I searched and fought in America.

Rosen turned off his phone, rubbed his head, looked at the ledgers in front of him, and sighed softly.

Morris gave him incredibly detailed ledgers, listing the Iron Claw Gang's main businesses and industries in detail.

Rosen took a closer look and found that the Iron Claw Gang's monthly profit was around $35.

To ordinary people, this would undoubtedly be a huge sum of money, but Rosen was quite familiar with the rules of the underground gangs. For a gang of Iron Claws of this size, this was shockingly "poor".

According to the American gang hierarchy, the Iron Claw gang has 45 core members and 356 peripheral members, and its influence covers an entire community.

This gang should be considered a fourth-rate gang, with a fairly average size. However, in terms of combat strength, Rosen estimated that the Iron Claw Gang could even hold their own against third-rate gangs, and might not necessarily lose.

For example, the Fangs gang, which Rosen particularly enjoys stirring up trouble, has at least a thousand members. If we were to measure the two gangs using a data panel format...

Iron Claw Gang: Number B, Combat Strength A, Morale A+.

Fang Gang: Quantity A+, Combat Strength A-, Morale B.

However, the monthly revenue of the Fang Gang is far superior to that of the Iron Claw Gang. The Fang Gang is known for its unbridled activities, including organ trafficking, drug dealing, and loan sharking.

As long as they can make money, they don't care whether it's morally wrong or not; they're willing to do it.

Rosen remembered hearing someone say that the Fang Gang's monthly revenue started at $300 million!

Iron Claw Gang strictly prohibits black market transactions, so their sources of profit are relatively limited. One source is community management fees, or protection fees, but this is only a small part of their income.

The real sources of profit are waste recycling and processing, as well as the construction industry.

However, to Rosen's astonishment, of the $35 in profits, $28 was used to pay salaries, and another $2 was used for community welfare to help some poor people.

Don't think this amount of money is small; $20,000 is enough for some homeless people to live a stable life for one or two years.

This Father Kevin is quite something; he doesn't take a single penny, eats and lives in the gang, and even inspires three of his officers to be quite frugal.

This isn't running a gang, it's burning money to support suicide squads!

No wonder these people are so devoted to the Father; in this wretched place like America, they are no less than top-tier succubi comparable to Liu Bei.

Rosen put the ledgers away. They were all very well organized, showing that Morris was definitely a talent in logistics management.

He stood up, ready to take a look at the gang's core assets, got on his motorcycle, drove through the community, and arrived in the suburbs.

Upon arrival, you will see a factory building labeled "Iron Claw Recycling Co., Ltd."

---

Because it's located in the suburbs, the company occupies a fairly large area. At this moment, the gate was open, and many vehicles carrying scrap metal drove in.

Rosen went in to take a look, and Caesar, who was watching with two brothers, immediately spotted Rosen.

"Holy Father."

Caesar strode over, solemnly placing his right fist against his heart and bowing slightly—a high-level courtesy of the Iron Claws and the utmost respect due to the Father.

Rosen nodded and casually asked, "I've come to check it out."

"Okay, okay, please come with me."

Caesar understood. Indeed, it was normal for the Father, as the head of the gang, to understand the gang's core businesses.

This is a recycling plant that specializes in collecting waste. Some poor people also bring their scraps to exchange for cash. The main staff are peripheral members who sort the waste.

Further along lies the Iron Claw Gang's key to profitability: the renovation of the workshop.

This place is responsible for reprocessing or repairing the scrapped vehicles that are collected. Some of the repaired cars are sold as second-hand vehicles, while others are used as specially modified vehicles.

The workshop was very noisy at this time, with the sounds of various tools rising and falling.

Rosen walked up to a workbench where a white mechanic was sweating profusely as he modified an old Ford Mustang.

He was trying to adapt an old turbocharger to an engine.

The white repairman sensed someone approaching and was already annoyed. Just as he was about to reprimand someone, he looked up and saw that it was his own father. He was so frightened that he quickly put down the wrench and bowed respectfully.

