99: Chapter 99 Dog Chain and Bone

That mahogany desk was probably two hundred years old; the varnish on the surface had been worn to a shine, and deep scratches could still be felt at the corners, said to have been left by the previous generation's Godfather using that famous silver letter opener.

Richie sat in the leather chair, which was as wide as a single bed, his backside sinking into something soft, as if he had fallen into a pile of expensive cotton.

He crossed his legs and propped his polished new leather shoes on the corner of the desk; the bit of mud on the soles looked particularly glaring against the deep red wood.

"I said, I don't like tardiness."

Richie took a puff of his cigar.

The thing made his throat itch, but he forced himself to endure it, merely squinting his eyes and watching the old man standing in front of the desk through the curling blue smoke.

That was Sal, the former financial director of the Gambino Family, an old hand who had spent forty years in Brooklyn.

Back when Richie was selling marijuana on the street corner, he didn't even have the qualification to look at this old man.

"Richie... I mean, Boss."

Sal kept his head lowered; his face, usually full of arrogance, now held only embarrassment and cowardice. He rubbed his hands, his knuckles turning white from the effort. "The accounts are too messy. Paul died suddenly, and many cash flows—"

"Then go check them!" Richie slammed his cigar into the crystal ashtray, sending sparks flying.

He suddenly loved the feeling of shouting, just like putting a collar on an old dog and tightening it.

"If I don't see clear accounts by tomorrow morning, you can go keep Paul company in the Hudson River!"

Sal shivered all over, nodded repeatedly, and retreated as if fleeing for his life.

The door closed.

Richie let out a long breath and leaned back in his chair, his heart thumping as if it were about to jump out of his throat.

He grabbed the whiskey bottle on the table and took a hard swig.

The spicy liquid burned down his esophagus; that poison called "power" began to ferment in his veins.

Damn it, this is what it feels like to be the boss.

Those big shots who used to make him bow and scrape now wouldn't dare let out a fart in front of him.

That cop... that devil called Chen Mo, really did it.

"As long as I'm obedient." Richie touched his neck; there seemed to be an invisible cold chain there, but he didn't care.

As long as he could sit in this position, what did it matter if he was a dog? Even a dog has golden bones to gnaw on.

11:00 PM, Blue Velvet Nightclub in Brooklyn.

This place was once Paul Gambino's private territory, but now it had become the venue for Richie's victory celebration.

The deafening heavy metal music threatened to blow the roof off, and the air was thick with a mix of perfume, alcohol, and a restless scent of sweat.

Richie sat in the largest booth, one arm around a blonde, holding a bottle of Ace of Spades champagne in his right hand, laughing wildly at the minions writhing like beasts below.

"Drink up! Tonight, all the drinks are on me!"

Cheers surged up like a tsunami.

Some were shouting "Long live Richie," and others were shaking their bodies wildly.

Just as the atmosphere reached its climax, the blonde suddenly screamed and sprang from Richie's arms.

Richie frowned, just about to curse, but noticed the atmosphere around him was off.

The music had stopped at some point, and the crowd on the dance floor parted to both sides like Moses parting the sea, revealing a large empty space.

All eyes were fixed on the entrance.

A person was standing there.

Dressed in a crisp dark blue police uniform, with a baton and handcuffs hanging from his belt, the silver badge on his chest reflected a blinding light under the dim lamps.

He wasn't holding a gun; instead, he was carrying one of those common convenience store plastic bags.

Chen Mo took off his peaked cap, revealing that face that always carried a hint of a smile. His gaze swept across the crowd and finally landed on Richie in the booth.

"Yo, pretty lively, huh."

Chen Mo walked over slowly, his leather shoes clicking crisply on the marble floor.

With every step he took, the gangsters who had just been acting so arrogant shrank back a step.

The champagne bottle in Richie's hand hit the floor with a "clatter," splashing amber liquid all over his pant leg. He stood up abruptly as if he had springs under his butt, his knees hitting the corner of the table, causing him to wince in pain, yet he didn't dare utter a sound.

"O... Officer Robert." Richie stammered, cold sweat instantly soaking through his newly changed high-end suit.

Chen Mo stepped up to the platform and arrived in front of Richie.

He was half a head taller than Richie, and that condescending sense of oppression made Richie feel like a plucked chicken.

"I saw your door wasn't closed, so I came in to take a look."

Chen Mo pulled an unopened pack of cheap cigarettes from the convenience store bag, took one out and put it in his mouth, then naturally reached out to touch Richie's pocket. "Spare a light."

Richie scrambled to pull out his gold-plated lighter, but because his hands were shaking so badly, it took him three tries to get it lit.

Chen Mo leaned in to light his cigarette, took a deep drag, and blew the smoke directly into Richie's face.

"Cough, cough..." Richie was choked to the point of tears.

"Are the fire safety facilities here up to code? Have you obtained the liquor license?"

Chen Mo smiled and patted Richie's cheek; the action was as light as petting his own golden retriever, but with every slap, Richie's face twitched.

"Also, with so much alcohol, have the invoices been issued? How are you going to explain this to the tax bureau?"

There was dead silence all around.

"Officer, I... we will get them sorted out." Richie's voice was laced with a crying tone. "I'll have someone take care of it right now."

"No need for that much trouble." Chen Mo pulled a blue folder from under his arm and tossed it onto the alcohol-stained tabletop. "These are the new rules."

Richie opened the folder with trembling hands.

The first page had only one line of bold, large text: Brooklyn Special Public Security Regulations.

"First, from today on, if a single gram of green devil appears in your establishment, I will chop off one of your fingers."

Chen Mo's voice wasn't loud, but every word felt like a nail being driven into Richie's bones. "Once the ten fingers are chopped off, I'll chop off your toes."

Richie nodded desperately: "Yes, no green devil, absolutely not."

"Second, all cash income, whether you're selling pizza or collecting parking fees, must be deposited into the account designated by the Legacy Trust before midnight every day."

Chen Mo pointed to a string of numbers at the bottom of the document. "There will be professional accountants to help you with the books. I want every cent to be squeaky clean, the kind of clean that can be left out in the sun."

"Do you understand?"

"Un... understood."

"Very good." Chen Mo tossed the cigarette butt into the unfinished champagne glass, and with a "hiss," blue smoke rose up.

He turned around, put his police cap back on, and straightened his tie.

"Don't stop now, keep the music playing, keep dancing."

Chen Mo waved his hand and sauntered out like a security guard uncle who had just finished his patrol.

Not until his figure disappeared at the doorway did that suffocating pressure dissipate.

The music started up again, but no one dared to make loud noises anymore, and the way everyone looked at Richie had changed.

It was no longer awe for a boss, but a kind of pity for a puppet.

Richie slumped on the sofa, looking at the still-smoking champagne glass.

He suddenly realized one thing: he wasn't sitting on a throne, but in the palm of Chen Mo's hand.

His hands gripped the folder tightly, his nails digging a hole into the blue plastic cover.

After the tide of fear receded, all that remained on the exposed beach was a grain of sand called "unwillingness."