Chapter 51
The sea breeze howled across the harbor, carrying with it the eerie creaks of the dented black oil drum rolling and bumping along the concrete. The silence among the gathered men was thick, oppressive, broken only by the sound of the wind.
"I need some dogs to run errands for me." Bardi said, his voice cold and emotionless, cutting through the quiet like a blade.
His sharp, piercing gaze swept over the crowd and settled on Hank.
In that moment, his demonstration of invulnerability and terrifying precision left no doubt in anyone's mind: this wasn't a man to trifle with. With the dozen bullets still resting in his hand, Bardi could easily end every life here without a second thought.
The butler, observing Bardi's interest in Hank, exhaled quietly in relief. It seemed Bardi's intentions didn't extend to random slaughter, he simply wanted to recruit someone. Still, the display of raw, inhuman power left the butler shaken. How could such a being even exist? A body immune to bullets? The sheer impossibility of it defied everything he knew.
Meanwhile, Hank stood frozen in place, his breathing uneven.
Bardi casually flicked a bullet between his fingers. Though it looked harmless, like a toy marble, there was no doubt in Hank's mind that it carried the force of a gunshot. He didn't dare move. One wrong move, one hint of defiance, and he'd be dead in an instant.
Hank understood the situation perfectly. This wasn't a negotiation. If he resisted, Bardi would kill him without hesitation. There were countless others in Gotham—or anywhere, really—who would take his place without complaint.
So, without much deliberation, Hank made his choice. The Gotham wind howled in his ears as he resigned himself to submission. What did it matter if he became someone's errand boy? Staying alive was far more important.
When the bullets had started flying earlier, Hank had already prepared himself for a "kill or be killed" scenario. But now? No one was dead. That, in itself, was a relief.
Hank wasn't a stranger to swallowing his pride. He had survived the horrors of war and the lawless chaos of the Devil's Triangle. Bowing his head now was hardly a struggle. His mind had already moved to the next step, negotiating his role and, perhaps, securing some benefits.
Maybe, just maybe, he thought, Bardi could offer him something. That unbreakable body, for example. The mere idea of having such strength sent a strange warmth through Hank's chest.
He began sorting through his thoughts, trying to find the right words to say. But before he could speak, he noticed Bardi turning away from him with a satisfied look.
Hank frowned in confusion and followed Bardi's gaze. His eyes widened in disbelief when he saw what his men were doing.
"You've got to be kidding me…"
Several of his subordinates were kneeling on the ground, their guns discarded in front of them as if offering them up in surrender.
The man closest to him glanced back and whispered urgently, "Hank, get down already, or you're going to die!"
Another man nodded frantically, his voice equally hushed but desperate. "Yeah, what the hell are you doing just standing there? Kneel down, for God's sake, before someone gets killed!"
The rest of them bobbed their heads in agreement, their eyes wide with fear.
Hank's chest heaved with frustration as his face turned an angry shade of red. His fists clenched tightly as he fought the urge to scream.
These bastards! Traitors! Cowards!
The closest subordinate gave him another meaningful look, even winking. "We'll figure it out later, Hank. Just kneel, okay?"
Hank wanted to kill them all on the spot. Here he was, trying to think ahead, to negotiate for a better deal, and these idiots had already dropped to their knees like scared children.
You spineless fools! he thought, his face twisting with rage. I brought you here, I trusted you, and this is how you repay me?
But it was too late. The damage was done.
The saying, "A bad soldier ruins a good general," felt painfully accurate in this moment. Hank had recruited this lot, and now their cowardice reflected on him.
He felt his dignity slipping through his fingers. But with the situation as it was, there was little he could do. For all his anger, he couldn't exactly argue against survival.
Bardi, on the other hand, was more amused than annoyed. He rarely encountered people who were this "sensible." In modern times, especially, most were too proud to recognize the clear gap between themselves and others.
Bardi appreciated those who could see reality for what it was.
To him, people were not equal. They were separated by vast, undeniable differences. Everyone might have two eyes, a nose, and a mouth, but the gulf between individuals was monumental. Some could rise to the heights of power, while others carried bricks their entire lives.
Bardi valued people who understood this. If the situation called for submission, they submitted. If it required action, they acted. And if someone insisted on being stubborn or defiant when they clearly had no chance, then they deserved whatever fate they brought upon themselves.
