Chapter 49: Murder or Accident?

Chapter 49: Murder or Accident?

Nighttime, in the Bronx, inside the most luxurious nightclub on the Carlson family's turf.

Deafening music, men and women twisting their bodies wildly, provocative and enticing performances on stage, and junkies in the corners high on various illicit substances they had paid for.

George sat at the bar, ordering a drink. He sipped it absentmindedly while scanning the surroundings for his target.

According to the intel Leon provided, this nightclub, controlled by the Carlson family, was currently managed by the family's youngest son, Little Carlson. He was known to visit the club almost every night.

Little Carlson's greatest obsession was women—especially young, energetic women, preferably those who had yet to step into society or had only just begun their adult lives.

With his status, a little money was enough to attract a large number of young, vibrant college girls willing to accompany him. But what he truly enjoyed was the feeling of conquest.

Every night, he came to his own nightclub to search for prey.

Once he set his sights on a target, his subordinates would forcibly bring her to his private VIP room. If he was particularly satisfied, he would personally handle things himself.

His most outrageous act had been right in the middle of the nightclub dance floor, in front of everyone, where he had started his "performance" without a care in the world.

Afterward, as the heir to the Carlson family, he simply paid off and threatened the girls who came from ordinary families with no background. Out of fear for their own and their families' safety, they could do nothing but endure the humiliation in silence.

Those who dared to resist? At worst, they would be sent straight to the bottom of the ocean.

Even girls from somewhat influential backgrounds wouldn't dare to openly clash with the Carlson family.

As for those truly powerful individuals whom even the Carlson family wouldn't dare provoke, they knew exactly what kind of place this nightclub was and would never set foot in it.

The people who frequented this club were either seasoned players coming to indulge or naive young ones unaware of its true nature.

The latter were often too innocent, too foolish. Some came out of curiosity; others dreamt of finding love in a nightclub—of meeting a tall, handsome, wealthy man and having a magical night.

But the cruel reality would teach them a harsh lesson: staying away from danger was the best way to protect themselves.

"He's here!"

Seeing a muscular, bald man enter the nightclub, leading a group of lackeys and arrogantly taking a seat in the exclusive luxury booth, George slowly stood up.

Killing Little Carlson was easy—he could control a blade and slit his throat in an instant.

But that wasn't what he wanted.

An assassination like that would cause chaos. If things went wrong, the high-ranking members of the Carlson family would go into hiding, making things much more troublesome.

Moreover, if the leaders of all thirteen families were assassinated in quick succession, it would stir up a massive uproar.

If possible, it was best not to be so direct. The ideal scenario was for these high-ranking figures to die in a way that seemed reasonable—accidents that appeared natural.

That was the outcome he wanted.

He didn't want people linking these deaths to supernatural abilities.

Even with Leon's rescue last time, the outside world believed that Leon had turned the tables and killed Cheber himself on the rooftop.

No one knew that a mysterious figure had helped him.

"Looks like I got lucky tonight—found a real gem."

Little Carlson had just sat down when he spotted his perfect prey on the dance floor.

She had a pretty face, a tall figure, but most importantly, her aura screamed "newcomer." She danced stiffly, clearly uncomfortable—most likely a student, and probably her first time in a place like this.

"Boss, she looks like she's about to leave. Should we just go over and grab her for you?"

One of his lackeys, quick to read the situation, immediately asked.

But Little Carlson waved his hand and put down his drink. "This time, I want to do it myself. She reminds me of that last girl... Shame she ended up killing herself. Otherwise, I could've had a few more rounds with her."

"So the boss plans to handle it right here on the dance floor..."

Hearing this, the lackeys got excited. After all, they were cut from the same cloth as their leader.

Little Carlson stood up and strode toward the dance floor, intercepting the girl before she could leave.

At first, he teased her with words, but soon his hands started roaming.

The girl tried to resist, but she was no match for the tall, muscular Little Carlson. His threats only made her more terrified.

As for the friends she had come with? They had already been surrounded and immobilized by Little Carlson's men.

Just as Little Carlson was about to have his way, George, who had been blending into the crowd, silently moved to the closest position.

"Tarantella!"

A thin blue light flashed across the colorful dance floor, hitting Little Carlson unnoticed.

The moment the light struck him, his hands froze in place. Then, his legs began to twitch uncontrollably—like he was performing an incredibly difficult quickstep dance.

His lackeys, seeing their boss suddenly break into a dance at such a moment, assumed he was pulling some new stunt. They immediately cheered, hyping him up.

The girl, whose clothes had already been partially torn, stood frozen in shock. She had no idea why the terrifying man in front of her had suddenly started dancing.

But the most confused of all was Little Carlson himself—he had no idea why his body had started moving on its own.

"Leg-lock stumble!"

Immediately following the dancing curse, a leg-lock curse took effect.

Little Carlson, as if tripping mid-dance, lost his balance and fell backward.

If it had been just a simple fall, it wouldn't have been a big deal.

But at that exact moment, a stud from the leather jacket of a nearby punk popped loose and rolled onto the dance floor—right where Little Carlson was falling.

"Squelch!"

The stud landed upright, piercing straight into the back of Little Carlson's head.

Blood gushed out.

Dead on the spot.

"Someone's dead! Someone's dead!"

Screams erupted across the dance floor as the crowd scattered in panic.

Amidst the chaos, George quietly slipped out of the nightclub.

That "accidental" death? Of course, it wasn't an accident—it was fully under his control.

Two hours later, Old Carlson stood in the nightclub's dance hall, grief-stricken as he listened to his subordinates' report.

"After reviewing the surveillance footage and conducting an investigation, we can confirm that this was indeed an accident—not a deliberate murder."

Old Carlson let out a heavy sigh. "I warned him time and time again to show restraint, but he wouldn't listen. He brought this upon himself. Take the men who were supposed to protect him and dump them into the sea—feed them to the fish."

Confirming that his son hadn't been murdered but had instead died in an accident, Old Carlson leaned on his cane and walked out of the nightclub.

His son's death pained him, but what troubled him even more was the impact it would have on the family's power structure.

His son had been the heir, and the family's senior members had been willing to support him. Recently, they had even seized some of the Chappelle family's territory—things had been progressing in the right direction.

But now, with his only heir dead, the high-ranking members of the family would inevitably start scheming. If he failed to handle the situation properly, chaos could erupt within the organization.

If everyone started vying for his position, the internal strife would be ten times worse than what the Chappelle family had gone through. One misstep, and he could lose everything.

"I'm still in good health. I can keep them in check… But I need to decide on a new successor soon."

(End of Chapter)