From Bullets To Billions novel Chapter 465

Chapter 465: Where is He?

Vivian still wasn’t sure whether the two participants who claimed to be from the Pit were truly strong enough to make it to the end. That uncertainty wasn’t what bothered her most, it was the problem that came with it.

The problem... was Chad.

Not his attitude. Not his background. Not even his obnoxious, fake confidence.

But his money.

Chad was a high spender, one of the highest they had in attendance. Even among all the wealthy spectators tonight, Chad wagered more casually, more recklessly, and with more delusion than most of them combined. Vivian had seen how he bet in the past. She remembered every file she’d been given about him.

The Black Hounds, unlike other betting venues, did not impose a betting cap. That sort of cap protected lower-level gambling dens, but not them. Their business was built on the belief that there should never be limits.

And there was one reason for that.

Once too much money flowed to one side, once there was a risk of significant loss...

The fights would start to be rigged.

It wasn’t theory. It wasn’t rumor. It was how every large-scale illegal betting circuit in the world functioned.

They would pay fighters to lose.

They would reward certain people to suddenly "turn it around."

Those who pretended to be weak would suddenly become unstoppable, and those who were truly strong would mysteriously collapse.

But the Black Hounds had a problem,

Not everyone was in their pocket. Not every fighter would accept their offers. Not every fighter could be bought.

Some took pride in their strength. Some were too loyal. Some were just stupid enough to fight honestly regardless of the consequences.

And when that happened, things got messy.

Sure, the Black Hounds could "make them an offer they couldn’t refuse"... or they could remove opportunities from their lives entirely. Vivian had done both.

That was why, when Joe went to the bathroom...

She gave the order.

Her people were already planted in the venue. Fighting was their business, it wouldn’t be hard to make sure Joe simply couldn’t make it to his next match.

Inside the tiled bathroom, blood streaked across the white wall where Joe’s face had smashed against it. The impact had been brutal and sudden. His teeth had cut into the inside of his mouth, and part of his nose looked as if it had cracked sideways, blood pouring freely and dripping down the wall into the sink area below.

Before Joe could even react, hands grabbed the back of his neck and yanked.

He was flung across the bathroom floor and landed hard on the tiles. His body lay sprawled, face smeared red.

"Man, that was rough," one of the attackers muttered, shaking out his hand. "We were told to hurt him, not remodel his face. You couldn’t let the guy finish taking a leak? We could’ve just whacked his legs or hit his stomach a few times."

There were four men. All of them Black Hounds members. All of them were used to violence. And more importantly, they had all seen Joe fight. Which was why they didn’t fight fair.

"So what?" another laughed. "Let’s just make sure he really can’t get up again!"

The man stepped forward and kicked Joe square in the ribs.

A sickening crack echoed across the bathroom.

Joe groaned loudly, a sound halfway between pain and instinct.

And the others joined in.

Kick.

Kick.

Kick.

One stomp landed on the same spot again, and another rib cracked beneath the pressure.

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