In the same way, Bardi understood himself. He had no illusions about who he was, the power he wielded, or the realities of the world around him. Recognizing the rules of the world and knowing when to enforce them or break them was the foundation of his strength.
Bardi's cold, emotionless gaze returned to Hank, sending a chill through him. The look seemed to say, I already have enough dogs. One less won't matter.
Hank forced himself to maintain his composure, though his pulse quickened. His expression was stern, his brow furrowed as if trying to project an air of defiance. Taking a deep breath, he let out a cold snort.
"I, Hank, have seen everything there is to see in this life!" he began, his voice loud and firm. "From the deserts of Africa to the Bermuda Triangle, from the jungles of Thailand to the chaos of Myanmar, I founded the War Bear Mercenary Team! Hundreds of battles—big and small—and yet here I stand!"
His chest swelled with pride, and his voice grew even louder. "And now, you expect me to be a dog at your feet?"
Hank's head was held high, his tone resolute and unyielding, as if he were a warrior staring down death itself. The sheer conviction in his words made him appear as if he were ready to face his doom with dignity, his will burning brighter than ever in the face of an inevitable end.
The sea breeze howled, whipping around him like a mournful dirge, as if nature itself were bidding farewell to a tragic hero.
For a moment, those around him were stunned. Hank's men, who had already dropped to their knees, looked up at him in disbelief, their faces slack with shock.
The butler and Mario, standing on the other side, exchanged a glance. Though they were removed from the situation, there was a flicker of admiration in their eyes.
A man of true conviction, they thought.
Even Bardi, whose face rarely betrayed his thoughts, gave the faintest impression of recognition. He didn't mind people who weren't afraid of death. In fact, he respected them. It made them interesting and killing them even easier.
"In that case..." Bardi said coldly, his voice as calm as ever.
His fingers tightened, the bullet in his hand poised for release.
Hank's chest rose and fell, his stance strong. For a brief moment, it seemed as though he might actually embrace death with pride.
But just as Bardi was about to fire, Hank's booming voice echoed again.
"In that case!" he roared.
Thud!
Hank dropped to his knees with a resounding impact, the sound cutting through the silence.
"I'll be your dog," he declared loudly, his tone utterly unashamed.
Despite kneeling, Hank still carried himself with an air of authority. His back was straight, his chest puffed out, and his expression was resolute. He knelt with more dignity than most men stood, as if this was some kind of triumph rather than a submission.
The stunned expressions on his men's faces melted away, replaced by a collective sigh of relief.
There's our boss, they thought. That's the Hank we know. Thank God he didn't do anything stupid.
Mario and the butler, however, couldn't hide the twitch in their expressions. The admiration they'd felt moments ago evaporated in an instant, replaced by disbelief and a sense of secondhand embarrassment.
The butler's lips parted slightly, but no words came out. He glanced at Mario, who looked equally bewildered.
Hank's men, oblivious to the reaction from the other side, seemed almost proud. One even whispered under his breath, "See? That's our boss. Knew he'd handle it."
Bardi, on the other hand, hesitated. For a moment, his fingers twitched, and the bullet nearly left his grasp.
He had genuinely thought Hank would choose death. The boldness of his earlier words, the defiance in his tone, it had all seemed so convincing.
But instead, Hank had not only knelt but had done so with such dramatic flair that it caught even Bardi off guard.
With his straight posture and unyielding demeanor, Hank almost looked like he believed kneeling was an act of honor. The sheer contradiction between his words and actions was so strange that it made Bardi pause.
Bardi's gaze lingered on Hank, making the mercenary shiver slightly despite his outward bravado.
"I—I just knelt a little late," Hank said quickly, his voice stiff. "You can't kill me for that, right?"
Bardi raised an eyebrow, then let out the faintest huff of air. Was it amusement? Disdain? Hard to say. Either way, he dropped the bullets from his hand.
The metallic clink of the bullets hitting the ground echoed in the tense silence.
It was over.
Hank exhaled quietly, relief flooding his system. His men also relaxed, though they still knelt cautiously, not daring to move until Bardi said otherwise.
Only then did everyone fully process what had just happened. Bardi had held onto those bullets, more than a dozen of them, this entire time, catching them effortlessly during the earlier gunfire.
The realization sent a chill through the group.
Bardi glanced at the discarded bullets before finally speaking. "Take my money and follow me."
Without waiting for a response, he turned and began walking toward Gotham.
