95: Chapter 95 The Lambs That Are No Longer Silent

Night rain in Brooklyn always carried the smell of sour garbage.

Richie huddled by a dumpster behind the back door of a strip club called "Pink Flamingo," clutching a not-so-reliable glock 17 in his hand.

It was thrown to him by the cop known as "Mad Robert," and the grip still had the blood and brains of its previous owner—a dreadlocked drug dealer—stuck to it.

His current status was the new boss of Sunset Park, at least in name.

But this boss was currently soaking wet like a drowned rat, watching his own place go up in smoke.

Ten minutes ago, two white men in long trench coats had thrown a Molotov cocktail through the club's front door.

Flames licked at the neon sign, warping and deforming the cheap Pink Flamingo.

The sirens of fire trucks wailed in the distance, but the street punks from the surrounding blocks were just watching the show; no one dared to step forward to help put out the fire.

Richie wiped the rain from his face, pulled out his Nokia with a screen cracked like a spiderweb, and dialed the number.

The phone rang twice before being picked up.

"Boss, the Flamingo is burning." Richie's voice was trembling. The arrogance of someone who had just been promoted seemed to have been washed away completely by the rain, leaving only bone-deep terror.

"Two white men in long trench coats. They threw a Molotov cocktail and left. They... they left a message for me."

There was only the sound of chewing on the other end of the line. A few seconds later, Chen Mo's voice came through unhurriedly: "What message?"

"They said Brooklyn doesn't welcome kids who only know how to play with switchblades. They told me to crawl back to the sewers to sell weed, or else next time they won't burn down a shop—they'll burn down my house."

Richie swallowed hard, looking at the blazing club in the distance, the firelight reflecting on his pale face.

"Boss, it's the Gambino Family. Those two guys who threw the Molotovs, I recognized a tattoo on the back of one of their hands—it was an eagle."

"Oh."

Just a single word. So calm it was unnerving.

Richie grew anxious: "Boss, should we fight back? I have a few guns now. If you can spare me some men, I can go smash up their pizza place on 83rd Street..."

"Idiot."

Chen Mo interrupted him. There was no anger in his tone, only a sort of pity one would show to an idiot.

"You're going to smash up a pizza place? And then what? Wait for your head to be hung from the Brooklyn Bridge tomorrow morning?

The Gambino Family has been operating in New York for fifty years. They have more guns than you have men. What are you going to fight them with? That glock of yours with only half a magazine?"

Richie froze, his hand holding the phone stiffening in midair: "Then... then what do we do? Just take it? Everyone on the streets is watching. If I don't do something, tomorrow I really will have no choice but to go sell weed."

"Who said we're going to take it?" Chen Mo laughed. It was the laugh Richie feared most, sounding like a blade scraping across glass.

"Richie, put the gun away. Disperse your boys and go home to sleep."

"Sleep?"

"Yes, sleep. Since they want to play old-era Mafia games, we'll teach them the rules of the new era."

Chen Mo paused. "Wait by that dumpster and don't run around. Someone will go handle the fire scene. Remember, you are a victim, a law-abiding taxpayer. Whatever the police ask, tell them—except for my name."

The call ended.

Richie looked at the darkened phone screen, then at the fire truck spraying water in the distance, his mind a complete jumble.

But he didn't dare disobey. He could only tuck the bloody glock into his waistband and shrink back into the shadows.

...

Manhattan Upper East Side, a 24-hour high-end steakhouse.

Chen Mo put down his phone and used his dinner knife to slice into the sizzling medium-rare ribeye on his plate.

Bright red blood flowed along the grain, mixing with the black pepper sauce.

Sitting across from him, Jack Martin was holding a glass of club soda, his expression somewhat grim. "The Gambino Family made a move? Because of that doctor?"

"That chemistry teacher had some very interesting things in his head." Chen Mo popped a piece of beef into his mouth and chewed slowly.

"The docks of Port Jersey, that smuggling route, and even the property rights to that cold storage in Queens—the Gambino Family's shadow is behind all of them.

I cut off their source of goods and snatched the downstream clients they used for money laundering. Of course those old fogies would be angry."

Jack pushed up his glasses. "This is no small trouble. Although those Italians have declined in recent years, their roots in New York run deep.

Labor unions, docks, logistics... If we go into an all-out war, our Legacy Trust will face immense security pressure right after opening."

"Security pressure?" Chen Mo wiped the corners of his mouth with a napkin, a playful glint in his eyes. "Jack, have you forgotten who we are now?"

Jack froze for a moment. "Bankers?"

"No, we are good citizens." Chen Mo pulled a USB drive from his pocket and slid it across the smooth tabletop to Jack.

"Although that dead guy named Lawrence Astor played himself to death, the list of favors and connections he left behind is still very useful.

There are some very interesting names in there, like the audit director of the New York branch of the IRS, and the deputy commissioner of the City Department of Health."

Jack picked up the USB drive, his eyes gradually lighting up.

"The Gambino Family owns thirteen Italian restaurants in Brooklyn and Queens, two large industrial laundries, and a construction company that takes on municipal projects."

Chen Mo counted them off on his fingers. "Are the kitchens of those restaurants really clean? Do those laundries' wastewater discharges meet environmental standards? Most importantly—can that construction company's tax statements withstand an audit?"

"The IRS..." Jack gasped. "Those tax-auditing mad dogs are scarier than hitmen."

"In America, only two things are inevitable: death and taxes."

Chen Mo raised his wine glass and swirled it against the light. "Since Mr. Gambino likes playing with fire, we'll invite some professionals to put out his fire."

"I understand." Jack slipped the USB drive into his pocket, a sinister smile characteristic of a Wall Street elite appearing on his face.

"I'll contact Miss Ava right away and have her arrange for some 'concerned citizens' to report them. By the way, do we need to notify the media?"

"Of course." Chen Mo took a sip of his red wine.

"Have those reporters bring their cameras and gear. I want tomorrow morning's headlines to be entirely about the Gambino Family's business hygiene concerns and tax evasion. I want to make sure not even a single fly can get into their businesses."

Jack stood up and straightened his suit. "And what about you, Boss?"

"I'm going to work." Chen Mo glanced out the window at the pitch-black night. "After all, I'm a salaried police officer. Fighting crime is my duty."