Dishonest Honesty

"Life is full of opportunities and some should be taken immediately."

VPS sat at a deserted corner, the bar nearly empty. A waitress approached him.

"Sir, it's almost midnight. We're closing soon. I'll have to ask you to leave."

Without a word, VPS pulled out a note and slammed it onto the table. "Bring me another glass. Keep it cold."

The waitress hesitated, then sighed. "Will you leave after that?"

VPS smiled. "Maybe."

She turned and walked toward the bartender. "One last glass of whiskey for him. If he leaves, fine. If not, we'll have no choice but to close with him still inside."

The bartender hushed his voice. "Careful. That's VPS."

"I don't get paid to tolerate nonsense," she muttered.

She picked up the glass and placed it firmly on the table. VPS smiled.

"What's your name?"

"Why?" she asked, unimpressed.

He swirled the whiskey in his glass. "You remind me of someone."

"Let me guess—your girlfriend?" she sneered.

VPS chuckled. "Girlfriend? Oh, no. We don't have that kind of relationship. At least, not from my side. It's more of a boss and employee dynamic."

"Finish your drink and leave," she said, turning away.

Before she could walk off, VPS grabbed her wrist. "Do you know who I am?"

She yanked her hand back. "From your behavior? A disrespectful, deranged man."

VPS's expression darkened. In a sudden movement, he slammed her onto the table.

"Every woman thinks she can just push me aside when it suits her. Like I'm a toy—useful for a while, then locked away in some cupboard the moment they're done."

The waitress stared at him, eyes sharp with defiance. "What the hell are you talking about?"

VPS exhaled sharply, then pushed her away. Without another word, he stormed out, slamming the door so hard that the glass shattered.

Outside, he ignited the engine and sped off, disappearing into the thick fog.

The anger Shabana had unleashed on him and the scorn he had endured from Nafisa cut deep. He tried to mask his pain—bury it beneath indifference—but when the waitress met him with the same apathy, something inside him snapped. His fury boiled over, and she became the unfortunate target of his defiance.

Now, speeding through the fog, VPS pulled out a flask and downed its contents in one go. The alcohol clouded his mind, blurring the road ahead. His grip on the wheel weakened, his control slipping with every second.

With unsteady hands, he fumbled for his phone and dialed Giovanni. Switched off. He tried Sonny. Unreachable. Desperation crept in as he called Mr. Coppola, but the result was the same.

Frustration flared. With a furious growl, he hurled the phone out of the window—only to regret it the moment it vanished into the night.

A sudden burst of headlights blinded him. Instinct took over, and he wrenched the wheel to the side. The car spiraled out of control, rolling violently before crashing through the barricade.

Then came the plunge.

The icy water swallowed him whole. VPS knew how to swim, but the alcohol and freezing cold sapped his strength. His limbs felt heavy, his movements sluggish. Darkness wrapped around him as he began to sink.

A strange stillness settled over him, broken only by the distant sound of bodies hitting the water.

Someone was coming.

VPS opened his eyes, blinking several times as a sharp headache pulsed through his skull. His arm was bleeding, and his back and legs bore minor injuries. Such was the state of the world's most powerful crime lord.

His gaze settled on an old woman grinding herbs in a mortar and pestle. She must have sensed his movement because she turned toward him with a relieved smile.

"Oh, thank the Lord! You're awake," she said warmly. "I was so worried last night. Such a fine, handsome boy you are, yet you walk such a dark path. If you had died, what answer would I have given your mother? The woman who carried you in her womb for nine months, endured the pain of labor, and devoted her life to raising you."

VPS sighed. "She's no longer alive. In fact, I have no family left."

The woman shook her head gently. "It doesn't matter where she is. A mother always watches over her child." She extended her hand. "Promise me you won't walk this path again."

VPS studied her for a moment before smiling faintly. He reached out, clasping her hand. "I promise."

The old woman beamed. "Good. Now, drink this. It may not be as intoxicating as alcohol, but it will do your body far more good."

VPS took the earthen cup and downed the decoction in one gulp. His face contorted at the sour taste, but he swallowed without complaint.

The woman sat beside him. "You were restless all night, murmuring a name—Nafisa. Who is she? Your wife?"

"No," VPS replied flatly.

"Then who is she?"

"It doesn't matter. She wants to be free of me, and I'm more than happy to grant her that wish." He pushed himself up and stepped outside, the woman moving beside him to steady his steps.

"Why did you save me?" VPS asked, his tone unreadable.

"You were drowning. It was only right to help," she said with a kind smile.

"Do you know who I am?"

"It doesn't matter. I saw a man in need, and I helped him." She patted his back and walked away.

VPS spotted a wooden bench nearby and sat down. A few minutes later, a man about his age approached and took a seat beside him. He extended a hand.

"Hello, I'm Darren. My mother treated your wounds. You must have met her."

"Yes, we spoke. She's a noble woman."

"That she is," Darren agreed, then sighed. "But she's also too selfless for her own good. We don't have much—just enough to survive each day through hard work. I don't mean to sound ungrateful, but your treatment cost us dearly. I'm not asking for charity, but if you could spare something, it would help us a lot."

VPS smiled. "I have no money on me. Do you know who I am?"

Darren studied his face, trying to recall where he might have seen him before. He finally shrugged. "No. But judging by your car, you must be wealthy."

