Chapter 3

The entire office erupted.

Marcus stared at me like I was a brain-dead idiot, then burst into a mocking laugh.

"Elena, you said it, not me. If you want to go beg for a beatdown, I won't stop you."

Chloe tried to look shocked, but a spark of pure greed flashed in her eyes.

"Elena, Jax 'The Dragon' is dangerous. Don't do something reckless," she said, feigning worry. "If you end up in the ICU and can't pay your medical bills, it won't be worth it..."

Oh, I knew exactly what she was thinking. If I actually pulled this off, the "Success Transfer" would kick in after 24 hours, and all the glory would belong to her anyway. It would probably catapult her straight to the executive suite.

I smiled at her hidden excitement, grabbed my purse, and walked out of the office. I hailed a cab straight to "The Darkroom Lounge" on the edge of the city.

On the way, I pulled a box cutter out of my bag and bought a bottle of cheap, high-proof whiskey from a liquor store.

This time, I was going all in.

According to my past life's memories, Jax was an extremely superstitious mob boss. More importantly, he was currently deeply entangled in a massive federal money-laundering investigation and was desperately looking for a fall guy.

This was exactly what I needed.

At the entrance of the lounge, several heavily tattooed bouncers blocked my path.

"The hell do you want, girl? Looking for trouble?"

Expressionless, I popped the cap off the whiskey bottle and chugged a massive gulp. The burning liquid scorched my throat, making my eyes water.

But I didn't stop. I needed to get myself into a state of visible, wild desperation.

"Tell Jax," I screamed, smashing the half-empty bottle onto the pavement, "I have a way to clean his money!"

The bouncers froze. Clearly, they hadn't seen many women this unhinged.

A few minutes later, I was dragged into a smoke-filled VIP lounge.

Sitting in the center was a massive, scarred man with a fierce black dragon tattooed across his neck. Jax.

He squinted at me, casually flipping a switchblade in his hand.

"Clean my money? You?"

Suppresing the urge to vomit, I forced myself to stand tall.

"I’m a sales representative from Shanga Real Estate. We can draft a double-sided laundering agreement. On paper, you're buying luxury properties. In reality, we can inflate the renovation and maintenance costs to make your cash legally clean."

Jax's eyes lit up.

But gangsters are naturally paranoid. He snapped the switchblade open and pointed it at my throat.

"Why should I trust you? How do I know you're not a fed?"

This was the climax.

I took a deep breath, stepped forward, and held out my right hand, palm up.

"If you don't trust me, leave a mark. The old-school way. Once blood is drawn, the pact is sealed."

Jax stared at me, then erupted into a booming laugh.

"Damn! You've got guts! I love crazy women!"

He grabbed my hand. The cold blade sliced ruthlessly into my palm.

Blinding pain shot up my arm. But I bit my lip and didn't make a sound.

Blood dripped onto the glass table. Jax used the tip of his blade to carve a crude, tiny "Dragon" symbol directly into my flesh.

It was his personal mark. The brand he put on all his scapegoats.

"Where’s the contract? Give it to me!"