Hell's Kitchen lay in New York's bustling Manhattan district. This chaotic place, hailed as a "breeding ground for sin," was like a shadow beneath the sunlight. The rules accepted by civilized society were far less effective here than one might imagine. The thugs and gang members wandering the streets preferred to settle problems with their fists and violence.
Night fell quietly, and this area, riddled with gang influence, came alive in a different way every evening. Scantily clad streetwalkers, gang lackeys peddling drugs and pills, and vicious-looking tattooed brutes moved through the shabby, dilapidated slums like burrowing creatures emerging from underground.
Of course, that was only the way the people at the bottom lived. Humble, insignificant, and unnoticed in Hell's Kitchen, they were like tireless worker ants, laboring diligently for the gang bosses who controlled the neighborhood turf, earning meager wages as they struggled through a numb existence in this lawless land of crime.
Hellfire Club.
Wesley sat in a private room on the second floor, a faint smile on his refined face. Since Kingpin's death, he had taken over all of the Black Emperor's legacy. Under Sean's instructions, he had ceded most of the illegal businesses and territory to The Hand and The Irish, while using the substantial funds he had gathered to legitimize and transfer the businesses under his name.
James Wesley, once a private assistant who had remained behind the scenes and devoted himself to managing Kingpin's corporate affairs, had transformed into one of New York's renowned new real estate magnates.
He no longer needed to bow and scrape or greet people with a smile every day. Possessing immense wealth and astonishing assets, Wesley now only needed to remain loyal to that young boss.
"Mr. James, those Mexican drug traffickers refused the share you proposed. Since Kingpin's