Family and Fiancée Faked Their Deaths? I'll Delete Your Records in Return!

I served as the family's lapdog for ten years, only to discover that my entire family and my fiancée faked their deaths on a yacht, leaving me to pay for their $500 million debt and thirty lives.

Now the family's gangsters have blocked the entire building, the FBI is ready to arrest me, and my fiancée's senator father wants me dead to accompany his daughter to the grave. One trouble after another.

Since that's how it is, then you can all truly go to hell!

I coldly deleted their household registrations and accounts with a sneer.

Chapter 1  

Less than three minutes remained before the FBI would use C4 to blast open my apartment door.

The Mafia's hundred gunmen had already completely sealed off the three blocks below—no escape route remained.

Under fabricated evidence, I would become the number one terrorist who bombed the yacht, slaughtered dozens of people, and made off with the gang's $500 million in dirty money.

But at this moment, I merely sat on the leather sofa of my penthouse apartment, swirling half a glass of bourbon whiskey, watching coldly through the floor-to-ceiling windows—on the surface of Biscayne Bay, the luxury yacht symbolizing the Corleone family's wealth was billowing thick black smoke, dozens of lives having just turned to charcoal there.

From the encrypted surveillance device on the coffee table came a nauseating audio recording.

"Oh... Lucian, darling... are you sure that explosive is enough to send the entire ship to heaven?"

This was the voice of my fiancée, Elena, daughter of Miami's senator.

At this moment, she was moaning lewdly to my brother.

"Don't worry, dear sister-in-law." My adopted brother Lucian panted heavily while sneering viciously, "Thirty pounds of high-explosive C4. Tonight at the banquet, dozens of peripheral bosses, along with the four South American smuggler corpses we bought from the morgue, will all instantly become barbecue."

Then, the panting in the recording was interrupted.

A dial tone sounded—a call coming through the encrypted channel.

Lucian immediately stopped his actions, his voice becoming extremely respectful, "Father, everything's arranged."

The old Godfather—my adoptive father's cruel and cold voice: "Move quickly. The $500 million money-laundering reserve has been transferred to South American offshore dead accounts. I've had the forged money-laundering ledger placed in the hidden compartment of Viktor's safe."

"When the helicopter picks us up for Colombia, that self-righteous fool Viktor will become America's public enemy. He'll not only die for us but also take all the blood debts the Corleone family owes straight to hell."

I pressed stop and drained the bourbon in one gulp.

The burning liquid slid down my throat, making my mind even clearer.

My family and fiancée hadn't died in the exploded cruise ship.

To seize power and launder money from me, to become billionaires in South America, these four people I called "closest family" had actually been deranged enough to drag dozens of innocent lives down with them, setting up a death trap for me.

Fortunately, I had long been wary of them, had prepared countermeasures, and decided to turn the tables on them.

"Boss." The apartment's hidden door opened, and my lieutenant Isabella strode in.

She reeked of dangerous gunpowder, "The elevator's been cut by the FBI, they're breaking down doors. The gang elders downstairs have also put out word—they want to skin you alive to accompany that $500 million to the grave."

"Everything's going according to plan." I stood up, taking an extremely realistic blood packet from Isabella's hand, expressionlessly tucking it into the gap behind my molars to hide it.

Then I disheveled my custom suit's tie, letting my originally sharp gaze instantly lose focus, becoming like a walking corpse just stripped of its soul.

"BOOM!"

The solid presidential suite door was violently pushed open.

Several FBI agents charged in like wolves and tigers.

"Viktor Corleone! Get on the ground! Hands behind your head!" Lead Agent Miller roared as he rushed forward, roughly slamming me onto the carpet, cold handcuffs clicking as they locked around my wrists.

Miller pressed his knee hard against my spine, throwing out a half-burned black ledger that smacked into my face: "You deranged lunatic! You killed thirty-four people to seize family assets! You'll spend the rest of your life counting stars at Guantanamo!"

I didn't resist, just jerked my head up sharply, face pale as paper, eyes bloodshot, lips trembling violently.

