Billionaire Cashback System: I Can't Go Broke!

The wet, heavy crack of bone breaking against knuckles echoed off the floor-to-ceiling glass.

Blood hit the pristine white wool of the rug in thick, heavy drops. The room smelled of expensive leather, sharp cologne, and the distinct, metallic reek of copper.

"Speak now," a man in a tailored grey suit said, his chest heaving as he grabbed a fistful of the kneeling man’s hair, yanking his head back. "Or your family won’t even get your corpse."

The man on the floor didn’t answer.

His left eye was swollen shut, the skin split across his cheekbone. He just breathed through his teeth, letting a thick string of red saliva drip from his chin onto the carpet.

The man in the grey suit released the hair with a disgusted noise. He wiped his knuckles with a handkerchief and turned toward the massive mahogany desk at the far end of the room.

Behind it, a high-backed leather chair sat facing the glass, looking out over the glittering grid of nighttime Manhattan.

"He’s being stubborn, boss," the suit said.

A heavy sigh came from the leather chair.

The chair spun around slowly.

Ryan Russo sat with his elbows resting on the armrests, his fingers steepled beneath his chin.

He wasn’t wearing a thrift-store jacket or a Mercer Street compromise. His suit was bespoke, midnight blue, cutting a sharp, immovable silhouette. The watch on his wrist caught the ambient light, a silent testament to a different tax bracket entirely.

He stood up.

His footsteps were completely silent against the thick rug. He moved with a heavy, domineering certainty, crossing the room until he reached the front of the desk.

He leaned back against the polished wood, crossing his ankles, looking down at the bleeding man.

Ryan didn’t look angry. He just looked faintly disappointed.

"What an unfortunate sight," Ryan said, his voice low, steady, and entirely devoid of warmth. His eyes flicked from the man’s bruised face to the red stains soaking into the wool fibers of the rug.

He tilted his head, watching the blood spread.

"Sometimes," Ryan murmured, almost to himself, "I can’t help but wonder... how exactly did it come to this?"

-----Months earlier-----

The fabric clamped over Ryan’s mouth tasted like chemical solvent and stale sweat.

The alley was pitch black, a narrow slice of nothing between two brick buildings. His folder – the IRS documents, the consulting verifications, his entire defense – hit the concrete with a dull slap.

A thick arm locked around his ribs, crushing the air out of his lungs.

He thrashed, throwing an elbow backward, but a second pair of hands grabbed his wrists, pinning them.

The chemical burn filled his nose, stinging the back of his throat. The edges of his vision blurred, folding inward into a tight, dark tunnel, until the streetlights bled out completely.

---

The burlap dragged off his face, taking a layer of skin from his cheek with it.

White-hot halogen light stabbed into his corneas. Ryan squeezed his eyes shut, his chest heaving as he dragged in oxygen that tasted like damp concrete and motor oil.

He was tied to a steel chair. His wrists ached against zip ties, the plastic biting into his skin.

When his eyes finally adjusted to the glare, the cold spike of adrenaline nailed his boots to the floor.

Five men surrounded him. They didn’t look like street thugs. They wore tailored slacks and dark overcoats, and the weapons they held – matte-black submachine guns resting casually against their chests – made the blood in his veins turn to ice.

This is it, his brain supplied, a flat, clinical realization. This is where it ends. Right when his life was getting good.

Then the crowd parted.

A man stepped into the center of the halogen glare. He wore a crisp, plain white shirt with dark suspenders pressing into broad shoulders.

He had olive skin, dark hair slicked back, and moved with a heavy, unhurried grace.

He pulled a cigar from his pocket, clipped the end with a silver cutter, and struck a lighter. The flame illuminated his face for a second. The sharp snap of the metal lid echoed in the cavernous room.

He blew a thick cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. The heavy, earthy smell of tobacco washed over the scent of oil.

"Are you afraid, Russo?" the man asked. The vowels rolled off his tongue with a distinct, heavy Italian cadence. It confirmed everything the tailored suits and the muscle had already suggested.

Ryan swallowed the dry sandpaper in his throat.

"You should be," the man continued, tapping ash onto the concrete. "These are dangerous men you see around you. And they’ve brought you into a very dangerous world."

Ryan forced his jaw to unclench. He measured his breathing.

"What do you want?" Ryan said.

The man paused, the cigar hovering inches from his mouth. A slow, genuine smile spread across his face.

"Good. A business question," the man said. "Quick, and to the matter at hand. As a businessman, I respect that."

He took another drag, pacing a slow half-circle around Ryan’s chair.

"You might be in possession of something, Mr. Russo. Something you should have never gotten." The man stopped in front of him. "Now, I don’t know what it is. Or exactly what it does. But there are very terrifying, very powerful individuals who do."