"Father!"

Rosen waved his hand, signaling him to continue.

He stood by and watched the white mechanic repair the entire intake system process.

After the other party finished working, Rosen slowly clapped his hands and commented, "The technique is very skillful, and the welds are very stable, but if this car is modified in the way you are now, it won't sell for a high price."

Caesar paused for a moment, looking at Rosen with a puzzled expression, while the white repairman's face also became somewhat embarrassed.

He was quite confident in his skills, but since it was the Father who spoke, perhaps God had given some instructions.

Rosen pointed to the turbine, which was almost too big to fit into the engine bay, and said with a smile, "Yes:"

"It's like putting the heart of a twenty-year-old into an eighty-year-old man."

His heart was beating strongly, but the old man's blood vessels couldn't handle it, and his lungs were short of breath; he felt like they would burst after just a few steps.

He picked up a wrench and pointed to the connection between the radiator and the exhaust pipe:

"Look here, you're only thinking about how to blow the air in and pressurize it, but you haven't considered how this hot air will come out."

The radiator is too small, and the water circulation is slow. Driving this car on these terrible roads in our Ronnie neighborhood, the coolant temperature spikes off the charts halfway through an overtaking maneuver. It's usable, but not practical.

The white repairman scratched his head, thought about it carefully, and felt that what the Father said made a lot of sense; it was spot on. He felt a little embarrassed.

"Holy Father, the parts we have here are makeshift, but the heat sink is definitely an old one..."

"No need to change to something new, just try a different approach."

Rosen bent down, deftly removed the radiator fan cover, quickly adjusted the blade angle with pliers, and then pointed to the intake hose on a scrapped truck next to him.

"Connect that thick tube and do a lateral drainage."

Don't let the hot air swirl around in the engine compartment; vent it directly under the wheel arches.

Then, Rosen walked to the back of the car and kicked the swaying suspension.

"And with this much horsepower you've added, when you start, the front of the car lifts up, and all the power is used to slip and grind the tires. What customers want is a push-back feeling, not smoke coming out of place."

Rosen pulled two thickened old springs from the junkyard and threw them directly on the ground.

"Weld these two rods to the rear axle support bracket to create a simple rigid connection for reinforcement."

This way, the car won't lift its head when starting, and all the power can be applied to the road surface.

With just these two changes, the driving experience of this car has transformed from a "piecemeal junk" into a "violent muscle car."

The repairman listened with wide eyes. He had been doing this for so many years, always thinking about how to add parts, but he had never thought of such a "homemade" fine-tuning.

Rosen took the welding torch, pushed up his mask, and sparks flew everywhere.

In less than ten minutes, he re-welded and reinforced the stress points on the rear axle. Then, he got into the driver's seat and started the engine.

"Buzz—!"

The deep, resonant sound of the engine echoed through the factory, and the absence of other noises actually gave it a powerful presence.

Rosen released the accelerator, jumped out of the car, and looked at Caesar:

"How much did this car cost before?"

Caesar replied hesitantly, "About three thousand dollars, depending on luck."

"Now," Rosen tossed the wrench back into the toolbox, "take it to the underground racetrack in the North District, priced at twelve thousand dollars."

Tell them this car can run all night without the engine failing, and a comparable car would cost at least $30,000. One test drive, and they'll be ready to pay.

The mechanic touched the newly welded chassis, and the doubt in his eyes completely disappeared, replaced by fervor.

Caesar pondered for a moment, and a green glint suddenly appeared in his eyes.

If every recycled junk car could be handled in this way, the Iron Claw Gang's profits could probably increase three to five times!

"Father, you are truly the embodiment of God, omniscient and omnipotent!" Caesar exclaimed excitedly.

Rosen patted Caesar on the shoulder:

"One car isn't enough for me. I'll write a book about what I know, and then everyone in our gang can learn from it."