Chapter 3

The 40th floor of the Corleone Building, the maximum security circular conference room.

When I pushed open the heavy bulletproof oak door, the pungent cigar smoke inside nearly blinded my eyes.

Twelve elders who controlled the family's various lifelines sat arrogantly in red leather chairs. Behind them stood over twenty elite bodyguards with hands pressed to shoulder holsters.

Seeing me enter alone, not even bringing Isabella, Don Alberto, the leader, let out a cold laugh. He was the old Godfather's sworn brother and the most vocal among these old dogs.

"Viktor, seems you haven't been scared witless by the FBI outside." Alberto stubbed his cigar in the ashtray, heavily pushing a document and an iris verification scanner to the center of the conference table.

"Given that you're suspected of murdering the old Godfather and losing $500 million, the family board has just passed a unanimous resolution to impeach you." Alberto leaned back smugly in his chair, "Verify your iris, hand over the supreme authority key to the global offshore financial network. For the sake of the old Godfather raising you, we'll leave you a speedboat to get the hell out of Miami."

The others let out gloating chuckles. In their eyes, I was already a beaten dog, skinned by the legitimate authorities and about to be swept out by the underworld.

I said nothing, walking straight to the head chair at the end of the long table—the Godfather's seat—and pulled out the chair to sit down.

I slowly poured myself a glass of whiskey, the ice cubes at the bottom making crisp collision sounds. In this tense conference room, the sound seemed somewhat eerie.

"Are you deaf?!" A hot-tempered elder slammed the table hard, and two bodyguards behind him immediately drew their guns, black barrels pointing directly at me.

I picked up the glass, took a light sip, my gaze sweeping across the twelve old faces present.

"Before verifying the key, I just want to confirm one thing." I set down the glass, my voice steady without a ripple, "All of you agree to strip me of my authority?"

"Of course!" Alberto roared impatiently, "Viktor, you're just a dog watching the gate for the Corleone family! Now that the master is dead, you can't even be a dog! Take the money, get lost, or we'll send you to meet the old man right now!"

"Very good."

I nodded, the corner of my mouth curling into a cruel arc.

I placed my hand under the table, my thumb pressing on the red fingerprint sensor that only successive Godfathers knew about.

"Then, meeting adjourned."

"Beep—System reset. Absolute lockdown protocol initiated."

A cold mechanical female voice suddenly echoed above the conference room.

"Clang! Clang! Clang!"

Before these people could react, the circular bulletproof glass around the conference room, supposedly capable of defending against RPG rockets, instantly lowered half-meter-thick titanium alloy steel plates. All doors locked dead, ventilation ducts completely sealed within one second.

The conference room's lighting instantly dimmed, leaving only pale emergency lighting.

"What the fuck did you do?!" Alberto's face changed drastically as he jerked out his gun.

The other bodyguards also pulled their bolts.

But they no longer had the chance to shoot.

"BOOM!"

Four giant ventilation louvers in the conference room ceiling were simultaneously blown open by directional explosives. Four black ropes dropped down, and fully armed "Shadow" squad members wearing skull masks descended like death gods from hell, instantly rappelling into mid-air.

Then, muffled and dense gunfire wove into a symphony of death.

"Puff puff puff puff puff—!"

Uzi submachine guns equipped with long silencers spat deadly tongues of fire in the enclosed steel space.

No nonsense, no standoff. This was an aesthetically pleasing unilateral physical purge.

The first three bodyguards to draw guns had their heads instantly explode in a shower of blood mist. The elder who had just slammed the table had his chest riddled with over a dozen dumdum bullets in one second, his entire upper body nearly torn apart, flying backward without even a scream.

"Fire! Kill him!!" Alberto roared frantically, blindly shooting from behind the bulletproof mahogany table.

The conference room filled with the crisp sound of shell casings hitting the floor, the dull sound of flesh and bone shattering, and the desperate wails of the old men.

Crimson blood mixed with brain matter sprayed under high pressure onto the pale walls and titanium alloy plates, slowly sliding down along the metal grain—a shocking sight.

And I sat there at the head of the long table.

Even when a stray bullet grazed my cheek, severing a strand of my hair, I didn't blink once. I even leisurely picked up that glass of whiskey again, savoring this ultimate violence and death like appreciating an opera.

Thirty seconds.

Just thirty seconds.

The gunfire stopped. The "Shadow" squad landed like ghosts, tactical gun lights sweeping back and forth through the drifting blood mist, confirming kill shots.

The once-mighty Corleone family council of elders had now become a slaughterhouse reeking of intense stench and blood. Bodies lay scattered and piled together, blood converging into a stream that flowed to the soles of my handmade leather shoes.

"Cough cough... Viktor... you madman..."

A weak gasping sound came from the far end of the long table.

Blood-soaked Alberto, dragging two broken legs, crawled toward me like a reptile in desperation. He had four bullet wounds, his lungs punctured, each breath producing large amounts of bloody foam.

He crawled to my feet, grabbing my trouser leg with bloody hands, his once-arrogant eyes now showing only extreme fear of death.

"Viktor... please... for the old man's sake... I watched you grow up..." he begged without dignity.

I stood up, looking down at this old dog from above.

I drew the heavy Desert Eagle from my back, the cold barrel directly stuffed into his gasping mouth, shattering two of his front teeth.

Alberto stared in terror, his throat making whimpering pleas.

"You just said you'd send me to meet the old man?" I leaned down slightly, coldly mocking in a voice only he could hear, "Don't rush, Uncle Alberto. The old man isn't dead—he's in Colombia right now holding women and drinking champagne. Since you're so loyal..."

I watched the shock and disbelief instantly magnify in his pupils.

"You go to hell first and save him a spot. I'll send him down to join you soon."

"BANG!"

The deafening gunshot echoed through the sealed room.

The Magnum large-caliber bullet instantly blew off the back of Alberto's skull, red and white matter splattering on the heavy titanium alloy door. He twitched once and became a complete piece of rotten meat.

I expressionlessly pulled my soiled trouser leg free and holstered the Desert Eagle.

"Boss, all cleared. No survivors." Isabella entered through the hidden door, glanced at the bodies covering the floor, her eyes showing no emotion.

"Open the ventilation, these old guys' blood stinks too much."

I stepped over the corpses, walking steadily to the center of the long table.

There lay the supreme authority scanner, spotted with a few drops of blood.

Miami's old order was physically shattered at this moment. From today on, there would be no more council of elders—the Corleone family had only one voice.

I took out a tissue, wiped the blood from the scanner, pressed my thumb on it, then looked toward the iris scanning lens.

"Identity verification complete. Supreme authority unlocked."

I sneered, pulled out the core key USB hidden at the bottom of the scanner, and walked toward the main control computer behind the conference room.

Physical purge complete.

Now it was time to let those "family members" three thousand kilometers away, who thought they had won big, taste what real despair felt like.