I placed the aluminum briefcase on Tommy’s desk. It hit the wood with a heavy, satisfying thud that echoed in the cramped office. "Revenue for the week," I announced, adjusting my tie. I felt a surge of professional pride. "Up 200% from last quarter. We collected from the Laundromat, the docks, and we even 'renegotiated' the terms with the local pawn shops. My team worked overtime to optimize the collection routes."
Behind me, my team stood tall. Daniel puffed out his chest, looking proud in his designer jacket (which he had dry-cleaned three times). He looked like he was waiting for a medal. Gara was grinning, mentally calculating his commission to buy a new spoiler for the Cadillac. Benny... well, Benny was staring at a fly buzzing around the ceiling light, his mouth slightly open.
Tommy "The Gut" didn't smile. He didn't offer a cigar. He stared at the briefcase like it was a bomb. Greed is a funny thing. When you make a little money, people pat you on the back. When you make too much money, they start wondering why they need you. They start doing the math: Why share the pie when I can eat it all?
Tommy opened the case. The green glow of cash illuminated his sweaty, greasy face. He took a thick stack of hundreds—my share, my team's blood money—and shoved it into his own drawer. Then, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a crumpled roll of ones and fives, and tossed it at my chest. It fluttered to the floor—dirty, green confetti for a dead partnership,
"Good job, kid," Tommy grunted, not looking me in the eye. "Here’s your cut."
The room went silent. The fly buzzing around Benny seemed deafening.
I looked at the pathetic pile of bills on the dirty floor. I didn't need a calculator to know the sum. "Tommy," I said, my voice calm but tightening. "We have a contract. Paragraph 4, Subsection B: The Consultant (me) receives 20% of all net profit increases. That briefcase holds $50,000. My share is $10,000. This is..." I nudged a five-dollar bill with my polished shoe. "...maybe $300."
"Times change," Tommy leaned back, putting his feet on the desk. "I’m changing the policy. Restructuring. From now on, you get 5%. The rest is... Management Fees. Overhead. Inflation. You know how it is."
Internal Analysis:
- Breach of Contract.
- Theft of Intellectual Property.
- Devaluation of Human Capital.
Inside my head, a red alarm was screaming. In the corporate world, I would sue him. I would bury him in litigation. Here? The legal system was sitting on his hip.
"The contract," I stated, taking a step forward, "is binding."
CLICK.
Tommy placed a heavy .45 caliber pistol on the desk. Simultaneously, the door behind us opened. Six of Tommy’s old enforcers—men who looked like they smelled of cheap gin and bad decisions—stepped in, hands hovering over their waistbands.
"The contract is right here," Tommy patted the gun, grinning with yellow teeth. "Do you have any legal objections, Gats?"
Reaction Analysis:
Daniel was the first to react. His face turned a deep shade of red. For a rich kid, contracts were sacred. His father respected contracts. This... this was barbarism. "You can't do that!" Daniel stepped forward, his fists clenched, forgetting his fear for a moment. "That’s unethical! That’s bad business! My dad’s lawyers would destroy you for this!"
Gara went pale. He shrank back, his eyes darting to the six gunmen behind us. He did the math instantly: We are dead. He started trembling, his brave facade crumbling like wet cardboard.
Benny... didn't move. He was still looking at the fly. Two seconds passed. Then, slowly, like a tectonic plate shifting, Benny’s head turned. He looked at the gun on the desk. He blinked once. His slouch didn't change. But the air around him felt heavier. "... Gun?" Benny mumbled, his voice thick and slow.
Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
He took a slow step forward, placing a massive hand on Daniel’s shoulder to stop him. Benny shook his head. Just once. Too many... guns, his eyes seemed to say. Not... yet.
I took a deep breath. I adjusted my glasses. I looked at Tommy, then at the gun, then at the money on the floor. Calculation: If we fight now, we die. The ROI is zero. I need to liquidate this partnership, but I cannot do it today.
I slowly bent down. My knees cracked in the silence. I picked up the crumpled bills. "5 percent," I said, pocketing the insult. "Understood. The market is... volatile."
Tommy laughed. A wet, disgusting sound. "Smart boy. I knew you were reasonable."
"But," Tommy wasn't finished. He pulled a dusty, coffee-stained file from his drawer and slid it across the desk. "Since you boys are so good at collecting, I have a special project for you. A 'Bonus Opportunity', if you will."
