Gunfire echoed nonstop, the sound amplified to a deafening roar inside the narrow sewer tunnels as Simon and Tago jumped out of their vehicles with weapons drawn, bracing to meet the attack head-on; there were fourteen trucks in total, each carrying several men, adding up to roughly twenty or thirty armed operatives.
"Report their position!" Simon barked, his tone sharp and grim. These damn vagrants—of all places, they had to block this route.
A single gunshot cracked through the air.
Then silence.
The line went dead.
As more and more of his men dropped out of contact, Simon's expression darkened further. How is this even possible? This sewer system wasn't supposed to be operational yet—it was still under construction, with government crews stationed at the entrance—so how the hell did this many filthy vagrants gather here?
Damn it. The plan had gone completely off the rails.
With this many casualties, there was no way they could move the gold anymore, and if those vagrants realized the trucks weren't hauling garbage but gold… Simon didn't even need to think twice about what desperate men like that would do.
Rat-a-tat-tat!
Taking cover behind the truck, Simon leaned out and fired a tight three-round burst, forcing back a wave of attackers rushing toward him, while beside him, Tago was practically unraveling.
"Simon! Do something! At this rate, we're all going to die here!"
Simon's voice dropped to ice. "There's another crate of bombs in the truck. Get it."
"Are you insane? If we detonate a bomb here, everything's finished!"
"It's already finished." Simon's eyes burned with fury. "These vagrants came prepared—they set an ambush and caught us completely off guard. It's over, Targo. We're not getting this gold out."
Targo froze, the strength draining from his body as he slumped against the truck like a cut string puppet; after all the planning, all the effort, everything executed perfectly—right up to moving the gold out of the Federal Reserve—only to have it all collapse because of a bunch of beggars.
He clutched his head and let out a bitter, almost hysterical laugh. "Hahaha! Simon! We outplayed the NYPD, risked everything… just to hand it all over to a pack of beggars? Hahaha! What is this—wealth redistribution? This might actually qualify as Germany's worst joke of the year."
Meanwhile, Simon had already pulled the bomb from his briefcase.
"Targo, I don't accept dying like this—and I sure as hell won't let my gold get taken by a bunch of vagrants. If they want it, they can pay for it with their lives."
He flipped open the case.
Just as he was about to arm it—
A gun barrel pressed cold against his forehead from the shadows behind him.
"Put the bomb down."
Simon froze, then slowly raised his head and saw a tall man in a small round hat who had somehow slipped behind the truck without making a sound, and beside him stood another man with long hair in a suit, his gun trained directly at Targo.
Leon stepped forward, snatched the bomb from Simon's hand, checked it quickly to confirm it hadn't been armed, and set it aside.
By then, the fighting had already ended.
Only now did Simon realize what he was actually dealing with—this wasn't just a group of vagrants; besides the two men in front of him, there were two women, and even another blond man not far away—someone younger, sharper-looking.
Then, surrounded by ragged followers, the so-called King of Bowery Street stepped forward.
"The underworld of New York belongs to the King of Bowery Street," he declared, voice loud and theatrical. "And yes, I mean the literal underworld. In my domain, anything that moves through the sewers cannot escape my notice."
Simon let out a cold laugh. "A bunch of beggars calling themselves a kingdom?"
King grinned broadly. "Beggars are still subjects of a king—and it's exactly the people you never bother to look at who end up becoming the biggest obstacle in your path."
Simon's jaw tightened. "To hell with beggars."
He turned his gaze toward John Wick. "Mr. Wick—I know who you are. The infamous Baba Yaga… never thought I'd see you running with a pack of beggars."
John's expression didn't change. "King's my friend."
King shrugged, clearly unbothered, as if being friends with someone he'd earned through a few gunshot wounds was perfectly normal.
Off to the side, Brian clenched his fists, barely containing his excitement. Holy shit… I'm finally in on one of the Dove of Peace's operations—and it's this big. Bodies everywhere. This is murder—real, undeniable evidence.
Even if the Dove of Peace wasn't here personally, everything happening now was under his orders; Leon, the security chief, the assassins—this entire operation traced back to him.
Brian took a slow breath.
After going undercover for so long, he finally had something real. But then what? Report it to the FBI? The Dove of Peace had treated him well these past few months—he'd made friends, built connections—and if Luca got arrested because of him…
Mathilda would never forgive him.
The others would cut him off.
Leon might even hunt him down.
By then, New York would have no place left for him.
What should've been a breakthrough suddenly felt like a dead end.
…One step at a time. Finish the job first.
Simon's eyes swept across the group—Leon, King, Brian, and O-Ren Ishii—recognizing only a few faces, yet sensing something deeply off about this lineup.
How the hell did these people even end up on the same side?
"I'll admit it," Simon said with a faint smirk, forcing himself to stay composed. "New York really is something, huh? Or maybe we're just incredibly unlucky to run into each other in a place like this. So—what do you want?"
He had already realized something crucial: if they intended to kill him, they would've done it already; the fact that they were talking meant they wanted something else.
