The Tyrant Billionaire

Chapter 12: Chapter 12 Conspiracy

The nightclub pulsed with energy, music thumping and lights flickering. This was no place for a gunfight; Hardy knew better than to draw his weapon in a public setting. A scuffle could be brushed off, a stabbing might be managed, but gunshots? That would invite a whole world of trouble.

"Bring it on!" Hardy taunted, his voice steady, eyes locked on Big Ivan.

Big Ivan's friends lay scattered around, either groaning in pain or knocked out cold. He eyed Hardy warily. The man in front of him wasn't just some street thug. But Big Ivan had been in more street brawls than he could count, his childhood littered with fights and scraps. His blood boiled; he wasn't going to back down now.

With a roar, Big Ivan lunged, throwing a massive punch. Hardy sidestepped, countering with a swift blow to Ivan's ribs. The impact made Ivan stagger, his face contorted in pain.

The crowd around them erupted in cheers, a few drunken patrons egging them on, excited by the violence.

The two fighters went at it, trading blows. Hardy took a hit to the jaw, feeling the sting as his skin split. But he kept his focus. Big Ivan was no amateur; he knew how to take a punch and dish one out. He seemed almost eager to absorb Hardy's blows, just to land a few of his own.

Hardy saw his chance. "Now!" he thought, ducking under Ivan's wild swing and landing two solid punches to Ivan's chin. The big man's head snapped back, and he staggered, momentarily disoriented.

But Ivan wasn't done. With a guttural yell, he charged at Hardy, arms wide, aiming to bear hug him into submission. Hardy, anticipating the move, shifted his weight and used a wrestling technique to flip Ivan over his shoulder.

"Crash!"

Ivan's hefty frame collided with the bar, knocking bottles and glasses flying.

Hardy decided it was time to end this. He stepped over to a nearby table, grabbing a steak knife. Before Ivan could fully recover, Hardy pinned his arm to the wall and drove the knife through his hand.

A scream tore from Ivan's throat, echoing through the room.

The spectators gasped, some in shock, others in awe.

Hardy wasn't finished. He picked up a fork from the same table and, without hesitation, pinned Ivan's other hand to the wall.

Ivan's face twisted in pain, his eyes burning with a mixture of fear and rage. Even now, Hardy could see the fire in his eyes—a clear message that if he got free, Hardy would be his first target.

Hardy stood, scanning the room. The crowd watched in a mix of admiration and fear. "Sean, round up these troublemakers and take them out back," Hardy instructed, giving Sean a quick nod.

Sean and a few of the bouncers moved swiftly, binding the hands and feet of Ivan's crew and hauling them toward the club's rear exit.

"Just a little excitement, folks!" Hardy called out to the onlookers. "Nothing to stop the fun. Let's keep the music going!"

The band, understanding the cue, picked up their instruments, launching into an upbeat jazz number. The atmosphere quickly shifted back to revelry, the fight already fading into just another crazy story for the patrons to tell.

Hardy made his way to the restroom, splashing cold water on his face. His reflection in the mirror showed a few cuts and bruises, but nothing too serious. His body would heal soon enough, his resilience one of his best traits.

As he exited, Marissa approached, a coy smile playing on her lips. "Hardy, I brought your guns back," she said, holding out two pistols.

Hardy accepted them, tucking his revolver into its holster and sliding Big Ivan's pistol into his waistband.

"Thanks," he said.

Marissa's eyes lingered on him, her expression soft. "You were amazing back there, Hardy," she murmured. "I was so scared. My heart's still racing."

She placed a hand over her chest, drawing his gaze downward, almost involuntarily.

"Hardy, would you mind walking me home later? I'm a bit shaken," she asked suddenly.

"I've got some things to handle first," Hardy replied, keeping his tone neutral. The Russians were still tied up in the back, and he needed answers. There was more to this than a simple bar fight.

"That's okay," Marissa said with a sweet smile. "I'll wait for you."

Hardy nodded and made his way to the holding room where Big Ivan and his crew were confined. The men were bound and subdued, but Ivan, despite his injuries, still looked defiant.

"Bring Ivan to the next room," Hardy ordered.

Once alone with the big man, Hardy leaned in, his voice cold. "You must have known this is Austrian gang territory. Why'd you come looking for trouble?"

Ivan glared back, his expression a mixture of pain and bravado. "Just a bit of fun," he said gruffly. "Nothing more."

Hardy pulled out Ivan's own pistol and aimed it deliberately at his leg. "You know this gun, Ivan. You know what it can do. I'm going to ask you again, and if you lie, I'll shoot. How many lies do you think you can afford?"

Ivan flinched, the barrel of the gun inches from his thigh. He knew Hardy wasn't bluffing.

"Three."

Hardy's voice was steady, his aim unwavering. "Two."

Ivan's bravado wavered. He wasn't ready to lose a leg over this.

"One."

"Okay, okay!" Ivan blurted out. "It was Burstein, the Spanish gang's advisor. He came to us, said if we stirred up trouble here, we'd get a nice reward."

"What kind of reward?" Hardy pressed.

"A discount on the coke we buy from them. Twenty percent off," Ivan admitted.

"Anyone else involved?" Hardy asked.

"I don't know. That's all I know, I swear," Ivan said, desperation in his voice.

Hardy questioned him further, piecing together the details of Burstein's visit. The whole thing smelled like more than a petty rivalry. There was something deeper at play, and Hardy intended to find out what.

"Take him back," Hardy told Reid. "And make sure his wounds are treated. We might need him alive a bit longer."

"Got it," Reid replied, dragging Ivan away.

Hardy headed upstairs to the manager's office and dialed the number of his boss. After a few rings, Fred, the Austrian gang's leader, answered.

"Fred, it's Hardy," he said, keeping his tone direct.

"What's going on, Hardy?" Fred asked.

"We had some trouble at the Bunny Bar. Russians, led by Big Ivan. They confessed they were sent by Burstein from the Spanish gang to stir things up. I don't think this is just about territory. I think they're planning something bigger."

Fred was silent for a moment, then said, "Good work, Hardy. I'll think on this. Stay sharp."

Hardy hung up and returned to the backyard. The Russian gang members were awake now, watching him nervously.

He couldn't kill them outright—that would draw too much heat, even in a post-war world where things were still chaotic. But he could make their lives miserable for a while.

"Lock them in the old cellar," Hardy instructed. "No food, no water, for three days. Then let them go."

The Russians protested, but Hardy silenced them with a shot fired into the ground. The loud crack of the gun shut them up fast.

With that taken care of, Hardy went back into the nightclub. It was early morning now, and he assumed Marissa had gone home. But to his surprise, she was still there, waiting patiently.

"You're still here?" he asked, surprised.

"I told you, I'm scared to go home alone," she replied, her eyes wide and sincere.

Hardy sighed, giving a small nod. "Alright, let's get you home."