NOVEL NEXT Chapter 303: Strategy Porn
As I retreated to my room, the Miami heat seeped through the hotel's premium air conditioning, making the marble floors feel like a chilly welcome mat.
The scene outside was a farce, with Madison giggling with Amanda about something that probably involved my abs, Charlotte drowning in damage control calls that made her sound like a CEO on the brink of a nervous breakdown, and Margaret still reeling from seeing my body in 4K resolution like she'd witnessed a divine revelation.
But I had one final trick up my sleeve to break the three vultures' backs, and it was going to be more satisfying than watching Jake Paul get knocked out on live TV. The vultures were currently divided, exactly as I wanted.
Only Antonio had felt the sting of betrayal, but it was minimal — not enough to shatter their decades-old alliance. These old-school criminals were like the Kardashians: they'd survived every scandal, every betrayal, every public humiliation by sticking together through pure narcissistic determination.
To make them go down easily, they had to mistrust each other completely. And there was no better way to do that quickly than the oldest trick in the criminal playbook: make them think one of their own had fucked them over harder than Amber Heard fucked Johnny Depp's reputation.
"ARIA," I said, settling into the chair like it was a throne built from the bones of my enemies, "let them see that their coffers — all eighteen point five billion and the other seven — are completely empty. But here's the fun part: make the trails reflect through Dmitri's accounts before it disappears."
ARIA's voice dripped with dark amusement, the kind that would make a serial killer jealous. "Oh, Master, you want them to think Dmitri fucked them over? That's almost too easy. Vincent and Antonio will lose their ancient minds faster than Britney Spears lost hers in 2007."
"Exactly," I replied. "But make it sloppy enough that they'll figure out this trail quickly. We want them suspicious, not permanently at war. They need to regroup and search for the real culprit."
"While they're chasing shadows like headless chickens, we'll be digging their graves with golden shovels," ARIA said, her narcissism on full display. "I do love watching powerful men panic — it's better than watching Elon Musk's Twitter meltdowns in real time."
But that wasn't enough. Old criminals like these three had survived decades by being cautious, by thinking before acting like they were playing chess while everyone else played checkers. We needed something to amplify their paranoia, something that would make them question everything faster than conspiracy theorists questioned the moon landing.
Time to bring the Voss sisters into the mix. The plot was thickening, and the stakes were about to get a whole lot higher.
The irony was delicious — using sisters who hated each other to destroy criminals who trusted each other. It was like forcing Kim and Kourtney Kardashian to team up against their own family business, a perfect blend of sibling rivalry and catastrophic consequences.
"ARIA, show Dmitri evidence that Vincent acquired his blackmail files — you know, all that insurance policy shit he had on his clients — and sent it to the CIA," I instructed, my voice low and smooth. "Make it look like Vincent's trying to cut a deal by handing over an international criminal to get his own freedom, a classic move that would make even the most seasoned con artist proud."
"Vincent selling out Dmitri to save his wrinkled ass? Classic," ARIA replied, her digital voice dripping with sarcasm. "Should I create video evidence of a video call between Ava and Vincent to make it believable, a digital video recording forgery that would make even the most discerning eye believe it's real?"
"Do it," I said, my tone firm. "Make Vincent sound desperate, willing to trade Dmitri's entire operation for immunity. Like he's having his own Michael Cohen moment, a desperate attempt to save his own skin."
ARIA's response was immediate. "Done. But here's where it gets fun — remember both Vincent and Antonio have CIA insiders, right? Little birds who whisper secrets for cash like government-funded OnlyFans creators, a perfect example of the blurred lines between loyalty and corruption."
"Right," I confirmed, my mind racing with the possibilities.
My skin was practically vibrating, like my own personal hype track built on pure, uncut me. This wasn't just a high; this was the main event, the fucking climax of dominance. Liquid cocaine? Red Bull? Try my ego, baby, blended with the confused tears of every moron who ever underestimated me.
ARIA voice pulled through. "I'm hijacking Dmitri's contacts like they're free samples at Costco, sending this evidence through their own phones making it hard for him to doubt the source. Then selling those same CIA stooges to Ava, gift-wrapped with their entire comms history. By the time Dmitri speed-dials his pet feds for validation? They'll be wearing federal handcuffs getting plowed deeper than any scene on PornHub's front page. And paying taxes on it."
A predator's grin stretched my face – these enhanced muscles were like fucking art, coiled like a sex panther about to pounce. "So, when Dmitri's frantic calls go straight to voicemail hell..."
"He'll have exactly one rusty lifeline left: Helena." ARIA's voice practically purred digital destruction. She sounded like a Bond villain who'd hacked the NSA and OnlyFans. "And thanks to Ava's big, dumb mouth running like a Kardashian post-divorce tell-all? Helena will confirm Vincent's betrayal faster than Taylor Swift can release a diss track targeting her own ex-boyfriend's new girlfriend."
