Empire of Shadows

"Lance, my name is Lance."

Mr. Cerre knitted his eyebrows together, countless memories being dug out from the depths of his mind, stirred, just to find this name.

After a while, he shook his head, "I'm sorry, Mr. Lance, I haven't heard of your name."

He moved forward, raised his right hand, and made a gesture of refusal, "But, whether you're called Lance, or any other name, it doesn't matter."

"This is not a place for you to pick a fight."

Mr. Cerre retracted his raised palm and tapped his finger on the table, "Listen, I don't want to cause trouble, but I'm not afraid of trouble either."

"Jordan of the Black Flag Brotherhood is my friend, a good friend, a good friend who can do something for me."

He looked at Lance, intently, hoping to see surprise, fear, or retreat in Lance's eyes.

He would say this every time he encountered trouble, and almost every time he would succeed, able to see what he wanted to see.

He and Jordan of the Black Flag Brotherhood were indeed good friends; they used to be neighbors.

Jordan had become a troublemaker since middle school, and even the school teachers couldn't do anything about him.

Mr. Cerre relied on this Jordan to have a decent and stable adolescence. After high school, Jordan was arrested and imprisoned for intentional injury.

In prison, he met people from the Black Flag Brotherhood and successfully joined the organization.

Mr. Cerre had already started working with his father at the time, and they would often encounter harassment from gangsters.

With his father's support, he took the initiative to visit Jordan, but he didn't immediately mention the idea of hoping he could do something.

Mr. Cerre was the only one who visited Jordan after he was imprisoned, and not only did he visit him more than once, but he also brought things, so he believed this was a firm friendship.

Once, when he went to visit Jordan, he had a bruised face. Jordan asked about it, and he mentioned that his family's cinema had been harassed by some punks.

He thought he would have to wait for Jordan to come out to take care of it, but unexpectedly, that night, those punks who had extorted them had their legs broken and were thrown on the road outside their house.

Looking at those punks rolling on the ground with their twisted legs, Mr. Cerre felt the wonderful taste of "power" for the first time.

He and Jordan had maintained their relationship, and he would often go to see him. Now, Jordan was one of the top-ranking cadres of the Black Flag Brotherhood, and it could be said that he had great power.

He remembered Mr. Cerre's friendship with him, so he had been taking care of Mr. Cerre.

This was also the reason why he was not afraid of the gangsters.

The Black Flag Brotherhood was not just a simple gang in a certain city or state; they covered several surrounding states, with a total of several thousand people, engaged in various criminal activities.

In the Golden State, their strength was not the strongest, but they were also very famous.

Whenever he said these names, the people who were causing trouble would become uneasy, at a loss, and then apologize to him and say that they would not harass him again.

But this time, the person in front of him didn't react.

"You don't know the Black Flag Brotherhood?"

"Come on!"

"Friend, you're in the gangster business, how can you not know the Black Flag Brotherhood?"

His tone became slightly anxious, and he glanced at the phone, "Maybe if I call Jordan, you'll know him."

His hand reached for the phone, and just as his hand touched the phone receiver, Hiram grabbed his wrist.

"Fuck, you're hurting me!"

"Jenny, call the police!"

He stood up, struggling to take his wrist back from the hands of that seemingly silly man, "Let go of me, you son of a bitch, let go of me!"

Hiram used both hands together, grabbed his hair, and pressed down hard, Mr. Cerre's head pressed tightly against the table.

The pressure and pain from his scalp made him pant heavily. As he prepared to continue struggling, with a "thump" sound, a dagger was inserted less than ten centimeters from his nose.

All his struggles stopped.

He looked at Lance with wide eyes, "I don't understand, have I offended you in any way?"

"Tell me, I apologize for those mistakes and am willing to pay the price!"

He gasped for breath, still not understanding.

He didn't even know this person, how could he have offended these people?

Moreover, he already had a premonition that these people were not locals.

Lance sat there, watching Mr. Cerre without moving, "You owe me the box office revenue of fourteen cinemas, Mr. Cerre."

Mr. Cerre immediately understood, these guys were from Wanli Film!

If they were gangsters, perhaps he would feel worried, afraid of causing even bigger trouble, and thus back down.

But when Lance said they were from Wanli Film, his emotions changed somewhat.

People in business know best what people in business fear.

"I... I'm sorry."

His tone began to soften, "I am willing to give you the money I owe you."

Lance nodded slightly, Hiram withdrew the dagger, and then let go of his hair.

He sat back in the chair. Even now, the secretary hadn't appeared, she must have been controlled as well.

They probably wouldn't let him make a call, so the only thing he could do now was to compromise.

He straightened his appearance, as if he cared so much about his appearance.

"I need to calculate it. I need the secretary to bring me the recent account books."

