Chapter 602
Chapter 601:
He didn’t see them at first. Two large men in black leather jackets emerged from the shadows at the mouth of the alley, moving with a predatory stillness. Their accents carried the unmistakable cadence of the Jersey Shore.
One of them was idly flipping a casino chip between his fingers. He smiled — a chilling, entirely humorless expression.
“Richard Stein p>
The blood drained from Richard’s face. He recognized the type immediately. These weren’t street thugs. These were professionals — collectors for the kind of underground casino that didn’t file lawsuits.
He owed them half a million dollars. He was a month late.
Richard spun around on instinct, every nerve screaming at him to run, but the second man had already sealed off the alley’s exit.
The one with the chip walked toward him, his steps slow and deliberate. He reached out and patted Richard’s cheek — a gesture that managed to be both familiar and deeply terrifying.
“Don’t be nervous, Richie. We’re not here to kill you. This is just a friendly reminder p>
He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “We all saw your little performance on TV. Your niece married Gaston Collins. Half a million — that’s what, a handbag for her p>
Richard was trembling uncontrollably. “She won’t pay! She’s a cold-hearted bitch p>
𝘞𝘩а𝘵 𝗲vеrу𝘰ո𝘦 𝘪𝗌 𝗋е𝘢𝘥𝗂ո𝘨 𝘰ո
The man chuckled softly. “That sounds like your problem, not ours. We’re giving you three days to solve it. If we don’t see our money in three days p>
He paused, letting the silence sit in the damp air between them. His eyes went flat and hard as stones.
“— we’re going to come back and use your finger bones for dice p>
The two men turned and walked away, dissolving back into the city’s shadows without another word.
Richard Stein collapsed onto the cold, wet pavement, his body soaked in cold sweat. The hatred he felt for Jocelyn — already deep and bitter — was now amplified by the stark, visceral terror of his own mortality. It curdled into something new.
Something murderous.
Three nights later, the stench of mildew and stale cigarettes filled a cramped room in a cheap Brooklyn motel. Richard Stein hadn’t slept. He sat on the edge of a lumpy mattress, eyes wide and bloodshot, staring at the peeling wallpaper. He was a cornered rat, and the walls were closing in.
He had called everyone — distant cousins, old friends, anyone who had ever owed him a favor. The moment they heard his voice, they hung up. The name Richard Stein had become poison.
He had tried Jocelyn’s publicist, her assistant, the main line at the Wolfe Hotel. Every call went directly to a polite, impenetrable voicemail.
The thought of armed robbery had crossed his mind — a fleeting, desperate fantasy extinguished quickly by his own cowardice.
The digital clock on the bedside table flipped to 12:00 AM. His time was up.
The motel room door didn’t open. It exploded inward, splintering off its hinges with a single violent kick. The two men from the alley stepped inside and filled the small space with their presence.