chapter 5

Charlie understood that his opponent was not intimidated by the gun he held but by the immense terror evoked by the name of the Italian Mafia.

"Leave!" he commanded coldly. "I think you know what to say. If anyone asks, I'll tell them it was you who mentioned Paul Rica."

Hearing that name, the street girl's legs nearly gave out. Gathering her strength, she exited the room, trembling. Paul Rica, Capone's scar-faced confidant and a key figure in Chicago's Italian Mafia, was a man whose reputation bred nightmares.

She'd heard horrifying tales about him—how he would cut out a victim's heart, squeeze the blood into a glass of milk, and drink it, earning the nickname "the devil incarnate."

As the girl staggered away, Charlie muttered, "William Dover, William Dover…" pacing the room and repeating the name.

"Charlie, I'm feeling dizzy…" Wang Dagou, unable to recall his Chinese name, had grown accustomed to calling him "Charlie."

"Take your weapon. We're leaving now," Charlie instructed, unwilling to rely on the earlier threats. A safer course was to escape while they could.

Even if the street girl turned them in, it would take time to track them down in such a sprawling city.

"Alright," Wang Dagou replied, instinctively following Charlie's lead. It was ironic, given their reversed roles from just a day ago.

Before sunset, the two had hopped on a cable car headed for Lupu, a bustling downtown district. When Wang Dagou questioned Charlie's sudden grasp of English, he shrugged it off, claiming he'd secretly taught himself.

In truth, he couldn't explain how he knew the language—it seemed like an innate skill he'd possessed upon entering this strange world.

As the tram neared City Hall, both men leapt off and jogged toward a nearby alley.

"See that hotel?" Charlie said, pointing. "Wait for me inside. If I'm not back in two hours, head to the 22nd block and find a place to hide."

With calm resolve, he handed his pistol to Wang Dagou, who, without hesitation, turned toward the hotel. His broad back seemed like a mountain shielding Charlie from harm.

Grinning nervously, Charlie turned toward City Hall. "Well, here goes nothing," he muttered, unsure where his newfound courage came from.

Walking up to the guard, Charlie confidently stated, "I need to see Mayor Dover. It's urgent."

"This isn't your place. Get lost!" the guard barked, one hand on his pistol holster while the other pushed him back.

"Listen, I'm not looking for trouble," Charlie replied smoothly. "But imagine the headlines if a foreigner were to be mistreated here. Wouldn't that bring some unwanted attention?"

The guard hesitated. While anti-discrimination laws were still largely symbolic, any public incident could attract media scrutiny. He sighed, then said, "Wait here," before making a call.

Charlie overheard the guard refer to him as a "yellow pig," which only soured his opinion of Mayor William Dover, a man previously celebrated as a figure of integrity during Capone's reign.

Finally, the guard snarled, "Sign in here. You've got three minutes with the mayor."

Smiling, Charlie scrawled "Charlie Lee" into the visitor log and ascended to the second floor. After checking in with the mayor's secretary, he entered William Dover's office.

"Welcome. Have a seat," Dover said, gesturing to a chair. He seemed distracted, scribbling in a ledger as Charlie sat down.

"Mayor Dover," Charlie began confidently, "you'll want to hear what I have to say."

Dover raised an eyebrow at his polished London accent. "Charlie Lee, is it?" he asked, curious about the rare sight of a Chinese man in a city with so few Asian residents.

"Call me Charlie, Lee—whatever you like," Charlie replied nonchalantly. "It won't change the partnership we're about to form."

Dover smirked, unimpressed. "A partnership? Let's hear it. You have one minute."

"Scarface. Capone," Charlie declared.

Dover's expression darkened instantly. "Who do you work for?" he growled, venom lacing his voice.

"No one," Charlie said firmly. "I represent myself."

Dover scoffed. "Ambition without substance is delusion. Your time here is up."

Charlie didn't flinch. He grabbed the cast-iron armrest of his chair and twisted it until it crumpled in his grip. Letting go, he revealed clear imprints of his fingers on the metal.

Dover's jaw dropped. "What…what is this?"

"I offer the strength to help you reclaim Chicago. Are you interested?" Charlie said, leaning forward.

Dover hesitated, torn between skepticism and temptation. He knew the city's faith in him had dwindled, but the idea of defeating Capone was intoxicating.

"You can destroy the Capone Group," Charlie continued. "With the right strategy, you'll be hailed as Chicago's hero."

Dover's doubts lingered, but Charlie painted a vivid picture of public adoration and a lasting legacy.

Though hesitant, Dover finally murmured, "I need time to consider."