Ryan stared at him, keeping his expression entirely blank, though his heart hammered against his ribs. The system.

"Although you are one of very, very many candidates suspected across the world," the man said, leaning in, "there is a possibility you are the one who has what we want."

Ryan held his gaze. "And what exactly do you want?"

The man chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. "Like I said, we don’t know. Very few people do. But if you are the man we are looking for, you should be one of those few."

Ryan worked his jaw. The absurdity of it temporarily overrode the panic. "So let me understand this. What I assume is a Mafia crew was sent after me to retrieve something nobody knows what it is, from someone who might or might not even have it."

"Good. You understand." The man took another drag. "I won’t lie and say it’s the most sensible thing in the world. But it is making me very wealthy."

Ryan ran the probability. "How many?"

The man raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"How many people might be suspected to have what you’re looking for?"

"Thousands," the man said smoothly. "Spread over ninety-seven countries. But men just like me have been sent to them as well. It won’t be too long before it’s found."

Ryan kept his voice steady. "I don’t have what you want. I don’t even know what it is. How could I be the one out of thousands of people?"

The man waved a dismissive hand, the cigar smoke trailing behind the gesture. "Your words are irrelevant. I don’t care if you’re telling the truth or lying. I only have a job."

"And what job is that?"

"If you are the one in possession, we must have you willingly transfer ownership. In a calm state of mind." The man smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. "Which means we aren’t allowed to hurt you, Mr. Russo. Well. Physically, at least."

The man reached into his slacks and pulled out a small black remote. He pointed it at the far wall.

A flat-screen TV blinked to life.

The audio hit Ryan first.

"I can’t – Ryan, I’m gonna – again – "

Ryan’s stomach dropped out of him. The floor seemed to tilt.

On the screen, high-definition video played. It was shot from a distance, likely a taller building across the street, zooming through the floor-to-ceiling glass of the forty-seventh floor.

But the lens was professional. The focus was crystal clear.

It showed Diana Lockridge, bent entirely backward over her desk, her expensive skirt bunched at her waist, her wrists bound behind her back by a silk tie.

It showed Ryan standing between her spread legs, driving into her.

The camera zoomed closer. It caught Diana’s face, her glasses fogged, her mouth open in a raw, desperate moan as her back arched off the wood. It caught Ryan’s face perfectly in the amber glow of the city lights.

"Come again. Right now. While I’m still inside you."

Ryan’s teeth ground together so hard his jaw ached. The muscles in his forearms strained against the zip ties until the plastic cut into his skin.

"We stalked and followed you in search of ways to persuade you for a long time, Ryan," the man said over the sound of Diana’s moans echoing in the concrete room. "And you gave it to us tonight."

The man pressed a button. The screen froze on Diana’s wrecked, flushed face.

"So here is exactly how things will go," the man said, his tone dropping the conversational warmth. "You have three months. Three months to come to us willing and ready to transfer ownership of what we seek."

He stepped closer, the heat of the cigar ember glowing inches from Ryan’s face.

"If you fail to do so, this video will be released everywhere. If that happens, Diana Lockridge will be disgraced. She will likely lose her position on the Foundation. Her husband will take half of her assets through the cheating clause in their prenuptial agreement."

The man paused, letting the dominoes fall in Ryan’s mind.

"Your model girlfriend, Zara, will be publicly humiliated when the media finds out her new boyfriend was busy fucking his investor in her office. And your little company? It will be done for."

Ryan stared at the frozen image on the screen. The absolute hubris of taking her against the glass. He had thought he owned the city. He hadn’t realized someone else was watching the exact same view.

"I don’t know what you want," Ryan said, his voice forced through clenched teeth. "I don’t have what you want."

The man simply shrugged. "Like I said, all of that is irrelevant to me. I simply have a job to do."

One of the men in suits stepped forward to the TV. He unplugged a silver flash drive from the back of the monitor.

The boss produced a heavy, matte-black steel briefcase. He popped the latches, dropped the flash drive inside, and snapped it shut. He spun the combination lock dials with rapid flicks of his thumb.

"I alone know the code to this case," the man said, patting the steel shell. "And inside it now is the only copy of that video in existence. Give me what I want, and this briefcase will be handed to you. To do whatever you want with."

The man gave a sharp nod.

A knife slid against Ryan’s wrists. The zip ties snapped, falling to the floor. Ryan rubbed his bleeding skin, his eyes locked on the briefcase.

"Go," the man said, turning his back. "You have three months to make your decision."

Before Ryan could stand, rough hands grabbed his shoulders.

The burlap sack came down over his head, plunging the world back into darkness, suffocating him in the smell of dust and solvent.

The Game had changed.