Chapter 52
Sunlight filtered through the scattered clouds, casting fragmented rays on Gotham's Gothic architecture. The faint light gave the cold, somber air a slight ripple, carried by a biting breeze.
Gotham wasn't perpetually cloaked in darkness—occasionally, sunlight would break through the overcast sky. It was just rarer than in most places.
The Carmine Hotel stood out as a hallmark of the city's identity, its Gothic design reflecting Gotham's eerie yet imposing charm. More importantly, it was one of the safest locations in a city rife with danger.
Even the most hardened local gangs in Gotham knew better than to tangle with old-school families like the Falcones. The hotel was part of the Falcone family's empire, untouchable in the shadowy hierarchy of Gotham's underworld.
After retrieving Hank and the others last night, Falcone's butler had arranged accommodations for Bardi and his group here. Once they'd rested, Falcone himself would host Bardi for dinner that evening.
It wasn't difficult to guess Falcone's intentions. Was he hoping to recruit Bardi? To forge some sort of alliance? Or perhaps, to gain control of him for his own ends, maybe even to dissect the man's secrets?
The reasons were unclear.
8:30 AM.
Pamela Isley yawned slightly as she slipped through the back entrance of the Carmine Hotel. Entering the staff locker room, she moved languidly, clearly not fully awake.
Pamela Isley was a striking woman with vibrant red hair cascading like flames, stunning features, and a figure that turned heads wherever she went. (Img)
As she began changing into her uniform, the door opened to reveal her friend and colleague Annie, who burst in with an excited energy. The two had met back in university and now worked together at the hotel.
"Hey, Pamela!" Annie nudged Pamela's arm with her shoulder, her face animated. "Did you hear about the crazy thing that happened last night?"
Pamela barely glanced at her, indifferent. "What is it this time?" she asked, gathering her fiery hair into a loose bun.
In Pamela's experience, Annie's idea of "interesting news" almost always involved men, particularly attractive ones. Her excitement typically followed a formula:
Handsome guy.
Handsome rich.
Handsome rich cool car.
Handsome rich cool car an endless string of entanglements with women Annie envied.
True to form, Annie launched into her story.
"So, last night this guy checked in, completely naked!" she exclaimed, her tone brimming with amusement and intrigue. "He had eight big guys trailing behind him. Security almost got into it with him, but nothing happened in the end. Anyway, Jennifer caught a glimpse of him and was immediately smitten. She was even thinking about, you know, offering herself to him."
Annie burst into laughter. "And do you know what this guy said? He told her her chest was too small and told her to get lost! Can you believe that? Jennifer's been fuming ever since, swearing he's into men because of the eight dudes he had with him. But seriously, I have to deliver some custom-tailored clothes to him later. Pamela, you have to let me take the delivery! A handsome guy who hasn't been charmed by Annie isn't truly a handsome guy!"
Pamela simply nodded, unamused. Annie's over-the-top infatuation was nothing new. Still, the image of a man walking into the Carmine Hotel naked made her pause.
An exhibitionist?
The thought flickered briefly in her mind before she dismissed it.
Pamela preferred plants—vines, flowers, and the green freshness of leafy life—over the company of men.
Later, after watering and pruning the hotel's plants, Pamela began her first task of the day: delivering a set of custom-made clothes to one of the VIP suites.
The clothes had been specially tailored overnight for the mysterious guest Annie had been talking about. The set included white British-style Martin boots, white socks, white pants, white undergarments, a white dress shirt, a white jazz hat, and a long white trench coat with gilded edges along the buttons.
All white?
Pamela frowned slightly as she inspected the ensemble. It felt excessive and oddly theatrical. Who dressed like this anymore? She couldn't understand it—turquoise, she thought, would have been far more pleasing than white.
Still, she loaded the outfit onto the breakfast cart along with the guest's meal. As she prepared to deliver it, her thoughts lingered on Annie's earlier comments.
Eight men in full attire, and yet the leader had shown up naked? She shook her head. It was bizarre.
The cart wheels glided silently over the plush carpeting as Pamela made her way to the elevator. She rode it to the third floor and stopped in front of VIP Suite No. 7.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Pamela rapped on the door lightly and was about to announce herself when a deep, magnetic voice called from inside.
"Come in."
The tone of the voice sent a small shiver down Pamela's spine.
"The voice is… nice," she murmured to herself, a faint smile tugging at her lips.
She pushed the door open and stepped inside, only to freeze in her tracks.
