"Enough!"
Max shut down Victor's wild idea real quick. "Whack him? Whack who? The reporter? The snitch? You can't hide that kinda thing!"
Victor stared at her. "Then what do we do?"
"I need the full story, start to finish."
Max looked around the room. "I'm the only one here who's in the dark."
Victor stayed quiet. Finally, Michael spilled it.
"Heh."
Once she heard it all, Max's face twisted into a cold smirk. "All I can say is, whoever handled this before was a straight-up idiot. A moron. Left a trail a mile wide. Anything else you're not telling me?"
Victor shook his head. "That's it."
"I wasn't asking you."
Max turned to the rest of the crew. Everyone shook their heads. Then she took charge.
"Alright, here's what I need from each of you."
Fuko stepped up. "Lay out the plan."
"First priority: we need an official body with enough clout to clear this up."
Max grabbed the reins. "It's 10:20 a.m. The best proof? A statement straight from the Chicago PD."
Fuko and Old Jack traded a look. "Two hours. We can get it. But we'll need a fax machine."
"Not a problem. Hotel's got one. You handle the call. But here's the key: have the hotel staff deliver it."
Max had it dialed in. "Better yet, have them hand it straight to the reporters."
Jack and Fuko nodded. "Done."
Max kept rolling. "Next, who can reach Frankie?"
Ethan and Michael raised their hands.
But Max looked at Victor. "This is the critical part: the mob cannot get involved. Not the reporter, not the snitch. Nobody dies over this."
"So we just let that son-of-a-bitch Max Wilson walk?" Michael wasn't having it. "At least break one of his legs!"
Ethan chimed in. "Make it three."
"Shut up! ESPN's the biggest sports network on the planet. Over 210 million viewers worldwide. You wanna murder their reporter? Think Victor's gonna survive that heat?"
Max locked eyes with Victor. "Keep these two idiots on a leash. No talking to press for the next few days."
Victor glanced at the brothers and nodded.
Max spun back to Fuko. "What are you two waiting for? Get Chicago PD to issue that statement! Or do I need to yell 'Go, go, go! Move it, move it, move it!'?"
Fuko's face went red. He grabbed the landline and started dialing.
Max wasn't done. "Victor, who can rein in Frankie? Convince him to stand down?"
"Third Uncle (Srei), or Uncle Old Joe."
Victor couldn't wrap his head around it. "Frankie, or Third Uncle, they won't help me. They won't go against—"
"No!"
Max cut him off with a sharp wave. "They will jump in. They'll slap a mob label on you, and you'll never shake it."
Victor paused, wheels turning. He wasn't dumb. The lightbulb went on.
"Then Uncle Old Joe can't sway Third Uncle either. There's only one guy."
Michael got it instantly. "Uberman!"
Max's eyes widened. "You know a congressman?"
Ethan nodded. "We can get him to lean on Third Uncle."
Max wasn't sold. "We need this by 2:30 p.m.!"
Victor had a plan. "Michael, have Old Joe send a 'gift' to Congressman Uberman. And ask him to help convince both Chicago PD and Third Uncle at the Azure Dragon crew."
"On it!"
Michael snatched the brick phone and started punching numbers.
Fuko just got through on his call and looked at Max. "What about me?"
Max shook her head. "You're off the phone."
···
"This is Joe. Michael, this better be big, or you're paying for this long-distance call."
"Victor's in deep. Someone leaked his old 'escort' gig. The American Boxing Association's questioning his eligibility. We need help."
"Huh?"
Old Joe kicked himself inside. Shouldn't have taken that $500 to put Victor in someone else's bed. Damn, who could resist?
"What do you need me to do?"
"Get to the apartment now. Open the safe. Code's 39527. Grab the stack of developed photos. Leave the negatives. Head to the government building. Find Congressman Uberman. Give his secretary the photo of him with Veronica. You'll get face time."
"What do I say?"
"Tell Uberman he needs to get Chicago PD to send a statement to the ABA by 1:00 p.m.—"
"It's 10:10 a.m. now."
"Then make it by 1:00. A report saying Victor was never involved in prostitution."
"I got it."
Max grabbed the phone, voice like steel. "This is Max. Old Joe, tell Uberman: by 1:00 p.m., he gets Chicago PD to fax a statement to both the ABA and the Hilton in Colorado Springs saying Victor never engaged in sex work.
And add that the department will pursue legal action against ESPN reporter Max Wilson for personally defaming the Chicago PD's integrity and enforcement capabilities."
"No problem."
"Plus, Uberman needs to make sure the Chicago mob stays out of this."
"Understood."
"Stay safe."
