Chapter 5

That same night, while the city drowned itself in neon and indulgence, a black Bentley rolled silently through an industrial district far removed from glamour.

The vehicle came to a smooth stop in front of a small warehouse squatting at the edge of the docks, its rusted exterior deceptively modest. No signage. No windows. Just cold steel doors and men who looked like they belonged to violence rather than commerce.

The Bentley slowed to a halt.

Armed men in tailored black suits immediately stepped forward. Tattoos crawled up their necks and disappeared beneath crisp collars. Guns rested openly in their hands, not as threats but as facts. This was not a place where warnings were necessary.

The rear door of the Bentley opened and Richard Jefferson stepped out.

Despite the late hour, he was dressed immaculately—charcoal suit, polished shoes, silver cufflinks catching the faint glow of the warehouse lights. At a glance, he looked every bit the successful businessman he liked the world to believe he was. Only the tightness in his jaw and the faint sheen of sweat at his temple betrayed him.

One of the guards gestured silently.

Richard adjusted the coat he had worn with pride—but now it felt like a costume he no longer deserved. He straightened his cuffs out of habit, squared his shoulders, and followed the men escorting him toward the warehouse doors.

The doors creaked open.

Inside, the space was dimly lit, the air thick with oil, smoke, and the metallic tang of blood that had soaked too deeply into the concrete to ever fully fade. Crates lined the walls. Chains hung from the ceiling like forgotten decorations.

At the center of the room sat a man on a small leather couch, legs spread casually, elbows resting on his knees.

His name was Vincent Ross.

He was middle-aged, broad-shouldered, his hair cropped short, eyes sharp and calculating. He wore a dark shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing inked forearms and a watch worth more than the entire warehouse.

He looked up and smiled.

“Richard Jefferson,” Ross said calmly. “You’re late.”

Richard forced a tight smile. “Traffic.”

Ross’s lips curved faintly. “Of course, but you should know better than to keep me waiting.”

Richard scoffed. “I wasn’t aware punctuality was still a requirement when you invite someone at midnight… unexpected, Mr. Ross.”

Ross chuckled softly. “You’re always funny when you’re scared. I understand your displeasure, but there are pressing matters that must be attended to promptly.”

Richard remained standing. He did not sit unless invited. Years of dealing with dangerous men had taught him that much.

Ross gestured lazily to the space around them. “You know why you’re here.”

Richard exhaled sharply. “We’ve been over this before. I told you—I need more time.”

Ross tilted his head. “You said that last year. And the year before that.”

Richard’s voice hardened. “Axiom Corporation hasn’t released funds yet. Once—”

“Axiom doesn’t belong to you,” Ross interrupted calmly. “And your excuses expired three years ago.” He motioned to the table in front of him. “Three years overdue. That’s impressive, even by your standards.”

“I told you,” Richard snapped, irritation flaring. “The funds were tied up. The market—”

“The market didn’t steal eighty million dollars,” Ross interrupted smoothly. “You did.”

Richard bristled. “Watch your mouth.”

Ross laughed in an hysterical manner. “You seem to have forgotten what situation you are in right now,” he said with a wicked grin. “If there is any mouth that should be watched, it should be yours right now.”

Although Vincent Ross was smiling, Richard could see the horror hidden beneath that smile. Ross was a very ruthless man, and offending him was not a good choice.

Richard calmed his nerves but clenched his fists in anger. “You know my family’s situation,” he mumbled in a much softer tone.

“I know,” Ross said coolly. “That’s why I’ve been patient.” He leaned back, unbothered. “You still owe the money.”

Ross leaned forward slightly. “When you borrow money from a credit merchant organization, you sign contracts. You give guarantees that you will pay on time. And yet, here we are.”

“It saddens me that I cannot be of help.” Now he stood up, pacing slowly. “My superiors are in town. They are going to want reports, and your excuses won't tally up the numbers. Without accurate numbers, I can't provide results.”

That made Richard pause. “Superiors?” he echoed cautiously. In this city, Vincent Ross was one of the most influential and powerful individuals. The idea that someone like him would have a superior was a bombshell to Richard.

Ross’s smile faded. “Men who don’t like excuses. Men who expect reports.”

Richard’s stomach dropped. “I just need more time.”

Ross studied him for a moment, then nodded once. “Bring him in.”

Richard frowned. “Bring who—”

The side door opened.

Two men dragged someone into the light.

The moment Richard saw him, his knees nearly buckled.

“Ronald Jefferson!” he shouted.

Ronald Jefferson—his son—was barely recognizable. His face was swollen, one eye nearly shut, blood crusted at the corner of his mouth. His hands were bound, his body trembling as he was forced to his knees.

“Dad,” Ronald croaked.

Richard rushed forward instinctively but was shoved back.

“This is crossing the line!” Richard roared. “You had no right to touch my son!”

Ross sighed, rubbing his temple. “Your son touched my casino.”

Richard froze.

Ross continued calmly, “Gambling debt. He lost badly. Then borrowed more and the fool managed to lose it all again in a single game”

Richard spun back. “You never mentioned this.”

Ross casually shrugged. “He never mentioned you either—until things got ugly.”

Ronald lifted his head weakly. “Dad….Dad, please help me. I told them you would pay. Don't let them kill me. I'm sorry.”

Ross smiled thinly. “And I was generous enough to make the call.”