Chapter 47 — A Daughter Is Still a Daughter… Even If Only in Words
"What?"
"What?"
Frank and Karina stared at William in total confusion.
William didn't bother explaining.
"Don't ask why. Ask yourselves one thing—do you want the money or not?"
He fanned out the same wad of cash again, crisp Franklin after crisp Franklin.
Deal.
Frank agreed so fast it was almost comical.
Frank didn't care about the reason.
If money was involved, nothing was off the table.
If William paid him enough to drag Fiona to Guatemala to sell her kidneys, Frank wouldn't even blink.
Karina, on the other hand, was speechless.
"I've been doing this job for years… and I've never met a client with a request like this."
She looked at William like rich Americans had invented a new tier of kink.
William didn't flinch.
"I don't care whether it's your first time or your fiftieth. I only want one answer—can you do it or not?"
Again, the bills flashed.
Five hundred dollars.
Enough for Karina to take half a month off from surviving.
"…Deal."
Fast words, defeated dignity.
William smiled.
Before letting them go inside, he first removed Frank's erectile dysfunction using Disease Transfer—otherwise Frank would have ruined the setup.
Then the two of them—Frank and Karina—shuffled into the dingy room.
William stayed outside to listen.
Inside the apartment, the noises that followed were… best not fully described.
William rubbed his temples, sighed, and contacted the system mentally:
"System, Frank now understands exactly what a father's responsibility is. Does that count? Can I get my reward now?"
A few seconds of silent judgment.
Then—
[......]
[Ding! Congratulations to the host for completing the task: Make Frank understand a father's true responsibility.]
[Reward: Palm-oil-cured leather whip]
Nice.
Honestly, William was only testing the system logic with this approach.
And it worked.
This system might be a little stupid.
But that stupidity was very profitable.
He summoned the reward from the storage space.
A long leather whip, pitch black, glossy as if still soaked in oil.
Nothing flashy—until you held it and felt the weight of obedience in it.
"Hmm… I'll test it on Fiona when the chance comes."
Satisfied, William stored the whip again.
With the reward secured, he no longer cared what Frank and Karina were doing inside.
He had no reason to stay in this dark little basement any longer.
He turned around and walked back up the stairs, leaving the filth and echoes behind him.
William walked down the neon-soaked street.
Pink-blue signs, cheap perfume, and the sour scent of desperation mixed with lust —
this was South Side's "Hand-Job Avenue."
Since he was already here, he might as well handle two problems at once:
1. He needed a Russian connection for his future plans.
2. His storage space was overflowing with military-grade weapons.
Terry was fast to pay, sure —
but too greedy and unreliable.
It was time for William to build his own network.
Black gangs? Too chaotic.
Latinos? Too sticky-fingered.
Italians? Won't let outsiders in.
Russians?
A very promising direction.
With that thought, William stepped into one of the massage parlors.
He wasn't sure which shop Svetlana worked in, so he could only search one by one.
"Welcome, sir. Do you have a regular girl in mind?"
The manager — a flamboyant, effeminate man with a tiny buzz-cut — minced forward with a smile.
"I'm looking for Svetlana Yevgenivna."
"At least three Svetlanas work here, sir."
The manager fluttered his lashes at William.
William instinctively took a step back.
"I said Svetlana Yevgenivna."
Recognition flashed across the manager's face.
"Ohhh. That one. Sir, right this way."
He led William to a "private room" — nothing more than two wooden boards and a curtain.
"I'll call Svetlana immediately."
A few moments later, Svetlana walked in — dressed in clothes so tacky they were almost radioactive neon.
The instant she saw William, her brows furrowed.
She didn't remember this client.
Not that it mattered.
For $17 a session, the man's identity was irrelevant.
Without a word, Svetlana reached straight for William's belt.
He caught her wrist.
She froze.
"…?"
"I'm not here for a service."
She scoffed.
"What then? You came here to actually drink coffee?"
Her tone dripped with contempt.
That was Svetlana — even rock bottom couldn't grind the arrogance out of her bones.
William ignored the mockery and studied her carefully.
Her face wasn't the most beautiful.
Her body wasn't the most impressive.
But in her eyes was something Fiona and Karen lacked —
the ferocious determination of someone who would burn the world to escape poverty.
"Work for me."
Svetlana blinked, then burst into laughter.
"Oh? You opening your own 'coffee shop'?
You do realize Sasha will send people to smash your windows tomorrow, right?
And you're trying to poach one of her girls on her own turf?
You must not value your life."
Since he wasn't a customer, she made herself comfortable on the couch, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and lit one.
William still didn't bite.
"I'm not trying to hire you to jerk off strangers.
I have a shipment of military-grade weapons I don't feel like selling piece by piece.
I want an agent.
Someone who knows the Russian scene here.
Interested?"
He said the entire sentence in flawless Russian.
The lighter clicked still mid-air.
Svetlana froze.
"…You're Russian?"
She answered her own question with a slow shake of her head.
Slavs can always identify their own, and William definitely wasn't one.
"People don't just wake up one day and discover they're arms dealers.
So why me? Why this?"
Her voice was calm — calculating.
Svetlana wasn't stupid like many around here.
She didn't leap blindly at hope.
She knew that sudden opportunity usually came with a knife.
But she would be lying if she said she wasn't tempted.
William leaned in slightly, voice cool and steady:
"Svetlana. If you had one chance — one moment — to seize everything you ever wanted…
Would you take it?
Or let it slip away?"
Svetlana stared at him.
"…Is that an Eminem lyric?"