As evening approached, with the sky darkening but not fully night, in a deserted building on the edge of Brooklyn, New York, Poyet sat on a small wooden crate, his eyes cold and fierce as he stared out at the night sky.
Opposite him was a broken sofa and two wooden chairs, one of which was occupied by five other black men, darker than Poyet himself.
They were all dressed in black clothing, blending seamlessly with the night if they stayed silent.
One of the bald black men spoke up, "Boss Poyet, why are we hiding out in this godforsaken place? It's so boring here, there's nothing. When can we go back?"
Poyet sneered, "Damn it, stop complaining. I'm hiding you all here to save you. Someone's after us."
The bald man, confused, shook his head. "Who? Who's after us? I'll go take care of him."
Poyet looked at him sarcastically. "Shut up, it's a big shot."
At this moment, Poyet regretted being so greedy, repeatedly asking that person for money. Now he had angered them!
He also felt anger toward his own situation. Damn it, he had gotten into this mess trying to help these guys. So what if he asked for some money?
Nearby, another underling with a greasy hairstyle, Jerry, pulled out a box of alcohol from under the sofa, opened it with a flourish, and took out a black pistol. He waved it around.
"Fuck! With this, who the hell would dare mess with us?"
"Shit, put the gun down, you trying to shoot one of us?" Poyet kicked Jerry off the chair, grabbed the gun, and tucked it into his waistband.
"Boss Poyet, we can't just keep hiding like this. What are we supposed to do?" Another black man asked.
Poyet's face turned grim. "We'll stay hidden for three more days. After that, I'll talk to this big shot. If he doesn't back off..." He patted the gun at his waist, "Then we'll have no choice but to fight him."
"Bob, haven't we found those guys yet?" Harvey asked, frowning, his tone irritable.
"They've gone underground. These guys are like rats in the sewers, they've got their own channels. It's hard to track them down."
Bob looked just as frustrated.
"What's Alfred saying? Don't the Italian mob have a beef with these black gangs?" Harvey asked again.
"Alfred's looking into it. It's not going to be quick."
"Tell him to hurry up. Once we find them, kill them. I don't want to hear from these rats asking for money again."
"Is it really necessary to go that far?" Bob frowned.
"Fuck, of course it is. These bastards have my leverage. Damn it, what was I thinking, getting involved with them personally!" Harvey slammed his fist against the sofa.
"I'd like to know that too!" Bob muttered.
Night deepened.
Inside the abandoned building, Poyet and his men had fallen asleep. They had never considered taking shifts to watch or setting up traps. They were nothing more than low-level gangsters.
Honestly, even Poyet couldn't figure out how that big shot had found him. And why had they decided to personally confront him? Was it because of his damn charm?!
His brain was already messed up from all the drugs, so he couldn't come up with an answer.
The answer, however, lay elsewhere.
The door was silently pushed open from the outside.
A group of figures, wearing night vision goggles, entered one by one. They moved swiftly, systematically executing each person.
The sound of suppressed gunshots was almost inaudible as the flame at the muzzle was concealed. In the dark of the night, no one knew a massacre was happening inside the abandoned building.
"John, it's done!"
"Have you checked them all?"
"Yes, everyone's here. No survivors."
"Good. Which one's Poyet?"
"The one lying on the mattress in the corner."
John walked over and looked at the body.
He had been shot five times in the torso, mimicking the style of a mafia killing.
John crouched down, gloved hands opening Poyet's fist. He took some of the blood, writing "H-a-r-v" on the floor by the wall.
They didn't write Harvey's full name. That would have been too obvious.
"Leave the gun, wait, no, don't leave it. Let's go!"
The group left silently.
The next afternoon, the bodies were discovered, and the building was sealed off by the local police.
A middle-aged man in a suit was pacing slowly at the crime scene, occasionally stopping to inspect.
At that moment, an officer came up to report. "Sir, we found some blood letters. It seems like a person's name, but it's incomplete."
"Check the victim's contacts. See if we can find a similar name," the man ordered.
Soon, another officer came over, "Sir, from the bullet casings we found, the killer used a 9x19mm Parabellum round. This kind of ammo is typically used with the Beretta pistol."
"Beretta 92?" The man stroked his chin. "This gun is favored by the Italian mob, right?"
"Sir, the phone also had a name that matched the blood letters' first four characters exactly."
"Give me the phone."
The man took the phone and saw the contact list. His eyes widened.
"Harvey Weinstein?" He muttered, surprised.
"How could it be him?"
At that moment, another officer came up to report. A small black man.
"Sir, I've asked around. These dead men were all part of the Poyet gang. The boss is the one lying in the corner—Poyet DeLaHeir. I heard the Italian mob's been after them lately."
The 9x19mm Parabellum ammo. The Beretta 92. The Italian mob. "H-a-r-v"—Harvey Weinstein.
The clues suddenly came together, but there was still one missing piece—the motive.
"Check if Harvey Weinstein has had any recent dealings with the Italian mob. Also, find Alfred. He's the boss of the Italians. As for Harvey... I'll handle him myself."
"Yes, sir!"
Buzzing...
Harvey's phone vibrated.
When he saw the caller ID, his eyes turned to a mix of confusion and rage.
"Poyet? This bastard has the guts to call me?" Harvey's suspicion grew, and he hesitated before answering. A strange, subtle force seemed to stir inside him, influencing his decision.
He picked up the phone and answered, yelling.
"Goddamn Poyet, you son of a bitch! You think you can extort me? I'll make you regret this, I swear!"
"Mr. Weinstein, this is the NYPD. We have a few questions for you."
The voice on the other end sent a chill down Harvey's spine.