Chapter 61: If You're Hungry, Eat More

Kent was also hungry; he’d worked until midnight yesterday, and since waking up this morning, he was so starved he could eat an entire ox!

He excitedly rubbed his fingers against his pants, then clenched his hands, waiting for the meal.

The sudden surge of saliva in his mouth intensified his craving—he swallowed the excess saliva and snapped impatiently, “What the hell are you two idiots standing there for?”

Kent glared at the two men who had stepped outside but now stood frozen by the door, his temper flaring, “Bring the food over! Don’t tell me you went out and didn’t buy a single bite back!”

As the owner of an underground gambling den and the younger brother of a high-ranking gang official, since he’d personally beaten a neighbor to death with a baseball bat—the same neighbor who’d tormented him and his brother for years—anyone who displeased him earned his rage, except his brother!

But the moment the third person stepped out from behind the door, Kent didn’t even shift his ass from the chair—he spun around and lunged for the room behind him.

The chair’s armrest snagged his pants, twisting his sprint into a stumble—he crashed to the floor, one knee planted, the other leg kicking out, frozen mid-rise.

In that instant, he mentally cursed the entire families of his bodyguard and the door guard—three times over.

And he vowed that once this was over, he’d make them pay dearly.

But before he could reach the room, a gunshot rang out.

The .38 Magnum revolver’s report wasn’t loud, but inside this enclosed room, everyone jumped.

Kent, nearly upright, crashed back to the floor. He braced one hand on the ground for balance, then slowly raised both hands.

“No need, Lans, it’s only fifteen hundred!”

Yesterday he’d told these thugs that Lans and his friends were fools—but now, it seemed he was the real idiot.

He faced away from Lans, unaware who’d been shot, but he wouldn’t gamble that the next bullet wouldn’t hit him.

Lans walked to the chair opposite Kent’s, sat down, and placed the food on the table.

Enio and the others had entered too, each holding a gun.

Elvin herded the thugs together and assigned one of Enio’s friends to guard the door—the room was now fully under Lans’s control.

“I heard you yelling about being hungry before you even came in—come eat.” He sat, smiling, looking nothing like a man seeking revenge.

Kent was tense. He turned slowly, facing Lans. “I’m done, Lans. Fifteen hundred’s in the room—I’m returning it to you now.”

Lans raised a hand, gesturing for him to sit. “I heard you worked all night without eating—you must be starving. Eat first. I haven’t eaten either.”

He holstered his gun, tore open the food bag—and the aroma of pork knuckles flooded the air!

This was a seasoned deli: they’d first simmered the knuckles in spices until slightly tender, drained them, then immediately deep-fried them until the surface turned crisp.

Now each knuckle had a crackling crust and a gelatinous, quivering fat layer—cut into chunks, the scent made everyone hungrier.

“Perfect! I love pork knuckles!” He grabbed a piece and shoved it in his mouth—delicious, texture and flavor perfect, just a bit too salty.

He watched Kent, frozen in place, and gestured invitingly. “Try some. Really good. Honestly, your friend picked the perfect food!”

Kent still didn’t move, only stared at Lans. “You don’t have to do this, Lans. I’ll give you the money, then I’ll…”

Lans suddenly stood and delivered a brutal uppercut—Kent’s head snapped back, his mind reeling.

After hitting the fool, Lans rubbed his wrist and sat back down.

That hook punch had jarred his wrist hard—uncomfortable.

“I told you to eat. Say another word, and I’ll rip out your tongue.” His smile vanished—only cold seriousness remained.

Kent fell silent. His jaw visibly swelled. After ten seconds of thought, his expression relaxed—even his left eyebrow twitched upward. “Fine. You’re in charge now.”

It sounded like surrender—but Lans and Kent both knew it meant something else:

You’re in charge now. But next time? Not so sure.

Kent had deep, vast gang resources behind him. He didn’t believe Camille couldn’t handle Lans and his young crew. The loss today? He’d recover it.

His outward submission was merely to avoid further beatings; he wasn’t some mindless scumbag clinging to false principles—his bottom line was flexible.

He bent slightly but kept his head up, eyes locked on Lans, cramming two large chunks of knuckle into his mouth like a starving beast.

Yet his gaze gave Lans the chilling feeling of being watched by a venomous snake—he knew Kent’s mouth and body obeyed, but his heart did not.

