American variety show: Sniper Elite

Chapter 35 Iosev
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This book is still in the intelligent recommendation slot, which ends on June 25th, 2029. Until then, the author earnestly requests monthly votes, recommendation votes, and continued reading from all readers! Thank you so much!

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Beta gently wiped Helen's portrait with her cuff and placed the frame neatly above the fireplace.

The dull thud of shoveling dirt echoed from the yard. John was on the lawn, digging a final resting place for the dead beagle.

Every "crack" of shoveling dirt echoed through the broken French windows in the empty villa.

After the hasty funeral, John knelt on the living room floor and scrubbed away the bloodstains inch by inch with a brush, the bristles making a "swish, swish" sound as they rubbed against the wooden floor.

Beta placed the remaining half of the glass bowl in front of Helen's portrait and gazed at it.

The swishing sound suddenly stopped.

John's voice sounded behind me, trembling with suppressed emotion: "It was a gift from Helen."

Beta calmly turned around: "Who did this?"
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The Queen.

Charlie's gaze fell on the Ford Mustang in front of him, his smile gradually froze, then turned serious, and finally turned into panic.

His Adam's apple bobbed, and he trembled as he put down his wine glass.

"A '69 Ford Mustang?" Charlie's voice tightened. "Where did you get this car?"

He stared at Iosev Tarasov, the heir to the Russian mafia in New York, Vigo Tarasov's only son.

Iosev was a typical second-generation gangster, with a lean Slavic face, flamboyant blond hair, and a gaunt figure that exuded arrogance.

He clearly didn't notice Charlie's unusual behavior and continued to boast nonchalantly, "Not bad, right? Got it from a loser, hahaha!"

Charlie's nostrils flared, and his voice rose: "I'm asking you where the hell you got that from!"

Iosev shrugged nonchalantly: "Who the hell cares? Get me some new paperwork, and I'll take the car!"

"Drive this car away right now!" Charlie turned to leave.

"Are you fucking crazy?" Iosev's expression changed.

Charlie whirled around: "I said, get this car out of here now, immediately!"

Iosev cursed, "Fuck! You're just a car salesman! Why are you talking to me like that!"

Charlie strode closer to Iosef, their noses almost touching: "Your father and I are business partners, not your nannies. I have no obligation to clean up your messes."

He gritted his teeth and said, enunciating each word clearly, "Now, drive this damn car away, immediately!"

Iosev scoffed, tilting his head with a look of utter disdain: "Are you fucking crazy? It's just a piece of junk."

Charlie took a deep breath, suppressing his anger: "Tell me, did you kill the car owner? Did you clean up the mess?"

Iosef cracked his neck impatiently, his tone flippant: "No, what's the problem? We'll storm in, beat that bastard to death, kick his dog to death, and drive off. Murder? I'm not a butcher!"

Charlie laughed in exasperation: "Butcher? Ha! I fucking wish you were one."

He stared at Iosev with an almost pitying sarcasm in his eyes: "You should have killed that car owner, killed him on the spot, cleanly and efficiently."

Iosef paused for a moment, then burst into laughter, even patting Charlie on the shoulder: "Damn! Charlie, you're more of a gangster than I am!"

Charlie smiled too, his voice low: "Really?"

“Of course!” Iosev grinned, revealing a mouthful of white teeth.

next second.

Charlie's fist slammed into Iosef's face with such force that it knocked the skinny gangster heir to the ground.

"Whoosh!" Iosef's men instantly drew their guns, the dark muzzles all pointing at Charlie.

The atmosphere in the factory became tense.

The workers stopped what they were doing and pulled out guns of varying lengths from toolboxes, under the cars, and behind shelves, the clicking sounds of the bolts being pulled back echoing throughout the room.

A dozen guns were steadily pointed at the gang members.

Charlie glanced down at Iosef, who was sprawled on the ground. The gangster's son had blood trickling from the corner of his mouth and was struggling to get up.

Charlie casually raised his hand and waved it, and the surrounding workers all put down their weapons, but their eyes remained fixed on the few armed gangsters.

He slowly walked up to the henchmen who had raised their guns, pressed his chest against the muzzle of the gun, and said in a low, dangerous voice, "Want to shoot? Then pull the trigger. You bunch of idiots have no idea what kind of trouble you've gotten yourself into."

"Fuck!" Iosef staggered to his feet, snatched the gun from his subordinate, and pressed it against Charlie's forehead: "You motherfucker!"

Charlie didn't even blink: "Either shoot, or get out of here in this car. Choose now."

An older henchman stepped between the two and said, "Listen, Charlie, Vigo needs an explanation for this. You can't just leave it like this."

"An explanation?" Charlie sneered. "Fine, this is your explanation: go back to your hideouts and hide this damn car. From today onwards, you'd better live like rats in a burrow, keeping your heads down, don't loiter by the windows, don't flaunt yourselves on the streets, just pretend you're already dead."

His voice suddenly rose: "Now, immediately, disappear!"

Iosev wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, staring at Charlie with a sinister look: "Old man, I'll remember you."

Charlie straightened his collar: "Watch your tone, kid. Your father and I are friends, but more importantly, business partners."

In the afterglow of the setting sun, the 69 Ford Mustang emitted a deep roar. Charlie, hands in his pockets, watched Iosef and his men drive away until the red taillights completely disappeared around the street corner.

Charlie paused for a moment, then turned and walked back into the factory, clapped his hands, and announced loudly, "Everyone, leave early, wages paid as usual."

The workers cheered as they packed up their tools, chatting and laughing as they left. The huge factory quickly fell silent, leaving only Charlie and his six close associates.

Charlie glanced at them: "You all go back. The six of you tied together can't stop John Wick."

The men exchanged glances.

One of them stepped forward: "Boss, at least let us stay, pour us a drink, open the door or something."

The other people nodded.

Charlie chuckled. "Alright, if John really comes, remember to pick out a presentable suit for me when you collect my body."

He walked to the corner "office," sat down, took out his phone, hovered his thumb over the name "Vigo" in the contacts, took a deep breath, and pressed the dial button.

After the call connected, Vigo's voice, thick with a Russian accent, came through the receiver: "Zari, what's up?"

Charlie rubbed his temples. "Your son, Iosef, got a '69 Mustang. The car isn't the problem; the problem is he didn't get rid of the owner."

"Who owns the car?" Vigo's voice was laced with disdain. "Which councilor? Or the police chief? Such a trivial matter."

John Wick.

Silence fell over the receiver.

Charlie could clearly hear the heavy breathing on the other end of the phone.

Ten seconds later, Vigo's voice seemed to have been drained of all its strength.

".oh."

(End of this chapter)