The scene before her was one she would never forget.
The suite's balcony doors were open, dark red curtains pulled back to let sunlight stream in. Dust motes danced lazily in the golden light, casting an almost ethereal glow over the man standing at the center of it all.
Bardi stood there, tall and broad-shouldered, his figure bathed in the warm sunlight. The light accentuated every sculpted detail of his physique.
Pamela felt her breath catch in her throat. She was completely stunned, unable to move or speak.
But then her gaze dropped lower, and her face flushed red.
Why wasn't he wearing any clothes?
Even a blanket would have been better than this!
Bardi turned his head slightly, his sharp features catching the sunlight as he glanced at her. His tone was calm but carried an unmistakable weight of authority.
"Close the door. I don't enjoy being watched so casually."
Pamela snapped out of her daze, embarrassment flooding her.
You don't like being watched? Then why were you walking around naked last night? she thought irritably. And now you're sunbathing in the nude?
She swallowed her frustration, muttered an apology, and closed the door behind her, pushing the cart into the room. But not before sneaking another glance at him.
Under the sunlight, his chiseled features seemed impossibly perfect, radiating a raw, masculine beauty that made her heart skip a beat.
Bardi's gaze locked onto the name badge pinned to her chest, and for a moment, he froze.
Pamela Isley.
Poison Ivy?
On his first day in Gotham, he had already encountered someone this notorious?
Bardi's mind raced as he recalled Poison Ivy's infamous abilities. Her body had been infused with plant toxins, turning her blood into chlorophyll, making her immune to all poisons, viruses, bacteria, and fungi.
She could manipulate plants at will and secrete pheromones to control others. Even Superman and Batman had, on occasion, fallen victim to her influence. She'd once managed to turn them against each other.
In short, she was a powerhouse.
A perfect fit for the kind of subordinates Bardi sought.
Pamela Isley, of course, had no idea what was going through Bardi's mind. She noticed his intense gaze on her chest, his eyes burning with a focus that caught her slightly off guard.
Suddenly, Annie's voice echoed in her memory:
"Haha, that handsome guy said her boobs were too small and told her to get out of the way! Haha… I'm dying of laughter."
Pamela stiffened as realization struck.
Is that why this guy keeps staring at my chest?
Her face flushed slightly. Yet, being a woman accustomed to confidence and openness, she wasn't overly shy. If anything, she found herself a bit flattered.
Perhaps having a fling with such a remarkable man wouldn't be so bad.
The thought startled her, and she quickly dismissed it, embarrassed by her own boldness.
Bardi's voice snapped her out of her thoughts.
"Pamela Isley?"
The sunlight framed his back as he turned, highlighting his tall, lean figure. The sharp contours of his muscles gave him the appearance of a perfectly sculpted statue, radiating strength and masculinity.
Pamela's breath hitched, her eyes widening. She had never seen a man whose body combined beauty and power so effortlessly.
Her heartbeat quickened, her entire body trembling slightly. For a moment, it felt as if his piercing gaze could strip her bare, seeing right through her clothes, leaving her exposed under his scrutiny.
Her mind swirled with confusion, unable to make sense of the strange emotions bubbling inside her.
Ordinary?
Bardi's eyes narrowed slightly. Activating his vision, he scanned Pamela's body but found no anomalies. She was still an ordinary human.
"How old are you?" he asked abruptly.
Caught off guard, Pamela stammered, "Eighteen… I'm eighteen."
Bardi nodded, thoughtful. That explained it, she hadn't transformed into Poison Ivy yet.
Bardi wasn't focused on Pamela's flustered state. Instead, his mind turned to how he could make the most of her potential.
Testing her further, he asked, "Do you love plants?"
Pamela blinked in surprise. She hadn't expected such a question. "Y-Yes," she answered, her voice firm despite her confusion. "How do you know?"
Bardi's response was nonchalant. "Because I also enjoy basking in the sun like a plant."
Pamela's eyes widened as understanding dawned.
So that's why he was naked.
He must really love sunlight!
Bardi continued to ask questions, gradually piecing together her story. He learned that Pamela had just started her freshman year at university and was working at the hotel part-time to support her personal research into plants.
Realizing that Pamela had not yet become Poison Ivy, Bardi's thoughts grew sharper. He saw an opportunity to recruit her before anyone else could.
"Serve me. And get me dressed."
Pamela froze. "W-What?"