Lans smiled again—but that smile sent a chill through Kent’s bodyguards, freezing them to the bone.

“See, my friend? It’s not so hard. We’re friends, right?”

Lans picked up a piece of meat and nibbled it. Kent nodded, but said nothing.

“Then you must know what I do.”

Kent hesitated. Lans gestured for him to keep eating. He chewed as he spoke: “You’re with a finance company.”

Lans pointed at him. “I knew it. We’re good friends—you knew exactly what I do.”

“So when will you repay me the fifteen thousand I lent you yesterday?”

“We’re friends, but accounts must be settled.”

Kent paused. Lans pointed again at the meat. He had no choice but to keep eating. “I don’t have that much.”

Blatant extortion—but even though he knew it was extortion, he couldn’t refuse. After all, he’d been the one extorting yesterday. He just hadn’t expected Lans’s appetite to be this huge.

And now he was starting to feel sick—even dizzy.

At first, eating the meat hadn’t bothered him—he’d devoured it fast, starved as he was.

Especially the crispy skin, half-detached from the fat—perfect pairing: crunch and silkiness fused, rich flavor, each bite oozing grease!

But after several pieces, the quivering fat turned greasy, nauseating—he no longer wanted to eat.

Kent wasn’t fat. Even a fat man would struggle to swallow this much fat at once. He instinctively tugged at his collar and kept shoving meat into his mouth.

“Yesterday I chose to pay so we both kept our dignity, Kent. I hope today you’ll do the same—let us both keep our dignity.”

Kent stopped. Lans gestured for him to keep eating. “You can think while you eat.”

Kent mentally cursed his bodyguard’s entire family nine times—why the hell did they buy so much?

He mechanically stuffed meat into his mouth, mumbling, “I really don’t have that much. Give me a few days—I’ll get it.”

Lans fell silent, turned to Ethan. “My friend has a poor appetite. Help him finish faster.”

Elvin whispered something to Ethan. Ethan grinned wickedly and approached. In Kent’s terrified gaze, Ethan grabbed handfuls of meat and shoved them into Kent’s mouth.

He could barely breathe!

Ethan was only twenty, but he stood over six feet tall, powerfully built—Kent had no chance to resist as Ethan stuffed meat in, relentless, Kent struggling but unable to break free.

He pounded Ethan’s arms, even the table—only then did Lans signal Ethan to stop.

Large chunks of meat spilled from his mouth. He gasped for air—he’d nearly choked to death!

But he realized now: if he didn’t pay, he’d die.

“In the safe.”

Lans glanced at Elvin. Elvin took two men and carried the safe out.

Kent crouched beside the safe. He looked at Lans again—as if carving Lans’s face into his memory.

They locked eyes for seconds. Then Kent turned, spun the combination lock, and opened the safe.

He stood, stepped back.

Ethan held the safe beside Lans—it was steel-plated, concrete-lined, and weighed at least a hundred pounds—but Ethan carried it as if it weighed nothing!

What a monster!

His attention shifted to the safe’s contents: over thirty thousand in cash, some gold jewelry—likely stolen by a gambler who’d lost everything and pawned his wife’s pieces.

Some Kodak family chips—Kent liked to gamble too. Surprisingly, there was also a handgun.

A semi-automatic, made by Magnum Arms—nine-round magazine, plus one in the chamber—ten shots total.

This model had been popular for years, prized for its convenience.

Unlike revolvers, no tedious reloading.

Lans picked up the gun, ejected the magazine—full of bullets. He looked at Kent. “You could’ve tried resisting just now.”

Kent said nothing. He could’ve resisted—maybe killed one man. Then he’d be riddled with bullets.

He never thought he’d die here. He had a bright future ahead.

Losing money? He’d double it back. And he swore—he’d make Lans pay dearly.

Lans glanced at Elvin. Elvin immediately stepped forward. “Take it aside. Pack the cash.”

Kent exhaled. He looked at Lans. “I gave you the money. You can leave now!” His tone carried anger—as if the scene had ended.

He felt no threat anymore.

Lans gestured for him to sit back across from him. Faced with Lans’s weapon, Kent obeyed—and silently swore revenge, again and again.

“You have a good memory. Remember what I said yesterday?”

Kent shook his head. “I don’t know which line you mean.”

“A few thousand is enough to make illegal immigrants risk their lives.”

“Kent, there are tens of thousands here. I’m scared.”