"Then keep it," VPS said. "Sell it, use it—your choice. Consider it payment for saving my life."

Darren frowned. "That car is useless to me. I don't know how to drive, and trying to sell something that expensive would only bring trouble. Cash would be far more helpful."

VPS chuckled. "Do you have a phone?"

"Yeah, why?"

"To call my manager." VPS took Darren's phone, but as he scrolled through the screen, he realized he couldn't recall any of his important contacts. He handed it back with a sigh.

"Do you trust me, Darren?"

Darren hesitated. "Why?"

"I need to be somewhere in three hours. You'll get your money—and maybe more."

Darren narrowed his eyes. "And why should I trust you?"

VPS smiled. "Because your mother saved my life. I won't let anything happen to you."

Darren gave him a wary look. "Will there be danger?"

VPS's smile deepened. "Not on my watch."

Darren studied him for a moment longer before nodding.

Vikram and Darren drove toward Vikram's destination. After a moment of silence, Vikram asked, "What work do you do?"

"I'm a blacksmith. I make things," Darren replied.

"What kind of things?"

"The usual—sickles, knives, swords, and other weapons."

Vikram nodded. "Would you make something for me?"

"What do you need?"

"Not right now," Vikram said. "But if you're interested in making good money, why not come with me to America? You can bring your mother too."

Darren smiled faintly. "Mother would never leave this place. She believes she must die here to attain salvation. I would've accepted your offer, but she's old and frail—someone needs to stay with her."

"Don't you have a wife?"

Darren chuckled. "A wife? No. I never found the time—or the courage—to take one. We're poor, sir. We barely have enough to feed ourselves. Why drag another soul into this misery?"

Vikram studied him for a moment. "You seem quite wise for a blacksmith. How educated are you?"

"Educated enough to know that you're looking for something… or someone."

Vikram smiled. "You're too wise to waste your life in poverty. Your mother is kind, and you are sharp. You both deserve better. Come with me and see what your wisdom and my power can accomplish together."

"From a blacksmith?"

"Professions don't define talent. You may be a fine blacksmith, but I see a much greater flair in you."

Darren narrowed his eyes. "Who are you, exactly?"

Vikram's lips curled into a knowing smile. "Think of me as a genie, here to grant your wishes."

Darren laughed at the thought.

Vikram leaned back in the passenger seat, his fingers tapping against the door. "So, tell me what you think?" he asked impatiently.

Darren kept his hands steady on the wheel, eyes fixed on the road ahead. "I need time to think. You're offering more than I've ever dared to dream."

Vikram scoffed. "There's nothing to think about, Darren. You told me yourself—your mother is sick, and you barely make enough to survive. Don't you want her to get proper care? To spend the rest of her days in comfort instead of struggling?"

Darren sighed, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. "She's content with what we have. I don't think she'll agree to this."

Vikram let out a sharp breath. "I've made my offer. The rest is up to you. I only wanted to give you and your mother a better life. But if you'd rather hold onto a life of struggle, I won't push any further."

Darren glanced at him, his jaw tightening. "What do you expect me to do? Trust a man I barely know and follow him blindly to some foreign land?"

Vikram remained silent but smiled lightly.

Vikram and Darren stopped near the spot Vikram had indicated. Darren looked around, a mix of surprise and unease settling in his chest. There was nothing here—just an old, abandoned warehouse with a broken roof and algae-covered walls.

"Are you sure this is the place?" Darren asked, his voice uncertain.

"Yes. This is it," Vikram replied. "Come with me. Maybe seeing him will change your mind."

"Who?"

"Just come outside."

They stepped inside the dimly lit warehouse. In the faint glow of a flickering bulb, a man sat on a wooden chair. As soon as he saw them, he stood up and walked toward them.

Vikram embraced him. "How are you, Joseph?"

Joseph glanced at Darren. "Looks like you've made friends."

"Him?" Vikram scoffed lightly. "He's just a helper. A good one, to be honest. He and his mother took care of me after my accident."

Joseph reached into his pocket, pulled out some cash, and placed it in Darren's hand. Darren hesitated and looked at Vikram, who gave him a small nod, signaling him to keep it.

Joseph turned back to his chair and pulled a briefcase from underneath it. Without a word, he tossed it toward Vikram, who caught it effortlessly. He unlatched the case and turned it toward Darren.

"Look. Fifty million in cash. Enough to give you and your mother a comfortable life. But tell me, are you sure it will be enough?"

Darren shut the briefcase without hesitation. "Greed is a dangerous thing. My mother taught me that."

Vikram smirked. "Fine. Keep it anyway." He handed the briefcase to Darren and walked toward Joseph.

Joseph smiled. "Darren, you should go now. It's getting late, and driving in this weather at night can be risky."

Darren nodded and turned toward the exit. Just as he took a step forward, a deafening gunshot rang out through the warehouse. His body froze. Then, a sharp pain bloomed in his chest. He looked down, watching in stunned silence as blood spread across his shirt. His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the cold, damp floor.

Joseph moved toward the briefcase, but Vikram stopped him. "Send it to his mother."

Joseph gave a slight nod and stepped away.

Without another word, Vikram and Joseph walked toward the back of the warehouse, where a helicopter was waiting. They climbed aboard, and moments later, they were soaring into the night, heading toward Chicago...