He said tentatively.

"I guarantee to pay you every penny without missing a cent!"

Lance shook his head, "No, no need for so much trouble. From May until now, let's count it as sixty days, ten thousand yuan per day."

Mr. Cerre looked at Lance with wide eyes, "Are you crazy?"

"Your movies don't even sell for six hundred thousand in total, and you're asking me for six hundred thousand?"

The movie "Mystery of Angel Lake" did sell well. The first month was a big hit, earning about six or seven thousand in total box office revenue (for fourteen cinemas) every day.

A month was just under two hundred thousand, and after two months, the total box office revenue might be around two hundred seventy or eighty thousand yuan. How could he double it right off the bat?

Lance didn't respond to his intense reaction, but just looked at him, "That's not one of your answers, Mr. Cerre."

"The only thing you can answer is give, or not give."

Cerre looked at Lance, like a wounded beast. His gaze shifted from Lance to the others. No one was afraid of him; they all met his gaze.

Finally, his gaze returned to Lance, "I don't have that much money."

Actually, he did.

But he didn't want to give it.

This was six hundred thousand, not sixty thousand, not six thousand. If it were really sixty thousand, he would give it right away.

But that was six hundred thousand, almost two to three quarters of his net profit.

If he gave this money, he would have worked for nothing for a year, and there might not be so much profit in the next few years!

People's curiosity about talking movies was waning. It was no longer possible to have every showing be a full house. Now there were rumors of war, and their market might soon face a cold winter!

He didn't want to give it, not even a penny now.

Lance glanced at Hiram, and Hiram bumped the subordinate next to him with his shoulder. Two people walked to Mr. Cerre's side.

Hiram grabbed his wrist. He struggled, looking at the two with terrified eyes, "What do you want to do?"

"Let go of me..."

Hiram swung his fist and punched him, stunning him!

He hadn't been punched since he became good friends with Jordan in high school!

This punch made him lose his reaction for a short time. Hiram grabbed his hand and pressed it on the edge of the table, leaving his little finger hanging outside the table.

He pressed down hard on that wrist, using all his strength, then pulled out a sharp dagger and sliced down hard on his little finger!

Instantly, a piercing scream echoed in the office. Lance rolled his eyes. It was too damn loud!

Mr. Cerre looked somewhat overweight. His voice and confidence were full, as if at this moment the glass windows were rattling.

He knelt on the ground, clutching his palm, constantly cursing. He cursed out all the swear words he had ever heard in his life.

Soon, he was carried back to his chair. Hiram had just grabbed his wrist when he trembled and said, "I'll give it..."

Lance nodded slightly, "Transfer check."

At this time, Mr. Cerre's face was unusually ugly. He clenched his teeth, his head throbbing with pain.

After glaring at Lance fiercely for a while, he pointed to the bookshelf next to him, "I need to get the checkbook."

Lance nodded. He slowly got up, walked to the safe, took out one of the transfer checks, and then returned to the table.

In his trembling hands, he endured the fear, pain, anger, regret, and various complex and intense emotions, filled out the check, and then tore it off!

"Fuck, take it, take it!"

"I need to go to the hospital!"

But as soon as he stood up, he was pressed back down. Lance took the check, glanced at it, and handed it to the person next to him, along with a card in his hand, "Transfer it to this account."

He looked at Mr. Cerre, "You can leave after the money is transferred."

"Fuck, fuck!"

He bent over to pick up the severed finger, wrapped it in a handkerchief, and stuffed it into his pocket.

In reality, current medical technology doesn't support limb replantation; he's doing this purely for psychological comfort.

The reason Lance had him sit here is simple: a bank transfer check can be stopped with just a phone call. Only after confirming that the process has begun will he let this Mr. Serre leave.

A dozen or so minutes later, the young man ran back, slightly out of breath, "Boss, the money has been transferred."

Lance immediately put his leg down and stood up. He stood in front of the desk, tucking the front of his clothes with one hand and extending the other forward, "Goodbye, Mr. Serre."

Mr. Serre looked at Lance's outstretched hand and had no choice but to shake it. Seeing the mocking smile on Lance's face, his heart was filled with hatred!

Once Lance and his people left, Mr. Serre rushed out of the office.

Instead of waiting twenty or thirty minutes for an ambulance to arrive, it would be faster for him to drive to the hospital himself.

A dozen or so minutes later, he entered the emergency room. The doctor just glanced at it and began to clean and stitch the wound.

He looked at the doctor and asked, "Can it... be reattached?"

Losing a finger is too terrible in this "conservative" society!

He will lose many opportunities because of it. Those big shots, politicians, celebrities, they won't like someone missing a finger, no matter what he does.

