Long Beach. Black Shark Bar.
The place belonged to the Sharks crew and sat right by the docks.
The usual crowd was longshoremen, but the Byrne people had picked this spot anyway to meet Frank.
Frank wasn't stupid. He rolled up with a full crew of backup before stepping inside.
The Sharks guys clearly knew he was coming. They saw the small army and didn't even try to stop him.
"Kilian! Been too long, brother!"
Frank spotted the middle-aged man and immediately spread his arms for a big, overly enthusiastic hug.
"Frank, we saw each other last week."
"A week feels like forever to me."
Frank's sleazy line made Kilian tense up instantly. He stepped back fast.
"Wait! Frank, let's keep this strictly friendly—no funny business!"
"Of course! I just wanted to ask if you've got any product left?"
Hearing the real question, Kilian finally relaxed. As long as it wasn't about his ass, everything was fine.
"I don't have shit. All the supply runs through Mr. Byrne. Why, you already struck out with him?"
Frank's face turned ugly right away. One look and Kilian knew Frank had hit a wall.
Kilian waved the others back and slung an arm around Frank's shoulders.
"C'mon, Frank. Let me introduce you to someone."
They stepped into a private booth. Inside sat a scarred middle-aged man with two stacked blonde girls on his lap.
"Oscar Kyle?"
Frank shot Kilian a surprised look.
Of course Frank knew the Sharks boss—they'd crossed paths before. But he hadn't expected Kilian to bring him here.
"Mr. Castro. Welcome to my bar."
Oscar flashed a vicious grin. The scar across his face twisted grotesquely, making him look straight-up terrifying.
He slapped the two blondes on the ass and sent them out. Now it was just the three men.
Frank immediately smelled the setup. His eyes flicked between Kilian and Oscar.
"You two are working together?"
Kilian gave a meaningful smile.
"I've just been… learning from Mr. Kyle."
Frank got the picture instantly.
The one thing worth learning from Oscar Kyle was how he'd murdered the previous Sharks boss, Blood Shark Brand.
Kilian clearly wanted to copy the playbook.
It made sense. Adams Byrne was already sixty-one—an old man even by American standards, way past retirement age.
At that point, if there was no clear successor, the ambitious guys underneath would start getting ideas.
Kilian was forty-five, in his prime, and the most likely candidate to take over the Byrne Crew.
The guy was apparently tired of waiting. He wanted to speed things up—that's why he'd reached out to Oscar.
Oscar probably wanted to expand out of the Long Beach docks, so teaming up with Kilian made perfect sense.
After taking over the Sharks, Oscar had spent a couple years consolidating power. Now he was ready to grow.
And without ambition, he never would've killed the old boss in the first place.
Two men with the same goal had found each other.
Once Frank understood the game, he licked his lips and grinned wickedly.
"Gentlemen… how about letting me in on this too?"
Kilian obviously wasn't going to refuse. Adams had massive respect inside the crew. Kilian would need outside help to take him down.
The only question was Oscar.
Oscar studied Frank for a moment.
"I need territory. Room to expand outward."
Frank answered without hesitation.
"Easy. I can carve you off a piece. In exchange, I want a bigger cut of the product."
The Castro crew's main business was smuggling. Territory wasn't their priority.
Besides, Frank was getting close to retirement himself. He didn't give a shit what happened to the crew after he was gone.
"Gentlemen, territory and product shares will both be on the table," Kilian said, looking between them. "As long as we take care of Adams Byrne."
"That's simple," Oscar said. "Me and Frank each send a few guys. We just hit Adams and it's done."
Oscar's plan was brutally straightforward. Sometimes the simplest, most violent plans worked best.
Kilian immediately shook his head.
"It's not that easy, Oscar. Before we kill Adams, we need his formula."
Frank's eyes flashed with interest. That recipe was worth its weight in gold.
"Kilian, you don't know the formula?"
"Only Adams knows it. Why the hell do you think a skinny old professor type like him became boss in the first place?"
Among the four Irish bosses in LA, Patrick Grigorash might've been fat as a beach ball, but he was nearly six-foot-seven and intimidating as hell in his prime.
Oscar Kyle had a boxer's build and was the youngest, giving him the strongest presence.
Even short-ass Frank Castro was stocky and vicious.
Only Adams Byrne looked like a mild-mannered college professor—thin, fragile, like a stiff breeze could knock him over.
That's why Lawson had thought he didn't look like a real mob boss when he first saw him.
"So we need to figure out how to get the formula out of Adams first?" Frank asked.
"Exactly. The bastard's paranoid. He always cooks alone in the kitchen, then calls us in once it's done."
In mob speak, "the kitchen" meant the place they cut and packaged drugs. Most crews couldn't manufacture from scratch—they just diluted high-purity product.
Undiluted dope was too strong. It killed customers too fast.
That violated the basic rule of sustainable business—you had to keep the addicts alive and buying.
But Adams was different. He had real chemistry skills and could actually manufacture product. That's how the Byrne Crew had risen so fast.
If Kilian didn't get the formula, taking over as boss would be pointless.
Frank's eyes shifted as an idea hit him. He threw an arm around Kilian's neck.
