Chapter 85 The Taste of Bullets

In a dimly lit basement, a deafening gunshot shattered the tense silence. A man in a black jacket sat carelessly on a leather sofa. Under his unzipped jacket, a white shirt hung loosely with two buttons undone, exuding arrogance. The flickering lights cast fleeting glimpses of his face, exposing his menacing eyes that glimmered with a hint of amusement. He lightly held a cigarette between his lips, smoke curling lazily into the air. In his hand was a well-polished handgun. His piercing gaze fell on a trembling man kneeling several feet away. "Have you decided whether you're going to spill?" the man asked icily. The man on his knees had his hands bound behind his back and his head hidden under a sack. He couldn't see his surroundings, but he instantly recognized the other man's voice. It was him–the person who had broken his bones and chased him down in a sports car! Memories of that violent incident still haunted him. "I-I was just after money!" the man stammered. "I swear