82: Chapter 82 Shut him up, but don't shut him up forever.

The morning in Manhattan was awakened by the roar of helicopters.

Below the Astor Bank building, it was already packed with reporters, their long lenses and microphones aimed at the revolving door like a flock of vultures waiting to feast on carrion.

After fermenting overnight, the post about "Mexican money laundering" had crawled from the dark web to the top of the Twitter trending list.

Lawrence Astor stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, looking down at the ants below.

He gripped the phone in his hand, his tie hanging loosely around his neck, his eyes bloodshot.

"Listen, Simon, I don't care how much money you want. Five million? Ten million? I'll pay it all."

Lawrence roared into the receiver, spittle spraying onto the glass.

"I want that post gone. I want Twitter to ban the account. I want you to hire a bunch of bots and paint that poster as an extortionist lunatic! This is libel! It's a smear campaign by business rivals."

On the other end of the line, Simon Ross, New York's top crisis PR expert, sounded calm, even with a touch of professional perfunctoriness.

"Mr. Astor, this is very difficult. The public is not only concerned about Mexican drug dealers now, but also about that credit manager of yours who disappeared. This is no longer a PR crisis; it's a precursor to a federal felony."

"Then turn it into a political persecution." Lawrence smashed the window frame hard.

"Tell the media that this is a conspiracy cooked up by those bastards in the Democratic Party for the midterm elections. You're the expert, Simon, don't tell me it's hard. By tonight, I want to see the public opinion turn around, or you won't get that final payment."

Hanging up the phone, Lawrence panted heavily, grabbed the whiskey on the table, and took a big gulp.

Brooklyn, safe house.

Chen Mo was wiping the barrel of a glock 19.

The TV was playing the statement Lawrence Astor had just released. The old man was righteous before the camera, claiming he would sue all the rumor-mongers.

"This old fart is still dreaming." Jack Martin gnawed on a burger while staring at the screen.

"Simon Ross is the boss of Red Stone PR. That guy has a mouth that can turn black into white. As long as the money is right, he really can muddy these waters."

"No matter how tough the mouth is, it still fears pliers."

Chen Mo put the recoil spring back in, producing a crisp click.

He didn't even look up, just placed the gun on the table and pushed it toward the woman sitting opposite him.

Elizabeth Wayne—or rather, the current "Nightingale"—could no longer be recognized as the former FBI agent she once was.

She had dyed her blonde hair dark brown and cut it extremely short, revealing a sharp jawline.

Her originally exquisite makeup was gone, replaced by a sickly pallor and a scar deliberately drawn at the corner of her eye.

She was wearing a loose men's jacket and was playing with a butterfly knife in her hand.

The blade danced between her fingers like a silver snake.

"Is that for me?" Nightingale glanced at the glock.

"No, that's a backup." Chen Mo took a photo out of his pocket and pressed it under the gun.

"Simon Ross lives in a wealthy area of Long Island, security level B+. He will be at home tonight planning how to help Lawrence clean up his mess."

Nightingale picked up the photo and glanced at the bald man in a high-end suit, her mouth twitching: "Kill him?"

"No."

Chen Mo picked up the coffee on the table and took a sip, his eyes as calm as if he were discussing today's weather.

"Killing him is too easy, and it will bring unnecessary trouble. I want to make him never dare to mention the three words 'Astor' again in his life. I want to make him feel that working for Lawrence is more terrifying than going to hell."

Chen Mo put down the cup and looked into Nightingale's eyes.

"Can you do it?"

The butterfly knife in Nightingale's hand stopped abruptly, the tip hovering a millimeter from her fingertip.

"Boss, I'm a dead person." She stuffed the photo into her pocket and picked up the gun, tucking it into the back of her waistband. "Dead people are best at scaring the living."

That night, Long Island, Simon Ross's mansion.

Simon was typing furiously on his computer in his study, with a glass of red wine next to him.

On the screen was the PR draft he had just prepared, with a sensational headline: "Who Is Framing the Last Aristocrat of Wall Street?"

He was very pleased; if he pulled this job off, his position in the industry would be secure.

As for the truth? That didn't matter; that was for the judges to worry about. He was only responsible for manufacturing the "truth."

Suddenly, the study lights flickered.

They went out.

"Damn it, tripped the breaker again?" Simon cursed as he pulled out his phone, turned on the flashlight, and prepared to go to the basement to check the electrical box.

But just as he stood up, he felt a chill behind his neck.

It was the cold touch unique to metal.

"Don't move."

A hoarse female voice rang in his ear, like a ghost crawling out of a grave, "Sit down and keep writing."

Simon's legs instantly went weak, and he fell back into his chair.

The beam of the phone shook, illuminating a face across the desk.

It was a woman. She was sitting on the expensive leather sofa opposite him, crossing her legs, holding his family photo frame in her hand.

"Your daughter is very cute, only five years old?" Nightingale's voice was very soft, her fingers tracing the smiling face of the little girl on the glass of the photo frame.

"I heard she goes to that private kindergarten? The school bus picks her up at the door at 8:30 every day, right?"

Cold sweat instantly soaked Simon's back.

"You... who are you? Do you want money? I have money! There's cash in the safe!"

"Shh."

Nightingale held her index finger to her lips, while her other hand played with a butterfly knife.

The blade refracted a cold glint under the faint light of the phone.

"I don't want money. I'm here to tell you that this draft has some problems."

She placed the photo frame face down on the desk, making a dull thud.

"Astor Bank's money is very hot, Mr. Simon. It's so hot that it might burn down your house, burn your dog to death, or even... burn that yellow school bus."

Simon was trembling all over.

As a PR expert, he had seen all kinds of threats, lawyer letters, gang intimidation letters, but he had never seen a look like this.

It was a look completely devoid of warmth, hollow, dead, just like looking at a piece of rotten meat.

"What do you want me to do?" Simon's voice carried a crying tone.

Nightingale stood up, walked behind him, bent down, and the cold back of the blade slid down his cheek, stopping at his carotid artery.

"Tomorrow morning, I want to see a statement from Red Stone PR terminating the cooperation."

She whispered in Simon's ear, like a lover's murmur.

"The reason is... moral hazard. If you can't do it, I won't guarantee where this knife will cut next time."

"Maybe here."

The blade pressed down gently, and Simon felt his skin pierced as warm liquid flowed out.

"Or on your daughter's face."

"I'll do it, I'll do it!" Simon shouted in a breakdown, "Don't touch my daughter! Please!"

The lights came on.

The study was empty.

Only the face-down photo frame and the thin line of crimson blood on Simon's neck proved that everything just now was not a hallucination.