Chapter 53
Pamela's face was slightly flushed. She was wearing a fiery red evening dress, reminiscent of the bold designs popular in the 1980s. The thin spaghetti straps replaced the traditional wide-shouldered design, leaving her fair shoulders exposed. Her fiery red hair hung loose, with two softly curled strands resting against her chest, drawing attention to the snow-white skin that peeked out from the curve of her neckline.
The hem of the dress stopped just above her knees, and the vivid red fabric hugged her figure perfectly, accentuating her striking curves.
In this era, such attire was undeniably daring, the very definition of avant-garde.
But Pamela hadn't been able to refuse. For reasons she couldn't quite explain, her head felt hazy, her thoughts muddled.
Bardi had taken her out under the pretense of needing a secretary. Before she could fully grasp the situation, they had arrived at an upscale clothing boutique. The dresses there were worth more than what she could earn in several months of work at the hotel.
Still in a daze, she found herself wearing this stunning red evening dress, her fiery hair left cascading freely. She radiated heat, passion, and vibrancy.
In stark contrast, Bardi was dressed entirely in white—pure and luminous, like light itself, piercing through shadows and striking straight into one's heart.
His gaze swept over Pamela's figure, lingering for a moment on her curves.
"Beautiful," he said simply.
Pamela twirled playfully, her seductive smile lighting up her face. "Beautiful? Where exactly?" she teased.
"I admire your figure," Bardi said, his tone frank and devoid of innuendo, as if merely stating a fact.
Pamela chuckled softly, covering her mouth as her laughter rippled out. "You're quite the unusual man, aren't you?" she said, her voice carrying a hint of intrigue.
She couldn't help but marvel at how striking Bardi looked in his white suit, paired with the long, pristine trench coat that flowed to his heels. The scar on his face didn't detract from his charm. Instead, it added a layer of ruggedness that contrasted with the elegance of his attire, making him all the more magnetic.
Despite her limited life experience, Pamela could tell that Bardi was no ordinary man.
Bardi smiled back, his expression calm yet playful as he observed her radiant demeanor. In her red dress, she was like a flame, and he, cloaked in white, was like a moth drawn to her glow.
But unlike moths that recklessly dive into fire, this moth would let the flame burn itself out.
Pamela slipped her hands around Bardi's arm, leaning into him with a sense of intimacy that felt both natural and daring.
Bardi felt the softness of her grip and caught the faint scent of her fragrance, a mix of sweetness and vitality that was oddly comforting.
Pamela's cheeks burned as her heart pounded wildly. Yet she didn't pull away. Instead, she held his arm even tighter, pressing herself closer as if to test his reaction.
Bardi chuckled lightly. "Exploring Gotham with you today has been… quite rewarding," he said.
Pamela didn't catch the hidden meaning behind his words. She didn't realize that Bardi's so-called "reward" was the resolution to recruit her someday.
For him, securing Pamela as his subordinate was inevitable. Not in some crude, impulsive way, but by ensuring her eventual loyalty and utility.
And naturally, there might be pleasures to enjoy in the future. Bardi's physiology was no secret to himself any intimacy would require a partner who could withstand his overwhelming strength. Without caution, a single moment of carelessness could lead to catastrophic consequences.
Pamela, oblivious to his thoughts, smiled brightly and said, "Anywhere you want to go, I'll lead the way!"
She followed his lead without hesitation, though she couldn't help but feel curious about their destinations.
First, they went to the Gotham Police Department. There, they briefly met Commissioner Gordon. Bardi also inquired about someone named Edward Nygma, but Nygma wasn't present.
Afterward, they strolled through Gotham's bustling streets, growing closer with each passing moment.
Pamela noticed something peculiar about Bardi, he avoided stepping on flowers and plants wherever they went, seemingly out of consideration for her.
"Do you always act this way?" she asked, her voice filled with curiosity.
"No," Bardi replied calmly. "Only when you're around."
Pamela's eyes sparkled with satisfaction. She leaned even closer to him, her body almost brushing against his with every step.
Bardi placed his arm around her slender waist, guiding her through Gotham's landmarks. At the amusement park, they rode the Ferris wheel. As it rose to the top, Pamela found herself sitting on his lap, their lips meeting in a kiss under the sky.
They passed by the Iceberg Lounge but didn't stop for a meal, the atmosphere there wasn't quite to their liking.