The doctor shook his head. "I'm sorry, we don't have that kind of technology. Maybe other hospitals do. Do you want to go to another hospital to see?"

The suture needle in his hand stopped. "If you want to leave, you still need to pay seventy-five dollars."

He glared at the doctor, who looked calm and composed. He had seen many people like this.

Some people even said they would kill him if he hurt them, but in the end, they didn't do anything because this is a hospital.

Looking at the unresponsive doctor, Mr. Serre could only sigh, "Let's do it."

A dozen or so minutes later, he returned to the office. The little secretary stood there in panic, at a loss. As he was about to enter the office, she explained, "They wouldn't let me call the police!"

Mr. Serre glanced at her and closed the office door.

Then he sat in the chair and spaced out for a while before calling Jordan.

"It's me, Serre."

"Hey, my dear brother, is there anything your brother Jordan can do for you?" His voice was filled with a lighthearted feeling.

As a high-level member of the Death Angels, he considered himself successful to have lived this long.

He just needed to wait a few more years and then retire from the gang, and he could enjoy the rest of his time.

However, he most likely wouldn't retire. It wasn't that he loved the power in his hands, but that he didn't like that kind of peaceful life.

Gunsmoke, strong liquor, robbing trucks on the interstate highway on a motorcycle...

That was the life that men, knights, yearned for most!

"I'm injured, brother, I need you!"

Jordan's voice immediately became serious. The higher his position, the more he valued relationships that weren't mixed with other interests.

Serre was the only one of his high school friends who had made it this far. In fact, he was his only friend of such long standing.

He didn't want to lose this friend, this brother, so he had to do something.

"What's wrong? What do you need me to do?"

Mr. Serre's eyes were a little red. "There's a company called... Wanli Film and Television. They stole six hundred thousand from me and... cut off my little finger."

"Holy crab!"

"Stay there, I'll be right over!"

Jordan immediately hung up the phone. Mr. Serre knew this would be the result and didn't care at all.

After waiting for a dozen minutes, the sound of motorcycles and car brakes came from outside the door.

A guy who looked very free rushed upstairs and pushed open the office door. He looked around warily, finally focusing his gaze on Mr. Serre.

He strode over, glanced at the injury on his face and the blood-soaked bandage on his hand, and punched the table.

"Fuck, where are they!"

Mr. Serre shook his head. "I don't know where they went, but I know they're from Wanli Film and Television."

"Their head office is in Goldenport City!"

Jordan walked back and forth a few steps. He didn't immediately answer Mr. Serre whether he would go so far to avenge him.

This kind of thinking and weighing lasted for twenty or thirty seconds. Finally, he walked around the table to Mr. Serre's side. He grabbed the back of Mr. Serre's neck and pressed his forehead against his forehead. "I'll make a trip for you. We're brothers!"

Mr. Serre nodded emotionally. "Brothers!"

This line of work is very dangerous. Jordan knew this, but this is the challenge that men should face!

He believed that he could bring justice back for his brother!

The motorcycles and cars quickly disappeared from downstairs. A young man threw away his cigarette and got into the car.

A while later, he arrived at Lance's room. "He went to the hospital first, then returned to the office. Later, several motorcycles and two cars came, looking like that Jordan he mentioned."

Lance nodded slightly. Lauren was a little confused. "Why don't we just kill him?"

Lance said with a smile, "I want his fourteen movie theaters, but there has to be a reason."

"If they want revenge, it's like handing the reason into my hands. Then if I ask him for the movie theaters, no one can say anything."

"If this didn't happen and I asked him to transfer the movie theaters to me, we wouldn't have a leg to stand on."

"Gentlemen, this society seems like there are no rules, but the rules are hidden around us."

They wouldn't understand Lance's thoughts. The closer you are to the top, the more you have to abide by the rules. No one likes unpredictable people or things. They like people or things that have predictable trajectories.

Lance is someone who understands the rules and acts according to them, so people's hostility towards him won't be so great.

"Call Elvin and tell him to pay a little attention."

"If they go over, treat these gentlemen from afar well!"

Lance didn't take these small matters to heart at all. He spent the entire morning bored. In the afternoon, Tom drove to pick him up.

"Actually, you don't need to bring so many people," Tom said, glancing at the two cars behind him in the rearview mirror. "This car won't have any problems in the entire Golden State. No one would be stupid enough to attack this car, so you don't need to worry about your safety at all."

These cars, including the senator's own car, are firmly remembered by the heads of the gangs and law enforcement departments. These are bombs, and they will explode at the slightest touch, blowing everyone to pieces.

Lance smiled, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

Isn't the level of imagination high enough?

Isn't it still not opened up?

The reason why an accident is an accident is that you can never predict when, in what form, it will happen to you!