcello had frozen then, his sharp eyes narrowing. Kyle wasn’t just so entertainnt upstart dipping into their drug trade; now, he was a potential leak, a crack in their armored empire. The conversation with Viktor hadn’t been random—it reeked of probing, of soone looking for cracks.
If Kyle was the mole, feeding info to rivals like Cleopatra or even the Yakuza tied to Nakamura, then inviting him here could be their chance to plug the hole. Permanently. Marcello stopped pacing, his voice low and commanding.
"We bring him in. Test him. If he’s clean, he walks—maybe even deeper into the fold. If not..." He let the words hang, his hand slicing the air like a blade. The room nodded in grim agreent. Preparations began swiftly: Viktor barked orders to his n outside, positioning snipers on the rooftops overlooking the approach roads—hidden eyes with silenced rifles, ready to drop Kyle if he showed with backup. Lucius coordinated the ground team, a dozen enforcers blending into the shadows around the warehouse, ard with concealed pistols and knives.
"No loose ends," Lucius muttered, checking his own weapon. The Irish O’Rourke head, silent but watchful.
This might seem too much for one man but if he knew what they suspected he did, he wasn’t an ordinary man.
They were all getting ready for tomorrow and knew Kyle stood no chance at surviving.
Isabeau listened, her face a mask of cool composure, but inside, her mind raced like a storm.
"How does he know?" The surprise hit her first, a sharp jolt in her chest when Viktor recounted Kyle’s words.
Isabeau’s involvent with Cleopatra was her deepest secret—a web of quiet alliances, favors traded in the dark to undermine Marcello’s grip while maintaining her facade of loyalty. Cleopatra had been careful; she wasn’t the type to slip. Their partnership stretched back years, born from shared ambitions after Isabeau’s husband "fell" in that convenient hit, paving her path to power.
No loose lips, no trails. Yet Kyle’s jab at Viktor felt too pointed, too close to the fractures she’d helped widen. Did he have proof? Or was it a bluff, a lucky guess from a Hollywood kid playing gangster?
She couldn’t risk it. As the others debated entry points and interrogation tactics—Viktor suggesting his "special tools" to extract the truth, Marcello opting for subtlety first—Isabeau’s thoughts sharpened to a plan. She had to get to Kyle before he reached the table. If he spilled even a hint of her role, the Dons’ trust in her would waver.
Marcello might believe her denials at first—years of loyalty bought that much—but proof? Docunts, recordings, a witness? That led straight to trial in their code: a quick vote, then execution. And it wasn’t just a bullet to the head either, body would be dumped in the river, her family erased from the books. No rcy for betrayal.
Excusing herself under the pretense of a call, Isabeau slipped into a side room, her heels echoing softly. She dialed a burner phone, her voice a whisper of steel.
"Intercept him en route. Quietly. Bring him to the safehouse first—no marks, no noise. I need to talk to him before Marcello does," Her contact grunted affirmation; a team of three shadows, loyal only to her, would tail Kyle’s path to pick him up. the goal wasn’t to kill him otherwise that in itself would raise questions. She’d probe him in a place of her choosing to see just how much he knew, alone: What do you know? How much? Proof or bluff? If he had dirt on her Cleopatra, she’d silence him— a quick toxin, staged as a heart attack. Clean. If not, she’d feed him lies, send him to Marcello softened, her secrets intact.
Back at the table, as preparations wrapped—guards in place, the warehouse rigged like a fortress—Isabeau rejoined, her smile flawless. Marcello nodded at her.
"You good?" She t his eyes, voice steady.
"Always." But inside, the clock ticked. Kyle was coming.
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