"Thanks for the heads-up."
Old Joe paused. "Victor there?"
Max handed the phone over.
"Uncle Joe, it's Victor."
"I'll get the negatives to Frankie. He's solid. He'll mail them to you."
"Thanks. Frankie's my big brother."
"My mistake, kid. Don't hold it against me. If I can't get out, take Michael and Ethan, hop a boat to Canada. You can come home from there."
"It won't come to that. Uberman will help."
"Victor, don't measure dirty politicians by your own playbook."
"Uncle Joe, Uberman's just a puppet. Not that dark-hearted. Otherwise he wouldn't still be chasing cheap thrills. He's safe."
"Victor, always have an exit before you talk big."
"Thanks, Uncle Joe."
"You little punk, you're just like your damn dad!"
···
Rain dripped off Old Joe's hat brim, leaving dark streaks on the steps outside Victor's apartment.
The key slid into the lock, barely audible over the downpour.
Old Joe moved like he owned the place, because in a way, he did.
"39527…"
He muttered the combo, fingers dancing over the safe dial.
Click. Door swung open.
The safe was a treasure trove, way juicier than he expected.
Photos of Congressman Uberman with that girl Veronica? Pure art. The kind that ends careers.
Old Joe's rough fingers brushed the edges, thinking. Victor called the guy a lightweight, but Joe didn't trust easy.
"Negatives…"
He pulled a small paper cutter from his jacket.
Blade flashed in the dim light.
He laid the negatives on the coffee table, sliced off two strips with surgical precision.
One half went into a hidden pocket in his custom suit lining. The other slipped between pages of How to Please a Rich Woman.
"Deadly stuff, Victor."
Old Joe said to the empty apartment, voice dripping irony.
He sealed the photos in a manila envelope, gave the place one last scan, locked up, and mopped his tracks with a towel.
Chicago's government building looked extra grim in the rain.
Old Joe paused at the corner, lit a Camel.
Smoke curled in the damp air, blurring his sharp eyes.
"Pops."
A low voice from the shadows. Frankie, Old Joe's eldest, stepped out from the back of a black Cadillac.
Even in the gloom, the family resemblance was unmistakable: same jaw, same ice.
Old Joe didn't speak. Just handed over How to Please a Rich Woman.
Their fingers brushed, brief as a heartbeat. That was goodbye.
"Mail it to the Hilton in Colorado Springs. Victor's name."
Old Joe's voice was gravel. "Victor's mess might splash on you. Watch your back."
Frankie nodded, lips a tight line.
No time for talk. Mob family rules: Dad speaks, son obeys.
Security at the government building was lighter than expected, probably thanks to Old Joe's pricey suit.
Guard gave the briefcase a lazy pat, squeezed the fat envelope marked "Uberman, Personal," didn't even peek inside.
Old Joe smirked inside: This is what taxpayers pay for.
By the time he hit Uberman's floor, the rain had stopped. Afternoon sun sliced through the glass walls, throwing geometric patterns on the marble.
The hallway smelled like expensive sandalwood and overbrewed coffee. At the end, a walnut door with gold lettering: Congressman's Office.
"Sorry, sir, Congressman Uberman's in a meeting. You'll need an appointment—"
The secretary, a middle-aged woman with nude nail polish, looked up from her curved desk. Diamond studs glinted as she turned, like tiny alarms.
Old Joe's wingtips carved a half-moon on the carpet. He slid a photo across the polished surface.
The edge had a smudged fingerprint. In the shot, Uberman's arm was around Veronica's waist, heading into a hotel. Black lace dress against navy suit, pop art under surveillance cams.
The secretary's breath caught.
Her pearl necklace trembled as she swallowed. Capillaries bloomed red behind her ears, foundation no match. Face drained to plaster white.
Under the desk, nails scraped leather.
"I believe the congressman can squeeze me in."
Old Joe's knuckles tapped the bulletproof glass in perfect rhythm with the second hand of his old Patek Philippe.
The wall clock read 12:30. Red digits danced in the secretary's pupils. Old Joe cursed the rain delay.
She punched the intercom. One ring.
Less than two minutes later, the office door flew open.
First out was Klein from security, encrypted briefcase clanging off Old Joe's shoulder.
Then the judicial committee advisor, hat brim low, but Old Joe clocked the limited-edition Lange on his wrist, auctioned three weeks ago at the charity gala.
"Come in."
The secretary's voice was a strangled bird.
She never saw Old Joe pocket the photo. When the auto-lock clicked, blinds let in slivers of light that hit the wall's honor medals. The gilded edges looked like nooses.
Old Joe looked like an assassin in a three-piece suit.