Chapter 69

The harbor district is large and bustling, but it’s poor bustling.

This kind of prosperity is completely different from the prosperity of the downtown or the bay area.

In the harbor district, girls who need help wear cheap secondhand clothes, possibly stained, that expose too much, and stand under streetlights at alley entrances waiting for customers.

When a customer arrives, they negotiate a price, then go into the alley—it’s just a cheap transaction; they say nothing beyond what relates to the price, because it’s purely business.

In the bay area, even streetwalkers sit on chairs at outdoor cafés that look pleasant, sipping coffee and flirting with their poses.

They can flirt first, chat a while, wait until the mood is right, then head to a nearby hotel—sometimes they turn the business into something that feels like a romantic encounter.

As for downtown, business is business—higher-end, more blatant, and more satisfying business.

You need money. A lot of money.

Every district has its own way of being prosperous, so you can’t say this place isn’t prosperous—every street is full of business, full of customers.

The deserter killer arrived at the southeast corner of the first intersection outside the First Dock exit, leaning against a phone booth as he watched the three-story building across the street.

His gaze occasionally drifted toward hot young girls, but always returned quickly to the building.

Federal girls are truly enthusiastic—when you can produce money.

He rubbed his itchy nose; after this job, he was definitely going to try the bay area girls.

The building directly across from him was the Brothers’ “nest,” marked with the sign “Brothers Import-Export Company.” Their income sources were varied: protection fees, extortion, blackmail, kidnapping, forcing other businesses to assign workers, smuggling—all of it.

No one knew how much they made each month, but it was certainly a lot, because their boss “Big Poli” had bought a villa in the bay area.

Still, he preferred staying in the harbor district; no matter how nice the bay area was, it was a playground for the rich, while this was his true home.

As the deserter killer waited for Jimmy to emerge from the company at noon, Jimmy sat sweating on a sofa in the third-floor manager’s office.

“Wipe your sweat—you’re dripping,” Poli said, casually tossing a handkerchief he’d just used to blow his nose onto the coffee table in front of Jimmy.

The latter picked it up without understanding and began wiping his face, but soon realized something was wrong with the handkerchief.

The sticky, slimy feeling made him nauseous; he glanced at it, as if trying to confirm something, but at that moment, Poli diverted his attention.

“I heard you’ve become a famous high roller at the casino—is that true?” Poli wasn’t tall—barely one meter sixty, even with shoes on.

He looked frail in clothes, a common issue among short men—even if they were covered in muscle, they never appeared strong when dressed.

But if the muscles were too bulky, they just looked fat and bloated.

His skin was very pale and clean, giving him an intellectual appearance, though rumors said he was sexually abused by orphanage staff from childhood until he finally gathered the courage to stab the bastard to death with a dinner knife.

And Big Poli’s legendary story began at that moment.

Now he was just a short, pale-skinned, seemingly mild-mannered man.

Adding “Big” to his name was his way of resenting his short stature, and also a way to make others understand: even though he was short, he was still the biggest one!

Jimmy was much taller than Poli, yet now, facing this short man and his words, he sweated all over in fear.

“Poli, I…” Jimmy didn’t know how to explain, and he hated the people spreading rumors—wished them dead!

Poli raised a hand to stop him, then sat beside him.

Jimmy bent forward voluntarily, making it easier for Poli to wrap an arm around his shoulder.

“Honestly, I don’t care if you win or lose—I only care whether you touched company money. That affects every brother’s future. You understand, right?”

Jimmy quickly explained, “No, absolutely not—I’ve already handed the books over to accounting.”

Poli nodded slightly. “I heard. That’s why you’re sitting here.”

“I don’t mind you making your own money outside, but if you—or any of you—do something stupid and bring trouble my way, you know the consequences.”

“We’ve fought together for years. I don’t want to lose any brother.”

“Can you understand what I’m saying now?”

Jimmy had no other thought but to nod. “Of course!”

He hesitated, then decided to confess: “I extorted some money from Chobaf in the Imperial District…”

Poli tilted his head slightly, raised an eyebrow, loosened his arm from Jimmy’s shoulder, patted his shoulder, and stood up. “Chobaf? I know him—a rich Imperial bastard. How much did you take?”

“Thirty thousand.”

“Thirty thousand!” Poli repeated, then burst out laughing. Jimmy sat dumbly on the sofa and chuckled along.

Poli’s laugh was distinctive—his shoulders rose and fell with each chuckle, looking comical, almost ridiculous.

But his laughter suddenly stopped. His face remained still, his eyes looking down at Jimmy.

He preferred standing while others sat—it gave him a sense of superiority.

“You extorted thirty thousand from a rich man—and you’re still alive? That’s a miracle!”

“Now tell me—why is this miracle?”

Jimmy was tense; he didn’t dare meet Poli’s eyes. “Because Chobaf is honest, Poli. Lots of people extort him—he never fights back.”

Poli raised an eyebrow. “Lots of people?”

“Lots.”

He fell into thought. After twenty to thirty seconds, he turned and walked to his desk. “If I ever find out you used company money for gambling again, I’ll chop you into pieces and feed you to the fish.”

“Now get out of my office. A shipment of alcohol arrives this afternoon. If you mess this up again…”

Jimmy jumped up, pledging loyalty: “I’ll kill myself before you even get the chance!”

He knew he’d passed—not because he and Poli were “brothers,” but simply because he’d balanced the books.

Poli waved his fingers dismissively. Jimmy hurriedly bid farewell and left the room.

As he closed the door, he let out a heavy sigh and cursed, “Fuck.”

Poli was short, but his bloody past gave him immense pressure—making it hard to muster any defiance. This happened often.

You know deep down the man is just an ordinary human, no stronger than you, capable of dying from a fatal blow.

Yet you still can’t find the courage to face him, to fight.

They’ve all witnessed the blood-soaked path Poli walked, so they fear this seemingly sane little man more than ordinary people.

Fortunately, this matter was resolved. He lit a cigarette to relax; the sweat had stopped, and the moisture on his scalp had been absorbed—he finally felt his skin tightening.

Then he remembered the handkerchief. Swear words poured from his mouth. He shoved past two guys and ran into the restroom, rinsing his head under the faucet.

The other low-ranking men in the restroom quickly left—they all knew he’d just come from Poli’s office and was cursing, likely at someone.

After washing the snot from his hair, he returned to his office—really just a private room with several desks and a few trusted subordinates.

As soon as he entered, the men sitting or lying around immediately stood up.

“Is it settled?” asked his top lieutenant, who knew Jimmy had gambled company money and had warned him—but it was useless.

When a gambler was on a high, even if the money was his father’s last lifeline, he’d still slam it onto the table without hesitation.

“It’s settled. But there won’t be a next time.” He paused. “A shipment of alcohol arrives this afternoon. Poli assigned me to receive it. You’re coming with me—bring weapons.”

As Jincheng City and the higher-level prefecture increasingly showed signs of joining the Prohibition Alliance, alcohol prices had skyrocketed in a short time.

Major suppliers had suddenly started hoarding—everyone knew prohibition was coming, so these drinks would soon double in value. There was no reason to sell them cheaply now.

The alcohol market had instantly shifted from buyer’s market to seller’s market, and prices naturally kept rising.

Alcohol that once cost ninety-nine cents now sold for one dollar and twenty or thirty cents, still climbing. Almost everyone who realized this was trying to hoard alcohol.

The group gathered their weapons and headed outside.

The deserter killer, who had waited half the morning by the door, finally saw Jimmy walk out first from the company gate…