"Kilian, I've got a good idea. Wanna hear it?"
"Don't drag it out, Frank. Spit it out!"
While Frank was deep in conversation with Kilian and Oscar, his woman Ava had dressed up like a high-society lady and taken a car into downtown Los Angeles.
After carefully checking that no one was following her, she slipped into an exclusive private club.
It was members-only. Only cardholders could get in, so the place was dead quiet.
Ava walked into one of the private rooms like she owned the place. An elderly white-haired man was already waiting on the sofa, smoking a cigar.
"Ava. You're here."
Ava immediately bowed respectfully.
"Mr. Walsh. I'm late."
The old man—Mr. Walsh—blew out a smoke ring and looked at her with relaxed amusement.
"It's fine. You're not that late."
Even so, Ava walked over, turned around, and slipped off her top, exposing her smooth white back.
"Mr. Walsh… please punish me."
Walsh shook his head.
"If I leave marks on your back, how are you going to explain it to Frank when you get home?"
Ava bit her lip, eyes showing clear frustration.
"Frank Castro has never touched me. He won't even sleep in the same bed!"
"Oh? Ava, you've been married to him for a year now and he still hasn't touched you?"
"That's right."
Walsh took a deep drag on his cigar. His eyes were unreadable through the smoke.
Ava stood there motionless, completely unbothered that she was topless.
"Ava, do you know why Frank won't touch you? Has he lost the ability?"
"No. I think… Frank has figured out who I really am."
Walsh nodded slowly.
"That's possible. Frank's always been a cunning bastard."
"Mr. Walsh, since I've been compromised… can I please be pulled out?"
Ava's eyes were full of desperate hope. She clearly didn't want to stay near Frank anymore.
But Walsh shook his head.
"No. If you leave him now, he'll get suspicious. Staying close might actually make him more comfortable."
Ava dropped to her knees and hugged Walsh's leg.
"Mr. Walsh, I want to be by your side!"
Walsh gently stroked her hair, a kind smile on his face.
"Ava, that day isn't far off. Just hold on a little longer."
"Yes, Mr. Walsh."
"Has anything unusual happened with Frank lately?"
"Not long ago he executed a DEA undercover. And he's furious about running low on supply."
Walsh frowned.
"His methods are still as crude as ever. He didn't even tell me about this one."
"Mr. Walsh, I feel like Frank's been acting strange."
"I know what he's planning. Maybe it's time for Courtney to give him a little reminder."
"Mr. Walsh, is there anything you need me to do?"
Ava did her best to show off her body, but Walsh barely glanced at her. He simply patted her head and stood up.
"Ava, you can go back. Just make sure Frank doesn't find out where you've been."
With that, Walsh walked out of the room, leaving Ava standing there half-naked.
The moment the door closed, Ava's sweet, obedient expression turned ice-cold, then quickly smoothed back into calm.
She dressed like nothing had happened, once again looking like a refined lady.
But her eyes had grown much colder, and a low, oppressive aura radiated off her, making anyone who got too close feel genuine fear.
Luckily, she didn't take it out on the club staff. She left with that heavy pressure surrounding her.
Face dark, Ava stood on the sidewalk and pulled out her phone to call a cab.
Cabs were rare in America since almost everyone had cars. Most taxi drivers only waited at airports or luxury hotels. Standing on the street was a long shot.
Usually you had to call the company and they'd radio the nearest driver.
It cost more since the meter started when they accepted the job, but Ava obviously didn't care about the price.
The call had just connected when she suddenly noticed someone across the street.
Scruffy stubble. Arm in a cast. The usual gloomy face looked strangely brighter today.
It was Billy Costigan—the guy she'd seen multiple times at Frank's mansion.
Ava immediately hung up.
She'd noticed Billy walking out of a psychology clinic. In mob culture, that meant only one thing.
Before, it had been made clear: seeing a shrink was considered snitching. Only rats went to therapy.
Without hesitation, Ava started tailing him.
Billy seemed to be in a good mood for once—no longer wearing that constant bitter expression. But his basic undercover instincts were still sharp.
After quickly scanning his surroundings, he headed off in one direction.
With his broken arm, driving was difficult, so he was walking to the bus stop.
But the whole time he walked, he couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching him.
As an undercover, Billy had survived this long because he never let his guard down.
He started testing for tails—suddenly speeding up around corners, then waiting to ambush anyone following.
But whoever was on him was good. Billy couldn't spot a thing.
He'd been trained in tracking and counter-surveillance at the academy. Realizing he was dealing with a pro, he made a decision.
Gritting his teeth, Billy deliberately walked into a quiet, deserted alley. In a place like this, he could flush out his follower easily.
Fortunately, the alley didn't have anyone with natural camouflage. The tail also realized Billy had disappeared once they entered.
"Hiding?" a soft, seductive voice murmured.
At that moment, someone dropped down from above and pressed a gun into the follower's lower back.
"Who the hell are you? Why are you following me?"
"Mr. Costigan… have you forgotten me already?"
The woman removed her hat, revealing striking emerald-green eyes.
Billy's face went completely blank. He never expected the person tailing him to be her.
"Mrs. Castro?"
(Ava)