Reborn as an American Writer

The massive ship finally docked at the pier in New York Harbor, and Vincent Adler, who had been eagerly waiting, was the first to rush off. As he once again set foot on the land of the city that had once brought him to the peak and then forced him to leave in disgrace, even someone as cunning and experienced as Vincent couldn't help but tear up.

Damn it, who would have thought that the carefully planned scheme against his former subordinate Neal Caffrey would be almost derailed by an unexpected writer? What's more ridiculous is that when he sent his best assassin to eliminate this unstable factor, the battle-hardened Larson was actually killed by the writer? Isn't that absurd? A writer with such high vigilance is one thing, but how does he have better shooting skills than my hired assassin? Are the requirements for being a writer now so high that they need to be capable of both literary genius and martial prowess? If you're that amazing, why don't you just ascend to the heavens?

When Vincent couldn't stand it any longer and sought help from the Continental Hotel, which had immense power in the underworld, hoping they could teach this formidable writer a lesson, he was hit with a major setback. His hard-earned junior membership at the Continental Hotel was abruptly revoked just because he requested an investigation into Richard Castle. This sudden change scared the already jittery Vincent so much that he immediately withdrew all his men and arrangements in New York and fled back to his base in Buenos Aires, Argentina. With his keen sense of danger, he knew at that moment he had hit a brick wall! Leaving the danger zone quickly was his instinct.

Back in Argentina, the more Vincent thought about it, the angrier he got! Damn it, when I was making waves on Wall Street, you were struggling to survive in some corner. Now that I'm down and out, I can't beat you in New York, huh? Then I'll issue a bounty on you across the entire European underworld; someone will definitely take you out!

Sure enough, this move was effective. The writer, who had repeatedly caused Vincent trouble, called to negotiate shortly after the bounty was issued. For the sake of achieving his ultimate dream and knowing that he would eventually have to return to New York, Vincent grudgingly agreed to Castle's truce. In return, he obtained the music box that held the secret to realizing his dream, something he had long coveted.

In truth, both Vincent and Castle knew that this was merely a temporary measure, a false peace agreement. Once Vincent located and salvaged the submarine he had sought since childhood, the conflict between him and Castle would reignite.

What Vincent didn't know was that all his plans were playing right into the hands of Castle, Neal, and Mozzie. For Castle, if not for needing Vincent to fund and man the submarine salvage, he could have destroyed Vincent's body last time!

Sending assassins after me and then putting a bounty on me? If it weren't for planning to double-cross Vincent, Castle wouldn't have stopped John Wick from eliminating Vincent when Wick offered. Vincent would have been dead by now, and the grass on his grave might already be growing!

This time, as Vincent stood on the soil of New York, he was prepared. Determined to fulfill his long-cherished wish and knowledgeable about the submarine due to his father's connection, he was brimming with confidence in his ability to salvage it successfully.

As for Castle and Neal, those ingrates, once he completed this major task, he would settle the score with them! Standing at New York Harbor, Vincent vowed as he gazed at the city's skyline.

Meanwhile, soaking in a hotel bathtub in Brazil, Castle had no idea that his prized tool, Vincent, had returned to New York ahead of him. If he knew, Castle would have laughed himself silly. Mr. Vincent Adler really was a good person, hurrying back to New York to entertain Castle.

As a "successful individual" carrying a full fifty million dollars in cash, Castle was just thinking in the bathtub that, apart from banks and casinos in Las Vegas, there might not be anyone else in the USA who could come up with such a large sum of cash at a moment's notice. Considering the widespread use of credit cards, most people rarely even have a hundred-dollar bill on them, maybe just a few dollars in change. His habit of carrying wads of cash had always been unique, but now, being able to produce fifty million on the spot was unprecedented. Calling himself a mobile ATM wouldn't be an exaggeration.

For some reason, Castle found this amusing and spent a long time laughing alone with a glass of champagne in the bathtub. He even fantasized about flaunting this ability in the future, competing with a braggart to see who could mobilize the most cash in the shortest time, and then showing off grandly.

Bored out of his mind, Castle fantasized about his future as he sipped champagne in the bathtub, looking out at the distant statue of Christ the Redeemer with a sense of self-satisfaction.

This trip to Brazil had thoroughly satisfied Castle's voyeuristic desires and ambitions of being a hidden mastermind. So, the next day, when he energetically knocked on the chubby man's door and saw a room full of beautiful women sprawled everywhere, he didn't show any envy or jealousy. Calmly, he asked the international beauties who had partied with the chubby man all night to get up; it was time to take the chubby man back to the USA.

Thoughtful Uncle Rick even garnered the favor of these scantily clad ladies one last time. As Castle stood at the door, he handed each departing lady a red envelope with ten thousand dollars. By the time the chubby man had packed his things and came out, Castle's face was covered in lipstick marks!

The chubby man no longer felt guilty about his debauchery because he knew his Uncle Rick, for some unknown reason, now only looked but never touched these scantily clad beauties. So, he could remain calm about his wild night.

Dragging the barely-standing chubby man downstairs to check out, Castle and his companion sat in the luxurious car provided by the hotel. The car would take them to the private airport arranged by the hotel, where they would board the private jet Castle had booked yesterday, flying directly to New York.

This trip had completely liberated the chubby man's nature, who had always been a homebody. Spending nearly a month with Castle, a man dark to his core, had turned the chubby man into a different person. He had experienced countless intimate encounters with women from various countries and no longer believed that computers were more fun than ladies.

Castle felt no guilt for corrupting the chubby man; instead, he was proud of rescuing an otherwise hopeless homebody. Besides, he had made the chubby man rich, so why feel guilty?

Today, Castle intended to teach the chubby man one last lesson: with money, you can do whatever you want!

The Gulfstream G550 was already considered the top private jet of its time, as the G650 hadn't been released yet. This G550, specially booked by the hotel for their wealthy client, left the chubby man, who had only ever flown commercial first class, speechless with amazement. The sight of the luxury jet and the two elegantly uniformed flight attendants standing by the aircraft entrance gave the chubby man newfound energy despite his exhaustion from the previous night's revelry.

Seeing the chubby man nearly drooling, Castle shook his head in exasperation, turned his head to face him, and said, "Hey, wake up... wake up. Don't embarrass yourself. Once we're on the plane, you'll have plenty of time to look. Just don't make a scene here."

Blushing at Castle's teasing, the chubby man replied nonchalantly, "Uncle Rick, I finally understand that everything you told me was true. A man needs to have money. Do you think I could buy one of these with my money?"

It was only now that Castle realized the chubby man wasn't drooling over the flight attendants but was interested in the G550 itself.

___________________

Read Ahead

[email protected]/Mutter