Victor Lee sat in the back of his beat-up Chevy Caprice, fingers drumming on the inside of the door like he was playing a war drum.
Chicago's South Side at night felt like a heavy black blanket smothering the streets. Only the occasional flash of headlights or the wail of a distant siren cut through the gloom.
His temples throbbed—not from booze (he hadn't touched a drop tonight), but from the rage burning a hole in his chest.
"Seven grand! Just gone! I've fought my ass off in six matches—crippled two guys, killed one—and I still never made seven grand!"
Victor gritted his teeth, the words hissing out like steam. "That bastard Mark set me up."
Up front, Michael glanced at him in the rearview mirror, his obsidian eyes glinting cold in the dark.
"My brother dug into it. It was definitely Mark who snitched to the cops. That raid was too clean to be random."
Jason, riding shotgun, was polishing a Glock 19 like it was his girlfriend's cheek.
"If it wasn't for him, we wouldn't have had to shell out five grand just to get a concealed carry permit!"
"Let's get him."
"Here's the thing, Victor," Michael said, eyes still on the road. "You want to do this, fine. But how? Mark's holed up in college town now. Cops are thicker than ants there. And if we go full gangster on him, we're getting pinched. His dad's some loaded millionaire."
Victor's lips curled into an icy smirk. He pulled a crumpled photo from his pocket—Mark grinning like an idiot outside a bar, arms around two blondes.
"He likes playing dirty? Let's show him what real dirty looks like."
The air in the car went still for a beat.
Michael and Jason swapped a look, both nodding, but neither sure what Victor meant by "real dirty."
"You gonna shoot his junk off?"
"Too risky! Just snap some pics and tank his rep at school!"
"Cops trace that crap in a heartbeat!"
Victor's voice was calm, steady. "I've got a plan. Lowest risk possible."
"When do we move?"
Michael's knuckles whitened on the wheel.
"Tonight."
Victor's tone left no room for debate. "Before he gets wise. We find him. We give him a gift."
Jason finally set the gun down and turned. "College town's a three-hour drive. We need to be ready."
Victor dragged a black duffel from under the seat, unzipped it—gloves, masks, lock picks, a fat stack of cash, all lined up neat.
"Already packed. No guns—security's tight. We'll find 'tools' on-site."
Michael fired up the engine. It growled like a caged animal.
"Let's roll. Time to throw Marky-boy a back-to-school party he'll never forget."
---
Three hours later, they parked in a rundown lot on the edge of college town.
Far enough from campus to dodge cameras. Perfect base.
September night air carried a bite of early winter. Victor flipped up his leather jacket collar, his breath fogging under the streetlights. He stayed in the car—Michael and Jason, both lean shadows in hoodies, were ghosts now.
"He's not on campus," Michael said, sliding back in. "Classmate says he's at Blue Shell Bar."
"Three blocks out," Jason added, scanning the lot. "Mark usually stays till one. We've got twenty minutes."
Jason grabbed three baseball caps and skull-logo hoodies from the trunk.
"Put these on. You'll blend in like regular punks."
They changed, then hoofed it toward the bar district.
Friday night in college town was electric—packs of students laughing, yelling, reeking of beer and hormones.
The three melted into the crowd. Invisible.
Blue Shell was a half-basement dive with a line out the door.
Victor skipped the queue, leading Michael and Jason down a narrow side alley.
Stinking of beer crates and trash.
"Back door's got a bouncer," Michael whispered, nodding at a hulking shadow. "But we don't need in. Mark always stumbles out here to puke or smoke when he's trashed."
Victor nodded, pulled out a pack of smokes. They loitered at the alley mouth like regular degenerates.
Time crawled. Bar music thumped. Drunk kids staggered in and out.
12:45 a.m.—target acquired.
Mark Williams—former South Side high school kid, second son of the Williams dynasty, now a college bro—stumbled out the back door. His dyed-blond curls looked like a rat's nest under the dim light.
Designer jeans, tight tee, thick gold chain. Total trust-fund douchebag vibe.
Arm around a tiny girl—Michael's ex.
"Jesus, he really thinks he's hot shit," Jason muttered.
