Shake Down

The dimly lit lounge smelled of expensive cigars and old money. Ren sat across from three men in tailored suits, their expressions a mix of amusement and thinly veiled irritation. They were syndicate men—businessmen in the loosest sense of the word, their power built on smuggling routes, illegal auctions, and offshore accounts that never saw a tax.

Ren, however, wasn't here to play by their rules. She leaned back, unfazed, her voice cold and deliberate.

"Number Nine wants his cut."

The man in the center, Lucian Graves, took a slow drag from his cigar, exhaling a ribbon of smoke before responding. "That so?" His tone was lazy, almost mocking. "And what if we say no?"

Ren didn't blink. "I'm not asking. I'm telling you."

A tense silence settled over the room. One of Lucian's men shifted, his hand twitching toward his coat—a subtle threat, meant to test her nerve. Ren didn't flinch.

Lucian chuckled, setting his cigar down in a crystal ashtray. "You've got some fire, I'll give you that. But tell me, girl—what exactly does Nine offer that justifies his… tax?"

Ren leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping just enough to make them listen. "Protection. Influence. Stability. Your shipments move because he allows it. Your men walk these streets without looking over their shoulders because he lets them. That arrangement stays—if you pay up."

Lucian's smile faded. He knew the truth of her words. Nine ran this city like a silent architect, pulling strings where needed, cutting them when necessary.

"Fine," Lucian finally said. "Ten percent."

Ren shook her head. "Fifteen."

Lucian's jaw tightened. "That's steep."

"It's fair," she countered. "And if you refuse, I walk out that door, and by morning, every deal you've got in motion starts falling apart. Your contacts dry up. Your buyers get warned off. And you? You'll be waiting for an apology that never comes."

Lucian studied her for a long moment, his fingers drumming against the table. Then, with a sigh, he reached for his drink and took a sip. "You're a real pain in the ass, you know that?"

Ren smirked. "I've been told."

He motioned to one of his men, who pulled out a sleek black case, flipping it open to reveal stacks of neatly wrapped bills. "First installment," Lucian said. "You tell Nine we're square—for now."

Ren took the case without hesitation. "Pleasure doing business."

Ren didn't look back. "If it were anyone else, you'd already be dead."

Ren settled into her chair, placing the phone to her ear. She'd secured the deal—fifteen percent, the highest they'd agreed to—but she knew it was only the beginning of her negotiation. She dialed Number Nine, waiting for the line to connect.

"Nine," she began when the call picked up, her voice even. "We've decided on fifteen percent."

There was a long pause on the other end of the line, then a low hum. "Are they smoking expensive cigars?" Nine asked, his tone casual.

Ren glanced over at the group of men, their cigars resting in fine crystal ashtrays, the smoke curling lazily into the air. "Yes."

"And are they wearing expensive-looking suits?"

Ren's eyes scanned their tailored, immaculate outfits. "Yes."

"Give me a second."

Before she could respond, she heard the unmistakable sound of someone begging, their voice frantic, pleading for mercy. The phone line was filled with the sharp crack of a single gunshot—quick, clean, efficient.

"Okay, put me on speaker," Nine instructed, his voice steady, unfazed by the chaos that had just unfolded.

Ren reached for the speakerphone button, setting the phone down on the table. The men at the table went silent, their eyes widening, unsure of what was happening.

Ren heard Nine's voice again, distant but sharp, laced with cold authority. "Twenty-five percent, and two million upfront."

One of the men, clearly rattled, shot up from his chair. "How dare you?" he shouted, his hand slamming onto the table.

Nine's voice cut through the tension like a blade. "Thirty percent, and three million, plus a detailed record of your financials. I want to know exactly how much you're making. And I want some of those cigars you're smoking, too."

Another gunshot rang out, followed by a deafening silence.

The man who'd shouted staggered back, his face pale. "You're insane."

"Insane?" Nine's voice was like ice, his tone unwavering. "I'm giving you an option here. If you don't deliver, I'm killing your entire family. Everyone."

Ren could hear the fear in their breaths, the sense of finality in the words that followed.

The phone clicked, and Nine's voice faded into the distance. "Get it done, or you will be hearing from me again."

With that, the call ended. Ren stood, picking up the phone and placing it back into her pocket.

She looked at the men at the table, their faces a mix of disbelief and panic.

As she walked out, she could still hear the tense mutterings from the men behind her, but she didn't care. Number Nine's authority spoke for itself.