Chapter 1081: The Greedy Heir (Patreon)

Jack had always hated the noisy, chaotic atmosphere of nightclubs. The overwhelming noise could be blocked out by dampening his senses, but that also dulled his sixth sense’s warning system. Still, he had to admit—bringing a stunning woman who drew envious glances from every direction did satisfy a man’s vanity quite nicely.

None of the men were familiar with nightclub etiquette, so they leaned against the bar quietly, sipping drinks while the women did their recon.

Anna and Park Minyoung spent nearly an hour flitting through the second-floor private booths like butterflies, before finally returning to the bar on the first floor.

“Zhang Mingjun’s not here, and I didn’t see that Michael Cho guy either. I heard there’s a VIP suite on the top floor for the club’s CEO. He’s probably in there.”

Anna leaned into Jack, wrapping his left arm around her slim waist and resting her chin on his shoulder as she whispered in his ear. Her cheeks were flushed—probably from the alcohol—and her breath carried a faint scent of spirits.

“You okay?” Jack wasn’t sure about her alcohol tolerance. Russian women were typically good drinkers.

“Don’t worry. With my skills, no one can touch me without permission.” Anna draped her arms around Jack’s neck, giggling in his ear. “As expected, the stronger a man is, the more jealous he gets.”

“Relax. Even though sharing you with other women is infuriating, I’d never cheat on you. Hehe… By the way, that Celtic metaphor about cuckoldry is hilarious. Do Serbs have something against the Irish?”

“I just don’t want you drunk and screwing things up.” Jack awkwardly caught her wandering hand.

Even after years of living in the West, being flirted with like this in public was still a new experience for him.

Fortunately, Anna knew when to dial it back. She gave him a playful kiss that left a smudge of lip gloss on his lips, then reached over the bar and ordered a glass of iced water to cool down.

“No suspicious individuals near the dancefloor VIP booths either,” Ma Xidao reported, returning after making several laps around the central dance pit. “Zhang Mingjun either hasn’t arrived, or he came in through the back.”

“Should we send Jiang Zhentai up to the top floor disguised as room service to scout?” Jack pulled out his phone to message him—but all their phones buzzed at the same time.

“Top floor suite! Zhang Mingjun!”

The message was followed by a second:

“Help!”

Of all people, it was Jiang Zhentai who’d found the target first.

Jack gave a quick series of orders. “Minyoung, head back to the car and find Stanley. Xidao, cover the emergency exit—do not let Zhang Mingjun escape.”

He and Lin Zhelin exchanged a glance, then bolted for the stairs, with Anna trailing closely behind, clutching her purse.

Chroma was simple in layout: the first and second floors were open, with a view of the main dancefloor from the upper level. The third floor was a single massive penthouse—probably over 300 square meters. Past the second-floor booths, a stairway led up to a heavy, tightly shut door.

Even here, the bass thudded through the floor like a living heartbeat. But it couldn’t drown out the crack-crack-crack of gunfire from inside the suite.

“Can I finally get a gun this time?” For some reason, Jack could almost hear the passive-aggressiveness in Lin Zhelin’s voice.

Amused, Jack handed over his SIG Sauer and a spare magazine, then drew his usual FK 7.5.

There should’ve been guards outside the suite—at least two—but no one was there. Lin Zhelin, growing anxious, sprinted up the stairs and saw a dark red puddle seeping under the door.

He pushed—it didn’t budge. Something heavy was blocking it.

He stepped back and kicked it hard.

A dead body slumped away from the threshold. Lin Zhelin peeked inside—only for bullets to splinter the doorframe and force him back.

“Again,” Anna said calmly, pulling a flashbang from her tiny purse, popping the pin with one hand.

Lin Zhelin shoved the door open.

BOOM!

A deafening blast shook the suite, dislodging plaster and ceiling dust. Lin Zhelin charged in.

“Who am I? Where am I? What am I doing here?” Jiang Zhentai was crouched behind the suite’s central circular bar, dazed and confused. His ears were ringing. A corpse collapsed beside him—he instinctively lunged forward, grabbing the pistol that had clattered to the floor.

—

Ten minutes earlier...

Dressed as a waiter, Jiang Zhentai had slipped onto the top floor with a fruit tray, following three other “servers” into the suite without issue.

Inside, he saw Zhang Mingjun and Michael Cho seated across from each other, and the tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife.

Michael Cho, a Korean-American and the youngest son of a chaebol family, technically held U.S. citizenship—but he spent most of his time in Korea, laundering money under the guise of “investments.”

Over a month ago, his biggest partner, Zhang Mingjun, had stormed in with armed men and threatened his wife and children, demanding a full cash-out of the ten billion dollars they’d funneled into his businesses over the years.

Michael had reluctantly agreed at the time. But ten billion dollars? That was too much to walk away from.

Wives could be replaced. Kids could be made. But losing the power that came with that money meant crawling back to his father, tail between his legs, hoping for a slightly larger inheritance.

Blinded by greed, and bolstered by new bodyguards, Michael had started feeling cocky again.

Especially when Zhang showed up with only three unarmed men and got patted down at the door.

He was certain: if he could kill Zhang Mingjun and take the key...

“I was going to let you go,” Zhang said lazily, slouched on the couch, not even caring that several waitstaff were within earshot. “But it seems you really don’t understand your position.”

“‘Understand your position’? No, what matters is seizing the right opportunity. You’re the idiot,” Michael shot back, glancing at Zhang’s men, then at his own dozen guards, all packing Glocks. Confidence surged.

“You think I’m your errand boy?” he sneered, pulling a device that looked like a USB key from his pocket—the bank token.

“I did get the money ready. But I think there’s another option.”

One of his goons tossed a duffel bag full of cash at Zhang’s feet.

“Five million in cash. Take it and get lost. Vietnam, Philippines—I don’t care. You should be worried about the North Koreans hunting you down. God, you’re dumb.”

Then he stood up, drew a pistol from behind his back—and aimed it at Zhang Mingjun’s head.