"This thousand is your salary for tonight. Are you satisfied?" Sean said with a smile as he climbed up to the crane cab and handed the young man a stack of cash.
The young man grinned, holding the money tightly. "Very satisfied, sir!"
"Where are you sleeping tonight?" Sean asked.
"I'm at home, sir, sleeping soundly and knowing nothing," he replied.
"Good. But how did the lock on your door break?"
"The lock was broken and I couldn't open it. I got so angry that I shot at it," the young man admitted.
"You have a quick mind! I'm very optimistic about you!" Sean said, giving him a thumbs up. "I needs people like you!"
The young man chuckled nervously, recalling the bloody incident with the carriage, and decided to drop the subject.
"Don't be quick to refuse. Everyone has their strengths, and I won't put you in a position where you shouldn't be," Sean reassured him. "But let's talk about something else for now."
He then pulled out another $1,000. "This is for your boss—the cost of renting the car."
"And this is for that security guard," he added, handing over $500.
"You won't pocket any of this, will you?" Sean asked with a playful smile.
"Of course not!" the young man replied, shaking his head vigorously.
"Good. Goodbye, then. I wish you sweet dreams tonight." With that, Sean jumped out of the car, and the group drove off into the night.
The young man drove the crane back down the road, feeling a mix of excitement and unease.
...
After a chaotic night of gunfire, Sean opted for a period of silence. He discreetly left a paper bag next to Director Wells' car early on October 12th, but soon received a message that someone wanted to meet him. This time, the conversation wouldn't revolve around Salamanca; it would focus on Newark.
That evening, Sean chartered a yacht and met his contact at the Jersey City marina.
The visitor was a black man dressed in a blue shirt, black trousers, and polished leather shoes. He had slightly curly hair, a high hairline, and gold-rimmed glasses, presenting a confident demeanor with a formal smile.
As Bill approached to search him, a group of men behind him stepped forward, their expressions fierce.
Bill turned to Sean, who stood on the yacht, eyeing the newcomer.
After a moment, Sean pointed at the man and said, "I don't like you."
"You stand too straight, which shows extreme confidence—someone who believes they can handle anything. The gold-rimmed glasses suggest you see yourself as intelligent enough to manage any situation. Your choice of clothing indicates a strong desire for control, and your smile, while seemingly kind, reveals a rebellious streak."
With each observation, the visitor's gaze sharpened. The men accompanying him exchanged looks of disbelief, astonished that Sean could deduce so much from mere appearances.
They had to admit that Sean's insights were impressive, providing a new perspective on this newcomer who had swiftly taken down Salamanca.
"Bravo," Sean said, applauding lightly. "I must say, the downfall of Salamanca was inevitable. They were bound to meet their end, even if they hadn't provoked you. Your presence in Newark signifies a shift."
"Let me introduce myself. I'm Gustavo Flynn, from Mexico," the man replied.
"Alright, come aboard." Sean gestured, and Bill stepped aside. Gustavo waved off his men, stepping onto the yacht alone.
As the yacht cruised towards the Statue of Liberty, Sean broke the silence. "What I said earlier isn't really important."
"What is important then?" Gustavo asked, intrigued. Having been in the Pan-Drug Group for years, he had seen many criminals. Sean's assertiveness was refreshing.
"I just don't like your aura—it draws attention away from me. The focus should be on me, and only me," Sean said, locking eyes with Gustavo. "You come on too strong."
"Okay, I apologize," Gustavo shrugged, though he didn't seem sincere. "Now, what's the purpose of our meeting?"
"I initially wanted to mediate between you and the Salamanca family, but that's no longer necessary," Gustavo explained.
"I don't think you're qualified to mediate. The Salamanca must face justice. They shot me in the back of the head, so I'll make sure they pay—eventually," Sean replied sternly.
Gustavo's face twitched in frustration. He couldn't help but curse under his breath, realizing how difficult it was to deal with someone so resolute.
"And now?" Sean asked, uninterested in discussing the dead.
"Are you interested in becoming a drug dealer?" Gustavo cut to the chase.
Sean shook his head. "I'm not interested in the meager profits of drug dealing."
Gustavo was taken aback by Sean's dismissal of the lucrative drug trade, struggling to believe that smuggling alcohol could be more profitable.
"This is a technical issue," Sean clarified.
"So, is this market still ours?" Gustavo asked pointedly.
"You, or Eladio?" Sean smirked.
"Eladio, at least for now," Gustavo replied, seeing no need to hide the truth.
"It doesn't matter. First, don't cause me any trouble, and second, I want a share of the profits," Sean stated firmly.
"Didn't you say you don't care about drug profits?" Gustavo questioned.
"Not liking it and not wanting it are two different things," Sean retorted. "This is my territory, and maintaining it has costs. You only need to give me a cut of the profits. I don't know how much Salamanca gave before, but I'm in charge now."
"Alright, I'll convey your terms to Eladio," Gustavo agreed.
"You'd better handle it directly with Eladio. This is America, not Mexico. I'm a cautious person," Sean added.
Gustavo smiled knowingly. "You, cautious?"
But he understood Sean's warning.
Under the shadow of the Statue of Liberty, a drug dealer and a smuggler struck a simple but significant deal.