Chapter 12: The Smuggler's Dull Nightlife

When the eyes of the media and the public were fixated on the Sun’s “shameless scandal,” no one noticed the undercurrents stirring deep within the city’s underworld.

A meeting that would profoundly shape Chicago’s future was unfolding quietly, without fanfare.

Donald O’Connor, the young leader of the Irish gang, sat face-to-face with Al Capone, the rising second-in-command of the Chicago Mafia.

Donald deliberately drew out his Irish accent, mocking, “Last time I said we should talk, you said you were too busy running your paper. Now look at that—buying a lousy newspaper just to send some lackeys to live off the city’s dime.”

“Foolish, aren’t you? Can’t even read properly, yet you act all refined! Ha!” Capone’s facial muscles twitched, his jaw clenched tight.

But this wasn’t the first time he’d been mocked so brazenly. Taking a deep breath, he suppressed the raging fury within.

“You’re right. We should play the game well. Let’s talk this through properly now.”

After a stern reprimand from the Don, Capone realized he couldn’t monopolize the right to deal with the Don. Worse still, he had to comply with the Don’s demand to funnel money into the Sun for advertising.

And the man before him was likely to gain that privilege.

Capone couldn’t just shoot him down—this man had fought in the Great War, and not even two Capones could draw their guns faster.

This only fueled Capone’s urgency to strengthen his power. He tossed the useless newspaper aside and focused solely on stabilizing the situation through negotiation.

“All right, let’s talk.”

Though Donald’s tone was mocking, he knew many within the Irish gang were undermining him. Now was not the time to confront the Italians head-on.

If they could settle matters peacefully, all the better.

Sharing the same goal, the two men finally softened their sharp gazes and forced exaggerated smiles.

Donald leaned toward Capone and made his demand first: “You need to pull out of this street. It’s always been our turf.”

Capone shook his head firmly. “You guys have already pulled back from this street. We’ve invested heavily here. There’s no way we’re just walking away.”

Donald tapped the table, the dull sound echoing. “Then what do you propose?”

Capone’s thick fingers traced a direction. “We each give a little ground. This street stays with us, but we’ll pull out of those two streets over there and hand them over to you.”

Donald fell silent for a moment, then drew an invisible boundary on the table. “From now on, this is Irish territory. No Italian steps allowed. Deal?”

Capone snorted. “Deal! And don’t let me see a single Irishman on my turf.”

Having reached an accord, neither wished to linger. They stood simultaneously, turned away, and walked off back to back.

Capone’s smile froze instantly. Silently, he cursed, “Irish pigs. Even if you get some favors from the Don, you don’t know I’m the Chosen One, do you?”

“Just wait. With the Don’s help, when I become Chicago’s boss, you’ll be the first to eat lead!”

Donald’s grin vanished too. Bitterly, he vowed, “Italian scum, you don’t even know what being the Chosen One means… Once I tighten the Irish gang, the first thing I’ll do is take all your turf!”

…

Logan had no idea what inner turmoil his two “Chosen Ones” were experiencing. All he knew was their orders for illicit whiskey had skyrocketed.

This forced him to ruthlessly reject Annie’s request to add extra shoots at night. Transforming into a relentless transporter nicknamed “Han Solo,” he shuttled back and forth across the US-Canada border under cover of darkness.

There was no other choice; his capital was still too limited.

If only he had tens of millions of dollars now, he could fill his spatial backpack with liquor at once and avoid the grueling back-and-forth.

But for now, every time Donald or Capone placed an order, “Han Solo” made a trip to Windsor, Canada.

After trading and converting the liquor into cash, he used the funds as capital to keep ordering more whiskey.

To emphasize the distinction, “Han Solo” even brought different whiskey brands for Donald and Capone—an intricate touch.

Unknown to all, beneath the cloak of night, “Han Solo” alone had established a small river of cash and liquor flowing back and forth along the US-Canada border.

It required no special skill.

Compared to the carefree days, quietly earning tens of thousands nightly was dull beyond measure.

But “Han Solo” gritted his teeth and endured.

Someday, this little river would swell into a mighty stream.

One night, “Han Solo” was unloading whiskey at a secret warehouse arranged by Capone and collecting payment.

Their trading method was both simple and complex.

Capone placed coded ads in the Sun indicating how much whiskey he wanted. Upon seeing the ads, “Han Solo” delivered the whiskey to Capone’s secret warehouse and took payment from a safe inside. This cycle repeated.

Only “Han Solo” and Capone knew how to open the warehouse, ensuring complete secrecy.

“Han Solo” locked the door quietly and slipped away, silently lamenting, “Another boring night. Why do I have to live such a miserable life?”

Suddenly, he slowed his pace, glancing toward a brightly lit grocery store window. In the dim reflection of the glass, a vague figure clung closely behind him.

Excitement surged through “Han Solo’s” veins. He sneered coldly and suddenly quickened his stride, darting like a cunning rabbit into the crowded intersection ahead.

Amid the throng, his form weaved deftly and soon vanished.

Shortly after, a burly pursuer caught up, stomping his foot and spitting in frustration before turning away.

“Han Solo” slipped from the shadows and trailed silently.

The pursuer was somewhat cautious, occasionally glancing back.

But “Han Solo” skillfully used every shadow and obstacle for silent cover, like a ghost tamed by the night.

They left the South Side, heading further south until the pursuer stopped at an industrial area on the city outskirts.

“Han Solo” kept his distance and watched.

The pursuer knocked and entered.

The unmistakable scent of alcohol confirmed the target instantly.

“This is the Italians’ secret distillery!”

“Han Solo” thought briefly and dismissed the idea that Capone had sent someone to follow him.

Capone had clearly accepted Canadian-made private liquor and no longer needed a secret distillery.

Besides, he believed Capone’s respect for him hadn’t faded so quickly—just look at the other superstitious Chosen One for reference.

“So someone in the Mafia has noticed me this fast? Impressive.”

“Hmm, but that’s not my problem now. It’s time to bring the Chosen One out for a spin.”

“Capone, my Chosen One, how will you respond?”

“I’m looking forward to it!”

…