"You... what did you say? Father... Elena and the others..." My voice was hoarse as if my vocal cords had been sandpapered, carrying heartbreaking confusion and despair.

Miller froze for a moment, but he clearly wasn't buying it, grabbing me by the collar: "Cut the fucking act! We found four charred bodies in the VIP cabin, and the ledger proves it was you!"

"Take me to the scene." I stared hard at Miller, tears suddenly streaming down without warning, my voice as piercing as a wounded beast, "Take me to the scene!! My fiancée is in there! My family!!"

My outburst left the agents looking at each other uncertainly.

The FBI had forged ledgers, but the evidence chain was all circumstantial.

Without direct evidence, facing Miami's largest gang's acting godfather, they didn't dare arrest me outright, much less confront me while I was emotionally unstable, avoiding future retaliation.

Half an hour later, at the Biscayne Bay recovery scene.

The air reeked of nauseating charred flesh.

Beyond the police tape, over a hundred media outlets had already gathered like sharks smelling blood.

When the transport vehicle stopped and I was escorted out, the crowd instantly erupted.

I ignored all the cameras.

My gaze locked deadly onto the row of black body bags on the beach.

Suddenly, I erupted with shocking strength that even two strong agents couldn't control, violently breaking free from their restraint, stumbling as I crashed through the police line.

"Sir! Step back!" the Coast Guard shouted warnings.

I turned a deaf ear, dropping heavily to my knees before charred remains burned to a crisp.

My hands trembled as I caressed the stinking charred flesh, releasing a dying, desperate howl from my throat.

"No... Elena... Father..."

Just as all the cameras focused on me, I suddenly bit down hard on the blood packet behind my molars.

"Pfft—"

A large mouthful of shocking fresh blood gushed from my mouth, splattering directly onto the black body bag.

My eyes rolled back, and I fell backward, displaying a state of near-death shock from extreme grief.

The camera flashes went completely insane! The reporters' cries drowned out the waves.

Before the live national broadcast cameras, this scene was visually stunning—a handcuffed man vomiting blood and fainting at the sight of his family's tragic death.

Where was the cold-blooded serial killer? This was clearly a perfect victim who had lost his loved ones and been wronged to the extreme!

"Damn it! Call an ambulance! Uncuff him! You want every lawyer in America to sue us into bankruptcy?!" Agent Miller completely panicked before the tsunami of public opinion, frantically ordering my handcuffs removed.

And those Mafia gunmen originally hiding in the shadows, planning to shoot me dead in the chaos, seeing this situation, all silently retreated back into the shadows.

The death trap had been torn open with a crack by my single mouthful of fake blood, light and easy.

Three hours later, I declined hospital observation and returned to my penthouse apartment.

As soon as the door closed, my previously weak and stumbling steps instantly became as steady as a hunting leopard's.

I stripped off the blood-stained shirt and threw it in the trash. Isabella handed me a glass of warm water, lips curling in a cold smile: "The Oscars owe you a little golden man, Boss. The FBI, under public pressure, has temporarily withdrawn the direct warrant."

"Just acting." I spat out the blood water from my mouth, my eyes returning to absolute coldness.

Since they wanted me as their scapegoat, I would use my status as a "tragic victim" to legitimately overturn this entire game.

However, just as I prepared to begin the next phase of my counterstrike—

"BOOM!"

The apartment's newly replaced security door was blasted open again by a breaching charge.

Through the thick smoke, over a dozen elite mercenaries armed with military submachine guns filed in, infrared targeting dots instantly covering mine and Isabella's chests.

The sound of leather shoes on broken glass made a harsh noise.

Miami's most powerful politician—Elena's biological father, the Senator—walked into the smoke with a dark expression.

He drew a silver Glock pistol, strode up to me, and without hesitation pressed the black barrel directly against my forehead.

"Viktor." The Senator's voice carried bone-chilling killing intent, "I don't care how you play crazy in front of the media. My daughter died on your ship, and that $500 million has vanished. Now, this debt needs to be paid with your blood."