Chapter 71: Investment and Wage Arrears

Gunfights breaking out at night in Jincheng were common, but during daylight, such intense gunfire was rare.

Though brief, this was the harbor district—one of the three busiest areas in Jincheng.

Within an hour, nearly half of Jincheng knew that the Brother’s Gang had clashed in broad daylight with someone outside their company’s entrance, and Jimmy had been shot and left.

The gunman who wounded him died in the alley.

In the room, Mr. Chobaf sat with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped beneath his chin, thinking in an uncomfortable posture, like someone constipated.

He had heard the news and knew this was the work of the assassin his assistant had sought out.

The outcome was deeply unsatisfactory.

The assistant was on the phone nearby, confirming the matter one final time. After a long while, the call ended, and he looked awkward.

Mr. Chobaf straightened up. “Though I’d prefer not to hear such things—it increases my risk—I still want to know: what kind of waste did you hire?”

“Couldn’t even handle a simple task?”

The assistant knew Mr. Chobaf too well—they had worked together for years—and could hear the suppressed fury in his voice.

He had always thought hiring a killer to eliminate a gang thug was routine, nearly impossible to mess up.

This wasn’t even about assassinating the president—and even if it were, not every president could dodge a hit.

This was just a minor figure, yet it failed inexplicably. When he heard “they exchanged fire across half a street amid traffic,” Mr. Chobaf’s head buzzed.

“I need an explanation.”

The assistant opened his mouth, wanting to say they’d indeed hired an unreliable man, but couldn’t explain his nephew’s role.

In the end, he sighed lightly. “It’s my fault.”

Mr. Chobaf glanced at him sideways. “This isn’t about whose fault it is—it’s about whether we’ll be exposed.”

The assistant clenched his lips and explained seriously, “Mr. Chobaf, I can guarantee we never revealed where this money came from.”

“And… if necessary, I’ll have him step forward and claim responsibility…”

The assistant felt pain. If his nephew publicly claimed responsibility, the Brother’s Gang would unleash furious retaliation.

His nephew couldn’t withstand such retaliation—he’d almost certainly be ritually executed.

Ritual executions were agonizing: victims endured inhuman torture before being killed.

Almost every gang had its own ritual execution method; some called it “honorable execution,” to send a message to insiders and outsiders alike: we are terrifying.

Mr. Chobaf raised his hand. “Your nephew is an Imperial. Jimmy just took thirty thousand from me. If you think letting him claim responsibility will end this, you’re naive.”

He had other thoughts he didn’t voice—his assistant surely knew he could never let an Imperial take the blame; anyone who was Imperial would drag him into it.

As they discussed strategies, the phone suddenly rang, causing Mr. Chobaf, whose focus was razor-sharp, to flinch slightly.

After several seconds, he steadied himself. “Answer the phone.”

The assistant was startled too. He snapped back, walked to the phone, picked it up—and immediately heard Jimmy’s warm greeting to Mr. Chobaf.

“Tell Old Chobaf this isn’t over. He didn’t just hurt me—he hurt the entire Brother’s Gang. He’d better find someone willing to help him before our revenge arrives!”

“Polli is furious. I guarantee he’ll die horribly!”

“Not just him!”

The call ended quickly, offering no chance to explain. Mr. Chobaf sat in silence for a long time, then slowly rose, walked to the window, and stared at Jincheng bathed in golden light. After a moment of inner struggle, his gaze hardened again.

“Arrange a meeting with the mayor. Tell him I want to discuss investment.”

The assistant turned to make the call, feeling deeply uneasy.

People in Jincheng spoke of the mayor as young, charismatic, and doing well here. Though Jincheng’s development didn’t begin with him, over the past few years he’d truly performed well, and many supported him.

Outstanding achievements here provided a foundation for further advancement; rumors said powerful figures in the national congress backed him.

Word had it he’d likely enter the state legislature next, assuming a major role—meaning he’d soon gain entry to the federal political elite.

So, like Mr. Chobaf, he didn’t want any stains on his record.

But as a politician, he needed funding and support.

They’d discussed this once at a business reception—the mayor had urged him to invest in one of several projects, any one he chose.

He valued this connection, but after sending someone to investigate, he found all the projects were infrastructure-based.

There was profit, yes—but the payback and return cycle was far too long.

After years of inflation, whether real profit would materialize remained questionable.

And the initial investment was huge—at least two hundred thousand. Considering all factors, he privately offered to give the mayor a personal political donation, but didn’t want to invest in these projects.

The mayor stopped bringing it up and refused the personal donation offer.

Even when Mr. Chobaf insisted he could make it flawless—even the Federal Savings Bank and Federal Tax Bureau couldn’t trace it.

After that, their contact grew thin—they weren’t on the same wavelength.

Now, he needed a powerful figure to intimidate these gang members and protect his interests!

So this lost connection became one of very few options left!

The call went through quickly. The mayor eagerly accepted Mr. Chobaf’s invitation, agreeing to meet the day after tomorrow at a set time and place.

After dismissing his assistant, Mr. Chobaf was filled with anger and helplessness—mostly helplessness.

Over the years, he’d seen too much ugliness among Federals, and he felt… anger toward his own Imperial identity. If he could, he longed more than others to become a true Federal.

But he couldn’t. Not yet. So until he could, he had to maintain the persona of “Imperial pride.”

Exploitation and harm weren’t only suffered by the lower classes—Mr. Chobaf suffered too, but his adversaries were larger, more dangerous.

On the other side, Elvin brought a short man into Lans’s office.

“This is Hiram, my cousin’s classmate.”

“This is our boss, Mr. Lans.”

Hiram stood about one meter seventy—average height for this era, neither tall nor short.

But he looked frail, perhaps barely over fifty kilograms, wearing a dirty shirt and high-waisted blue denim overalls.

Long hair, constantly flicking it from his eyes with a shake of his head—he looked honest, even a bit foolish.

“Mr. Lans,” he echoed Elvin’s greeting, bowing his head slightly to show respect.

Lans looked at Elvin, who signaled for Hiram to speak.

“Mr. Lans, this is the thing—” he glanced at Elvin, “we’ve all heard you’re the most successful and resourceful among our young people.”

“We’ve run into something deeply unfair: our employer refuses to pay us, claiming we’re illegal immigrants.”

“I thought long and hard—only you could help us. So I asked Elvin, and we came.”

Lans repeated, “We?”

Hiram nodded. “Yes, there are eight of us—all illegal immigrants from the Empire.”

“Did you rent work permits?”

Hiram shook his head. “No.”

Lans understood the situation.

Renting work permits was a sign of compliance.

But there was another scenario: outright disregard for Federal laws—employers dared to hire, workers dared to work, depending on whether the employer had any shame.

If they had none, these illegal immigrants had nowhere to appeal—even if they reported it, the employer wouldn’t suffer real consequences.

A fine.

But for illegal immigrants, breaking Federal law risked deportation—and possibly imprisonment before deportation.

So even if cheated, few dared speak out, because losing a month’s wages was nothing compared to deportation or jail.

This allowed a few capitalists to act without restraint.

“What do you want me to do?”

Lans asked. “I can contact your boss to get your wages back, then report him after you leave—or beat him up?”

Hiram smiled simply. “Mr. Lans, since I’ve worked in the warehouse, I know—it’s been filled with liquor lately…”