Their walk continued past the circus and then to the towering Wayne Building, its twelve gargoyle-like statues standing vigil over Gotham. Inside, Bardi learned that Bruce Wayne's parents were still alive.
Later, they visited Gotham University. Pamela eagerly introduced him to Jonathan Crane, a psychology professor, and Jason Woodrue, the botanist she admired most.
Bardi watched her interactions with a trace of amusement, his smile faint but meaningful.
Finally, they arrived at an unexpected destination—a vast swamp on the outskirts of Gotham.
Pamela hesitated as they approached, covering her nose and mouth with her hand to block the swamp's putrid stench. "What are we doing here?" she asked, frowning.
Bardi's eyes scanned the swamp carefully, his expression unreadable.
"It's nothing," he said at last, withdrawing his gaze.
But inwardly, he felt a sense of puzzlement. Was it supposed to be here? Or… was it gone?
Since he couldn't find what he was looking for, Bardi let it go. Instead, he pulled Pamela Isley closer, wrapping an arm tightly around her slim waist, pressing her against him.
"There are still a few hours left," Bardi said with a charming smile. "Let's go shopping."
Without waiting for a response, he leaned down and captured her lips in a deep kiss. The intensity left Pamela breathless, her chest rising and falling rapidly as her heart raced.
Suddenly, Bardi's expression shifted. His gaze snapped upward, focusing on the skyline of Gotham, toward the direction of the Carmine Hotel.
--
Carmine Hotel, VIP Room No. 8
Inside the room, eight burly men were gathered around a coffee table, their expressions grim. Mike, also known as "Hank," sat at the center of the group, the apparent leader.
"Mike, we've been watching him all night, but we haven't learned anything," one of the men said, his tone edged with frustration.
"We started this shipment from Thailand to rake in dollars and live it up, not to end up as someone's lackeys," another added, his voice bitter.
"But… he's bulletproof," another man interjected nervously. "Bullets can't hurt him, you all saw it yourselves."
"I don't care what he can survive," a fourth man snapped. "He's not here now. Once we leave Gotham, we can get back to enjoying life."
Kneeling before Bardi to beg for their lives had been a bitter pill to swallow, and the man's resentment was clear. "I don't want to be anyone's dog forever."
The group turned toward Mike, waiting for his decision. "Mike, what do you think?"
Mike's face was grave, his usual easygoing demeanor replaced by a rare intensity. The Russian man's voice was low and resolute as he said, "I want that kind of power."
The image of Bardi standing invulnerable to bullets had seared itself into Mike's mind. No amount of money could buy that kind of strength. For him, this wasn't just about survival, it was about opportunity.
He could see that Bardi wasn't an ordinary man. Bardi had a grand plan, and he needed people to carry it out. This was a chance Mike couldn't afford to waste.
"Fine," one of the men said, breaking the tense silence. "Let's end this here. I'll take my share of the cash and leave Gotham while we still can."
One of the strong men opened the black case beside him, counting out his share of the dollars and stuffing it into a bag. He had no intention of staying under Bardi's thumb any longer. Bulletproof or not, he wouldn't spend his life serving someone else.
Seeing this, the others exchanged glances before following suit. One by one, they retrieved their own shares of the money, each man prepared to leave Gotham and resume their freewheeling lifestyles. The thought of living as someone's subordinate, especially someone who had taken their money was intolerable to them. If not for Bardi's seemingly invincible defense, they would have tried to take him down already.
Mike's expression darkened as he watched the scene unfold. Anger bubbling to the surface, he slammed his fist onto the table with a resounding thud.
"Don't you understand?" he growled. "He let us take the money because he knows we won't escape! If you run like this, you'll only end up dead!"
One of the men scoffed. "Mike, stop trying to scare us. You know as well as we do that we've got plenty of escape routes. Once we're out of Gotham, he won't be able to touch us."
Another chimed in, "We begged for our lives so we could have this chance to run, and now we're taking it."
A third added, "If you want to stay, fine. But I'm not wasting this opportunity. I'm out of here."
"Goodbye."
One by one, the seven men left with their bags of cash, eager to spend it on the pleasures of the world. When the money ran out, they'd simply return to their usual ways—murder, robbery, and chaos to line their pockets once again.
Mike remained seated, his face clouded with fury. He clenched his fists, veins bulging as his mind raced.
"They're already dead," he muttered to himself. Mike had no intention of running. He believed in Bardi's power, and he was certain those seven would regret their decision.