Chapter 321: When Words Aren't Enough
Nando was Brazilian. In a place as chaotic as Brazil, disposing of bodies was usually simple and brutal—into an incinerator, or tied to rocks and dumped into the sea.
Methods passed down for centuries.
So seeing a modern, almost clinical method of chemical dissolution genuinely shocked him—just as it had once shocked Frank.
A body can be handled like this?
"Thank you," Nando said, rising to his feet. "That's a very useful technique."
He looked almost impressed.
"Honestly, I've enjoyed our conversation. I rarely meet someone I can talk to like this."
He paused.
"But pleasant moments don't last forever."
He slipped a handgun from his waistband and aimed it directly at Frank's head.
"I can't let you walk out of here."
His tone was calm, almost regretful.
"If we'd met somewhere else, at another time… we might have been good friends."
He gave a small shrug.
"I will consider what you said. There are certainly better candidates than Steve."
Despite the relaxed conversation they'd shared—despite the intellectual rapport, the mutual respect—none of that changed the reality.
Frank had seen too much.
And in Nando's world, that meant he had to die.
"Nando—" Jimmy's voice trembled.
He had just started to relax, lulled by the easy banter between the two older men. For a moment, he'd actually believed Nando might spare Frank.
Instead, the mood flipped in an instant.
Gun raised. No hesitation.
Jimmy's whole body went rigid.
He finally understood.
With men like Nando, it didn't matter how well you talked.
Sometimes, all it took was a single shift in tone—
—and the trigger was already halfway pulled.
You have to understand—last winter, not long after Jimmy first met Fiona, he saw what a complete scumbag "Frank" was. Thinking he was doing Fiona a favor, he secretly had Frank shipped off—smuggled into Canada.
When the truth came out, Fiona broke up with him immediately. That was what gave Officer Tony his chance."
If Frank died now because of Jimmy's mess—and Fiona found out—
Then there would be no reconciliation. Absolutely none.
They wouldn't just drift apart.
They'd become enemies.
And that was something Jimmy could never accept.
In a surge of panic, the man who feared death more than anything stepped directly in front of Frank.
"Move aside, Steve," Nando said calmly.
"Nando, he won't talk. I swear. You can trust me—" Jimmy tried again.
Nando gave one of his men a look.
The thug stepped forward and smashed the butt of his pistol hard against Jimmy's skull.
Jimmy's eyes rolled back and he collapsed instantly.
In movies, people get lightly chopped on the back of the neck and faint. That's nonsense. You need very precise force and angle for that to work. Otherwise, it just hurts.
If you want someone unconscious quickly—
You hit the head.
Though the thug may have overdone it. Blood was already trickling down Jimmy's temple.
Nando looked back at Frank.
"Anything else you'd like to say?"
"I'd like to say—don't kill me. Let's talk business instead. Would that work?" Frank replied evenly.
"…Alright."
To everyone's surprise, Nando actually lowered the gun.
It was so abrupt it almost felt absurd.
Nando dragged a chair over, spun it backward, and straddled it, arms folded over the backrest, chin resting casually atop them. The gun dangled loosely from his right hand.
"You're not normal," Nando said. "You watch a body get chopped up without flinching. You know efficient chemical disposal methods. You're no ordinary man."
At first, Nando truly intended to kill him. Frank had been just another unlucky witness.
But after their conversation?
That impression had changed.
Pulling the gun earlier hadn't been about immediate execution.
It had been a test.
A warning shot without firing.
Jimmy, unfortunately, had paid for that demonstration.
"I'm just a dying old father," Frank said calmly.
"Is that so? Then tell me about this 'business.'"
Frank reached into his coat and pulled out a sealed plastic bag. Inside were crystalline shards the color of polished sapphire.
"Have you heard of something called Blue Angel?"
Nando froze.
Of course he had.
Blue Angel had been shaking the entire market.
Though it was only distributed inside the United States, its reputation had already spread overseas. Through back channels, samples had made their way abroad.
Its purity was unprecedented.
No one could match it.
Drug users weren't just street junkies and drifters. The upper classes indulged too—politicians, celebrities, executives. Open any entertainment headline and you'd see proof of that.
And those people?
They had money.
Money meant nothing to them.
What they wanted was quality.
The market had tiers—like restaurants. The poor ate at roadside diners. The rich dined at Michelin-star establishments and paid obscene prices for rare delicacies.
Blue Angel dominated the premium tier.
And because supply was limited—almost like deliberate scarcity marketing—it had become a status symbol among the wealthy. Demand drove the price sky-high.
Its profit margins were obscene.
Everyone wanted in.
Everyone wanted to replicate it.
Nando was no exception. He had acquired samples and tasked his chemists with reverse-engineering it.
But Blue Angel wasn't some old formula.
It was entirely new.
Impossible to duplicate.
The best they could do was dye inferior product blue—but the color never matched. Real Blue Angel had a natural, gemlike translucence. Artificial coloring couldn't replicate the depth, the clarity, the shimmer.
Anyone who had seen the real thing could tell the difference instantly.
The fakes only fooled amateurs.
Nando's gaze shifted from the crystals—
Back to Frank.
And for the first time, the air in the room truly changed.