His gaze drifted subtly toward the trucks—none of them had checked the cargo.
For a moment, Simon couldn't tell: were they here for him, or for the gold?
Leon stepped forward and handed him a phone.
A calm, unfamiliar voice came through the speaker.
"Hello, Mr. Thief—what should I call you?"
Simon stiffened. Thief? This guy knew.
"Who are you?"
"I own those garbage trucks. You can call me Luca—the Dove of Peace."
The voice carried the same composed authority Simon himself had used earlier on the police. "You took fourteen of my trucks—that's a serious loss. As for your men… they were standing where they shouldn't have been. Consider it the price of admission."
Simon's pupils shrank slightly. So this was the owner?
He came all the way out here… over garbage trucks?
"I'll be taking my vehicles back," Luca continued. "You don't have a problem with that, do you? They were mine to begin with."
Simon paused.
Wait.
Does he… not know what's inside?
His eyes flicked, almost imperceptibly, toward the sealed cargo compartments. The trucks were fully enclosed—like containers—nothing visible from the outside.
Maybe…
Just maybe…
"I'll pay," Simon said carefully. "The trucks are yours, and I'm sorry for taking them—you killed my men, we're even—but the cargo inside belongs to me. I can compensate you to keep it."
"What exactly are you transporting?"
Simon hesitated. Lying seemed pointless—they could open the containers at any moment—but telling the truth felt even worse.
"I'm just a courier," he said finally. "Client confidentiality. I don't know what's inside."
"So why steal my trucks? Don't couriers have their own vehicles?"
"…How much do you want?"
"Two million," Simon tested.
"I can't make much from this job. That's my limit."
Luca chuckled. "Fourteen trucks worth over three million—and you offer me two? Not even close. Five million, and I might consider letting you finish your delivery."
Simon's heart leapt.
Five million… for $140billion in gold? That was nothing.
There was still a way out.
He masked his excitement with a strained smile. "You drive a hard bargain. I thought you'd be more generous to a friend."
"I don't even know your name."
"You can call me Gruber."
"Alright, Gruber—four million. That's the price for friendship."
"…Deal."
Simon exhaled slowly. "If I'd known you were this reasonable, I wouldn't have taken your trucks. They were just… too good to pass up."
"Flattery noted. My people will drive the trucks and handle delivery—you transfer the money to my offshore account, and everything proceeds smoothly."
"No problem."
The call ended.
Simon finally relaxed, tension draining from his shoulders.
[Bond: Attention]
__________________________________________________________________________
[Ding! You hired assassins to eliminate 26 international terrorists and resolved conflict with their leader, preserving peace in New York.]
[Skill Points +30]
[Skill Fragments +15]
[Remaining Skill Fragments: 155]
__________________________________________________________________________
At the dock—
Jordan picked up a call from an overseas bank and froze, eyes wide. "Dove—someone actually wired the money. Four million!"
Standing by the shoreline, Luca let the sea breeze tug at his coat, a faint smile on his lips. "Jordan, how long have you known me? When have I ever lied?"
"Hahaha! You're my lucky charm! Mwah—!"
"Back off." Luca shoved him away without hesitation. "Clean the money, then move it into the market."
"Already ahead of you," Jordan grinned. "I've got my eye on a few internet companies—I've even spoken with people at Amazon and Cisco. We'll raise funds directly—just sit back and watch the money roll in."
Luca nodded, clearly pleased. "Amazon's a solid bet… Jordan, one day, you'll be the richest man in America."
Jordan laughed. "Second place is fine—you take number one, Dove."
And he meant it.
Ever since meeting Luca, everything had fallen into place—troubles gone, profits up. Just the gasoline tax play alone had made them a fortune.
Who says only women can make money lying down?
Men can too.
I, Jordan, am going to make money lying on Ole Dove's bed.
————————————————————————————————————————————————————————
[Ding! Your Bond with Jordan Belfort is Up]
[Bond: Close Friend]
[Unlocked Skill: Bewitching]
"Redeem the skill"
[Skill Redeem Succesfully]
[Skill Fragments -100]
[Bewitching]
Description: Your voice carries a magnetic weight, capable of swaying minds and stirring hearts. Whether on a stage or behind a receiver, people don't just hear you—they believe you.
Active Effect (Public Speaking):
When delivering speeches, your words gain a significant boost in conviction, inspiration, and morale.
Persuasion Rate: Increases by 10% to 30% (Scales with the quality of your delivery).
Passive Effect (Telecommunications):
Base Trust: Increases by +10% during any phone-based communication.
Specialization (The Cold Call):
Stock Promotion: When pitching stocks or financial assets over the phone, trust levels increase by an additional +20% (Total: +30%).
————————————————————————————————————————————————————————
Luca glanced at the new skill, his smile deepening ever so slightly, then raised his hand, feeling the wind curl through his fingers as the waves rose and fell before him—like the very spine of New York bending in the palm of his hand.
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And as always, each 100 Stones = 2 Bonus Chapters.