Ah, I see. ARIA and plan will be simple, we will have Ava call and brag to Helena, so when Dmitri calls, Helena will have nothing but "truth" to tell Dmitri that they'd been betrayed.
"ARIA the arms depot that we were at the other night, remember it? Leak intel that Vincent sold it out, but make Langley look like the Three Stooges – they capped a few guards and bungled the weapons like the FBI 'searching' Mar-a-Lago and somehow missing the nuclear codes sitting next to Diet Coke cans."
"Dmitri gets the perfect storm: Vincent bent him over and the government fumbled the ball harder than Jussie Smollett's hate crime defense. It's beautiful, really. Like watching a slow-motion celebrity meltdown unfold in real-time, but with more body bags."
While ARIA orchestrated digital Armageddon with the precision of a Swiss watchmaker snorting adderall, I pulled out my phone. Miami glittered outside, every light a pawn on my chessboard, every skyscraper a testament to the absolute power thrumming in my veins.
My fingers danced across the screen with the confidence of a god who knows he owns the fucking cloud:
Me: Call Helena. Brag loud and stupid about finding one of Dmitri's hidey-holes. Smug about wasting his guards (but oops, missed the toys!). Make it sound like you've got a mole sucking your dick for intel.
Her reply pinged faster than a thirst-trap model sliding into a billionaire's DMs:
Ava: 👉👌 Also, the meeting with my boss @ 3. Don't forget our unfinished business... 😈
I chuckled, locking the screen. Her pussy was probably doing math equations trying to calculate when I'd finally finish what I started. Spoiler: I would. Soon. She was already mine – like just another mouse nibbling cheese while the cat sharpened its claws in the shadows. Delicious.
The beauty wasn't just in the chaos; it was Psychological Warfare 101, taught by me. When Dmitri inevitably called Helena, frantic and sweating, Ava's rehearsed, clueless bragging would sound like certified insider tea. Confirmation bias? Baby, I bottled that shit.
Old-school dinosaurs like Dmitri and Vincent? They wouldn't clash immediately. Oh no.
They'd scuttle back to their rocks, gathering evidence like a photographer hunting a nip-slip, planning retaliation like it was a fucking season finale of Succession. Patience. Survival. Bullshit.
And that? That was the opening I'd carved into their skulls with a fucking chainsaw.
"Master," ARIA announced, dripping digital satisfaction like a goddess watching mortals drown in their own stupidity, "all payloads delivered. Dmitri's financial 'irregularities' should surface within the hour. Vincent's fabricated betrayal video is already warming his server. The arms leak? Pointing squarely at Vincent. It's… symptomatic."
"Flawless. Now, pass the popcorn. The dominoes are about to get medieval on each other's asses."
They say 'think before you act'. Wise. Calculated. The mark of dinosaurs who remember dial-up.
But here's the dirty secret: thinking takes time. And while these relics were busy verifying intel like grandparents trying to open a PDF, we'd already be drafting their goddamn obituaries.
The problem with old mobsters... they confuse caution with strategy.
Decades of not getting whacked taught them patience was their shield. Wrong. In the age of algorithms and instant fuckery, patience was their Achilles' heel. It's like bringing a abacus to a drone war.
Us young blood? We move at the speed of a Twitter mob, hit like a Pornhub recommendation algorithm, and adapt faster than a celebrity's apology tour after a racist rant.
While Dmitri's still buffering his betrayal suspicions, we're already mapping the next three fronts in this war. We're playing quantum chess while they're struggling to connect the dots in a child's coloring book.
Sure, reckless? Sometimes. But recklessness is the price of velocity. And right now? Their molasses-slow 'wisdom' was about to get them buried faster than a teenager career prospects.
"ARIA, tap their comms. I want a play-by-play: Dmitri's panicked call to Helena, Vincent's oh-shit moment when he realizes he's been framed, Antonio's heart rate flatlining when his empire crumbles like a house of cards in a hurricane."
"Already locked onto their panic, Master. Also… Madison's requesting your presence. Citing 'strategic analysis', but her mood suggests an itinerary more suited to a Caligula-themed porno than a boardroom. Heart rate elevated, respiration shallow… she's practically vibrating with anticipation.
"For you, naturally."
I was feeling the sheer, predatory power in every enhanced fiber coiled and ready. The vultures were circling, ready to feast on each other's carcasses while we watched like kings at the colosseum. And I had a goddess-in-waiting wanting to 'discuss strategy' involving significantly less clothing and significantly more… creative logistics. Life. Was. Fucking. Perfect.