Victor's eyes sharpened to blades.
"Wait till he's deeper in."
Mark wobbled toward a dumpster, unzipped, and started pissing. Michael's ex giggled, holding "little Mark" steady while humming off-key.
Victor gave the signal.
Three shadows closed in—fast, silent.
Mark zipped up, turned, and froze. Three hooded figures boxed him in.
He blinked, drunk and confused. "Hey, dudes, this spot's taken—"
Michael's fist sank into his gut like a sledgehammer.
The girl looked up—just in time for Victor's knuckles to split her face open. Blood sprayed. She dropped.
"Michael, she's five bucks a pop now!"
Michael spat. "I'll send Frankie and the boys to be her regulars."
Mark doubled over like a shrimp, dry-heaving.
Victor grabbed a fistful of hair, yanked his head up.
"Remember me, Mark?"
His voice was soft. Terrifying.
Mark's eyes focused through booze and panic. Recognition hit.
"V-Victor? Shit, you're supposed to be in lockup—this is a mistake—I'm sorry!"
"Mistake? Sorry?"
Victor laughed, cold. "You're about to learn what sorry really means."
Jason was already behind him, chloroform rag over his face.
Mark thrashed, then went limp.
"Move. Now."
Victor's command was a whisper.
Michael and Jason hauled the body deeper into the alley.
Victor led them to a rusted back door of an abandoned building next door.
Jason popped the lock in three seconds.
Inside: dark, damp, reeking of mold and piss.
Down to the basement. Michael lit the way with his phone. Found a relatively clean room.
Victor pulled rope from the bag. They tied Mark to a busted chair, duct-taped his mouth.
"Wake-up time."
Victor cracked open a vial of ammonia, waved it under Mark's nose.
Mark jolted awake, eyes bulging, scanning the room in terror.
He thrashed. Muffled screams through the tape.
Victor slipped on gloves. One punch—crack. Nose exploded. Blood soaked the tape.
"That's for bullying me."
Another punch. "That's for ratting me out."
Tears and blood streamed down Mark's face. He shook his head, begging with his eyes.
"You think I'm gonna kill you?"
Victor leaned in, eye to eye. "That'd be too easy, Mark. No. You're gonna live and remember what happens when you cross Victor Lee."
He stood, turned to the brothers. "Guard the alley. No one gets close."
They nodded and left.
Victor pulled out a pager, sent a message. Then ripped the tape off Mark's mouth.
Mark gasped. "Victor, please—I'll pay double! I've got money! I just—"
"Shut up."
Victor's voice was ice. Mark froze.
"You know what college town's got plenty of? Junkies. The kind who'll do anything for their next hit."
Mark went ghost-white. He got it.
"No… please, Victor, don't… I'll leave Chicago. Forever—"
"Too late."
Victor's voice was empty. "I need you quiet. So I'm giving you a reason you can't refuse. After tonight, you'll wish I'd just killed you."
---
Twenty minutes later, five gaunt junkies—men and women—shuffled into the basement.
Eyes dead, bodies shaking. But when Victor flashed the cash, they lit up.
"Simple rules," he said. "Hundred bucks each. He's yours. Do whatever. But when you're done, he looks like this—"
He showed a photo: a mangled, unrecognizable victim.
"Can't talk. Can't write. Can't walk. Vegetable. Got it?"
They nodded, hungry.
Victor handed the cash to the clearest-eyed one, then gave Mark a final look.
Mark had pissed himself. Snot and tears smeared his face. He was babbling.
"Enjoy the party, Mark."
Victor walked out.
As he climbed the stairs, the first blood-curdling scream echoed from below.
---
Michael and Jason were waiting outside. The three walked silently to the car.
They waited till dawn, then checked—Mark was unrecognizable, stripped clean.
On the drive back to Chicago, the car was dead quiet.
Until they hit the highway.
Jason broke the silence. "He gonna call the cops?"
Victor stared out at the rushing dark, a thin smile on his lips.
"If his dad even finds him alive, that's a miracle. HIV, brain-dead—he ain't talking. And last night's party torched the scene."
Michael glanced back in the mirror.
"You're one evil son of a bitch, Victor."