I opened the passenger door and slid into the leather interior. The heavy scent of expensive tobacco and Abigail’s perfu filled the sealed space.
She pulled smoothly away from the curb, the Escalade silent and fast.
She looked at from the rear mirror, her lips curled into a smirk. "You are glowing, did those girls give you solid fucks, or did you just successfully extract maximum labor value from them?"
"How do you know that?" I said, my voice sharp with alarm.
"You think you can run your little porn interviews in a room with a paper-thin door and I wouldn’t know?" she mocked.
"Did Sasha tell you that?" I pressed.
She laughed, a short, smoke-laced sound. "You think everything is about that bitch, don’t you? No, she didn’t tell shit. She stopped telling anything ever since you told her that I’m Red Fucking Eye. I can make her tell anything using other advanced ways anyway, but I wouldn’t like ruining her beautiful unmarked body, so I do my own research now."
"Where are you taking ?" I said, noticing the increasingly unfamiliar route.
"You love asking that question, don’t you?" she said, finally letting her foot settle heavily on the accelerator.
I had noticed that we weren’t heading to the temporary warehouse this ti. We were taking a different route, one that I instinctively knew led into the heart of the city’s power structure.
"Big Mom wants to see you," she smiled, the words delivered like a punch.
Big Mom. The ntion of her always made my heart pound like it was right now. She didn’t fuck around. The mory of her shooting Ginger Beard was still fresh in my mind, a brutal reminder of the consequences of failure.
"She gave a full month. It’s barely been two weeks," I said, trying to steady my pulse.
"Yes, she did, but she wants to see results, Druski," Abigail said, her tone suddenly serious. "She saw the first five scenes you uploaded, she wants to know if they bear any results. Two weeks is enough to show progress, right?"
I didn’t say anything. I quickly ran the numbers in my head. I now had $65,000 from my paying subscribers, added to the $18,600 in the system’s digital wallet. That totaled $83,600. I wasn’t even close to reaching the halfway mark of the $400,000 needed. There were only two weeks left before my deadline.
Abigail drove us deep into the suburbs. I could see mansions, beautiful houses that obviously cost millions. I looked at my phone’s GPS. We were in Malba, Queens—a neighborhood reserved for the truly wealthy. We arrived at a towering Victorian-style mansion, the wrought-iron gates swinging open silently as we approached.
The car stopped beneath a massive, columned portico. Abigail killed the engine and looked at , her face serious.
"Listen, Druski. You are in Big Mom’s private ho. She is not here to critique your cinematic style. She’s here to determine if you are a liability or a profitable asset. If you waste her ti, she will kill you, and I will personally execute you. Your life expectancy just dropped to five minutes. Get your swagger on, or get ready to break rocks."
I wondered why she was being nice, like she cared about my existence. It must be sothing more transactional. She needs to succeed so she doesn’t have to clean up my ss.
She opened her door and stepped out, expecting to follow imdiately.
The place looked really rich. Fancy cars—a G-Wagon, a Ferrari, and a Cayenne—were arrayed perfectly in the circular driveway, casually displaying wealth in a way that scread permanence.
I followed Abigail. Huge guards in black suits and black shades patrolled the periter. There were dogs too, massive, sleek Dobermans that watched every move we made with unsettling silence.
We went into the house. The guards never bothered to search , a sign that either Abigail’s presence was enough, or that Big Mom already knew exactly what I was carrying.
The interior was magnificent—dark wood paneling, massive Persian rugs, and high ceilings with ornate chandeliers. It wasn’t modern sleek; it was Old Money, designed to impress and intimidate through sheer scale and permanence.
Abigail led through a colossal library, filled with ceiling-high shelves of leather-bound books, then past a billiard room where antique cues rested against a felt table. Finally, we entered a massive, mahogany-paneled study.
"Wait here," Abigail ordered, her voice clipped, then she turned and left, closing the heavy oak door behind her.
I was left alone, my eyes inspecting the beautiful, museum-quality furniture in the room. A maid ca in silently with a tray holding a small pot of dark coffee and a single china cup.
She was polite without saying a word. She handed the tea and I thanked her.
I wondered if the coffee was poisoned or not, then decided that if Big Mom wanted to kill , she would use other, aner ways than poisoning . It would be a spectacle, a warning.
I drank it sitting in silence, my heart pounding like a bitch.
I sat for almost thirty minutes in solitude, the quiet opulence of the study amplifying the stress. I finished the coffee, its warmth doing little to steady my nerves. Then I heard the slow rhythm of soft footsteps approaching.
Big Mom walked in, and the air in the massive room imdiately thickened. She was not dressed for business; she was dressed for absolute, casual domination. She wore a luxurious, open silk morning gown in a deep sapphire color that seed to absorb the light.
Beneath it, her body was a stunning, severe display of confidence. She possessed a perfect hourglass figure, her tight, smooth brown skin emphasized dramatically by a barely-there black lace bra and matching high-cut panties. The skimpy lingerie provided no coverage, instead serving to fra and emphasize the firm, powerful curves of her breasts, hips, and flat abdon.
Every muscle looked toned, suggesting a discipline that was terrifyingly absolute. Her short, trimd hair was tucked neatly under a matching satin bonnet, drawing all attention to her face, which was devoid of makeup and utterly ruthless.
She didn’t sit down imdiately. She stopped by the desk, her gaze fixed on , the silence between us heavy and intimidating."Druski Hart, we et again."
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