Alphonse Wiley was, as usual, busy admiring artwork in the "special office" of his casino. Don't ask why he had a "special office," and don't ask why he admired paintings in a casino. The last person who asked had been hacked to death with a hatchet in front of seven of his men.
But one thing could be revealed: Alphonse Wiley—"Whoreson"—was in a foul mood. An extremely foul mood.
His ugly, vicious face was never particularly friendly on ordinary days, but now it still made several of his confidants somewhat afraid.
After all, you never knew what Alphonse Wiley might do the next second.
Just like now.
He suddenly shouted, "Cyril, Cyril! Fuck, where's that son of a bitch?"
Cyril was his accountant.
By the time Cyril came panting before Alphonse, five minutes had already passed. There was not the slightest trace of anything gang-related in this special office. Fine flooring, lavish decorations, a marble desk, paintings covering the walls, and sculptures of every size made the place look more like an artist's studio.
Alphonse Wiley sat behind his marble desk. Cyril could not make out his expression and could only ask quietly, "Sir, what did you need me for?"
His voice sounded normal again. "Nothing, Cyril, nothing. I just wanted you to take a look."
He stood and pointed at a painting on an easel behind Cyril. "What do you think of this painting?"
Cyril turned around. It was a painting of a Witcher. If he spoke his true mind, it was quite well done, but he could not figure out what Alphonse thought of it. He could only mumble, "Uh... well, sir, it's... uh..."
Alphonse grabbed a book from the desk and hurled it at the back of Cyril's head, shouting, "What, you fucking can't talk? Everyone, come