I picked up the file. "The Black Apartment - Block 13."
Behind me, I heard a sharp intake of breath. It was Gara. The mechanic leaned in, looking at the file, his face draining of all color. He looked like he had seen a ghost.
"Boss..." Gara whispered, his voice trembling so hard it cracked. "Block 13? No... not there. That’s the 'Mad Dogs' territory. The Junkie Kings."
"What about them?" Daniel whispered back, confused but sensing the terror.
"They don't feel pain, Daniel," Gara hissed, sweat forming on his brow. "They smoke that synthetic stuff. Blue Devil. Last guy Tommy sent there came back in a shopping cart. In pieces. His head was in a bag, Daniel! A plastic bag!"
I looked at Tommy. He was smiling. A cruel, predatory smile. "There’s $50,000 of uncollected debt in that apartment," Tommy said, lighting his cigar. "You bring it back, and maybe... just maybe... I’ll reconsider your 20% commission."
It was a lie. We both knew it. He was sending us to die. If the Mad Dogs killed us, he kept all the money we made this week. No loose ends. If we survived, he got another $50k. It was a win-win for him. A 'Hostile Termination' of employees without severance pay.
"Consider it done," I said coldly. I turned and walked out. I didn't look back. Because if I did, I would have killed him right there, and then we would all be dead.
Outside. The Parking Lot.
The moment the heavy metal door slammed shut, the tension exploded.
"Are you insane?!" Gara kicked the tire of the Cadillac, almost crying. "5 percent?! Boss! That’s slavery! And Block 13? We’re dead! We are literally walking corpses! Did you hear me? Blue Devil! They eat faces!"
Daniel was pacing back and forth, hyperventilating. "He pulled a gun... on us," Daniel muttered, his world view shattering. "We made him rich. And he treated us like... like servants! My dad pays his gardener better than this!" He looked at his hands. "I wanted to punch him, Solomon. I really wanted to punch him. I didn't care about my jacket."
Benny leaned against the car. He looked tired. He opened a bag of chips, but didn't eat one. He looked at me. His eyes were dull, but focused. "... Boss?" Benny asked. His voice was a low rumble. He paused, waiting for his brain to find the next word. "... Orders?"
I looked at my team. They were angry. They were scared. They were humiliated. Good. Anger is a motivator. Fear is a focuser. Humiliation is the fuel of revolution.
"We didn't fight," I said, my voice cutting through Gara’s panic, "because Tommy has twenty men inside, and we have four. I don't invest in bad odds."
I looked back at the dirty brick building where Tommy sat, counting my money.
"He thinks he is the CEO," I murmured, cleaning my glasses. "He thinks he can change the terms of the deal unilaterally. He thinks we are assets he can deprecate and discard."
"So what do we do?" Gara whined. "Run? I know a guy in Jersey... he hides people..."
"No," I shook my head. "We don't run. We diversify."
I pulled out the file for the Black Apartment. "Tommy thinks this is a suicide mission. I see it as a Hostile Takeover opportunity."
"But the money..." Daniel clenched his fists. "The 5 percent..."
"Daniel," I put my hand on his shoulder. "When a company violates a contract so flagrantly, you don't renegotiate. You liquidate them."
I looked at the Black Apartment file. "We are going to Block 13. Not to die. But to acquire capital. We get that $50,000. And we keep it. Every cent."
Benny stopped chewing. He looked at the brick building. "... Kill... Fat Man?" Benny asked slowly.
"Soon, Benny," I smiled, but there was no warmth in it. "Tommy is about to be audited. Violently. But first, we need war funds."
I opened the car door. "Money is money. Let’s go meet these Mad Dogs. I hope they have good insurance."
Benny nodded once. Rigid. "Okay."
End of Chapter 5
[FOLLOW] button! It’s the best way to support the story and ensure Tommy gets the 'audit' he deserves.
?? Unlock the Executive Vault
Full Executive Clearance is waiting for you. Read every available advance chapter (currently 30+) on Patreon and stay weeks ahead of the market.
Copyright ? 2026 by Gats VII. All rights reserved. This story is officially published only on Royal Road, Scribble Hub, and Patreon. If you are reading this elsewhere, it has been stolen.