Los Angeles, Beverly Hills.
Less than a mile from the Four Seasons Hotel stood a sprawling 8,000-square-foot mansion, valued at a cool $34.5 million. Perched on the hillside of Beverly Hills, the estate was a monument to excess. Push open its grand doors, and you’d step into a lush garden leading to an infinity pool that seemed to spill into the horizon. From the front entrance, the glittering sprawl of Los Angeles stretched out below, a mesmerizing tapestry of lights and ambition.
Inside the opulent master bedroom, bathed in gold and marble, Christine sat at an ornate vanity, her lithe figure draped in a sleek black negligee that clung to her curves like a second skin. Her long, slender legs were crossed elegantly, one foot tapping idly as she applied a final touch of crimson lipstick.
Ring, ring!
Her phone buzzed to life, shattering the quiet. Christine picked it up, her sharp eyes narrowing at the caller ID: a string of asterisks, like something out of a hacker’s playbook. ’What the hell?’ she thought, her brow furrowing. This was her private number, known only to a select few—not even her assistant or the top brass of her organization had it. A wrong number, maybe? Her instincts, honed by years of caution, screamed to ignore it.
Ring, ring!
The phone rang again, those same cryptic asterisks glaring back at her. "Shit," She muttered under her breath, her curiosity outweighing her wariness. She hit the answer button but stayed silent, waiting for the caller to make the first move.
A cold, mechanical voice crackled through the line, distorted by a voice changer. "Should I call you Christine... or Vermouth?"
Christine’s breath caught, her body freezing as if doused in ice water. Her pupils contracted, her mind racing. Her real name, Christine, wasn’t a secret—plenty of obsessive fans had dug that up over the years. But Vermouth? That was her deepest, darkest secret, the codename of the leader of Los Angeles’s rising criminal syndicate. She’d built the organization from nothing in just three years, always cloaked in disguises, never showing her true face, not even to her most trusted lieutenants. For someone to know that name meant they’d pierced the veil she’d spent years weaving. If that secret got out, her empire would crumble faster than a house of cards in a hurricane.
But Christine wasn’t an Oscar-winning actress for nothing. In a heartbeat, she steadied her nerves, her voice calm and tinged with just the right amount of confusion. "Who is this? Wrong number, I’m guessing?"
A low, mocking chuckle came through the phone. "Damn, that stings. You really can’t recognize your old pal’s voice?"
Christine’s temper flared. "You’re using a fucking voice changer, asshole. I’d have to be psychic to know it’s you."
The distortion vanished, and a familiar voice replaced it, warm and teasing. "Better now? Ring any bells?"
Christine hesitated, her mind piecing it together. Two seconds later, relief flooded her, followed by a surge of raw emotion. She gritted her teeth, her voice dripping with venom. "Jason, you miserable son of a bitch."
"Ha! That’s the spirit!" Jason laughed, his voice rich with amusement. "Three years apart, and you still know it’s me. That’s gotta count for something."
Christine snorted, her tone sharp and biting. "What’s with the encrypted phone bullshit? Oh, wait, let me guess—you’re on the run from the entire NYPD, scraping by, and now you’re crawling back to me for help?"
In the hotel room, Jason’s expression twisted into something between amusement and exasperation. ’Is this chick living under a rock?’ "Your intel’s out of date, sweetheart," He said, leaning back in his chair. "Do yourself a favor and turn on the news."
"The news?" Christine’s voice was skeptical, but she padded into the living room, her bare feet silent on the plush carpet. She grabbed the remote and flicked on the massive flat-screen TV mounted on the wall.
"What, you got nabbed by the cops already?" She taunted. "Calling me to drag someone down with you before they lock you up for good?"
Jason didn’t bother responding, just pulled the phone away from his ear with a smirk. ’Let her see for herself.’ She’d figure out soon enough how fucking clueless she sounded.
The news anchor was in full swing, his voice urgent as he detailed Jason’s exploits and the rise of the so-called "Joker" organization. To drive home the group’s threat, he flashed a rundown of its members—each one a hardened criminal from Long Island Prison, handpicked for their ruthlessness and expertise. Hackers who could crack any system, surgeons who could stitch up a gunshot wound in a back alley, sharpshooters who never missed. The anchor painted a chilling picture: a crew of genius-level felons united under Jason’s command, capable of unleashing chaos on a scale no one could predict.
Christine watched, her expression shifting from skepticism to grudging respect. Jason wasn’t just some fugitive anymore—he was a fucking kingpin, commanding a roster of elite criminals that made her own outfit look like a street gang. Her jaw tightened as she processed it all, a mix of envy and irritation bubbling up.
"Alright, I get the picture," She said finally, her voice clipped. "So, what’s this call about? You just gonna rub your shiny new empire in my face?"
Jason rolled his eyes, his tone dry. "Bragging? Nah, I’m not that bored. This is bigger than a dick-measuring contest. We need to talk, face-to-face."
Christine laughed, a sharp, incredulous sound. "You want me to come to New York? You’re too fucking dangerous, Jason. You think I’m dumb enough to walk into your trap?"
He sighed, a hint of frustration creeping in. "Jesus, it’s been three years, and you still don’t trust me? Not even a little?"
She shot back, "You tell me."
"Fine, cards on the table," He said. "I’m not in New York. I’m in LA."
Christine’s eyes widened, her perfectly arched brows shooting up. "No way? New York’s got the military and every cop in the state hunting you, and you just waltz out? How the fuck did you pull that off?"
"Believe it or don’t, but I’m here," Jason said, his voice calm but firm. "I’m at the Four Seasons in Beverly Hills. Come meet me."
"Beverly Hills?" Christine’s voice wavered, her mind reeling at the coincidence. ’He’s practically in my backyard.’ She hesitated, weighing her options, then relented. "Fine. We’ll talk in person. I’ll be there."
---
Back at the Four Seasons, Jason hung up, a sly grin spreading across his face. ’Wonder what kind of fireworks this reunion’s gonna bring,’ he thought, already anticipating the clash of their larger-than-life personalities. Christine was a wildcard, and he couldn’t wait to see what she’d built in LA.
He turned to find Harley hovering nearby, her eyes narrowed with curiosity—and a hint of something else. "Your ’friend’... she’s a woman?" She asked, her tone deceptively casual.
Jason nodded, unfazed. "Yeah. What about it?"
Harley crossed her arms, her lips pursing. "You said you’ve never been to LA before. How the hell do you have a lady friend here?"
He sighed, launching into the full story of his and Christine’s—Vermouth’s—shared past, from their Hell’s Kitchen days to her rise as an Oscar-winning actress and secret crime lord. He laid it all out: the heists, the jail time he took for her, their fiery romance, and their eventual falling-out over her insane plan to overthrow Kingpin.
Harley listened intently, her expression growing stormier with every word. When he finished, she huffed, her voice sharp. "So, she’s your fucking first love? That’s just great."
Jason blinked, thrown off by her reaction. "Harley, what the hell? That’s your takeaway? Most people would be losing their shit over the fact that an Oscar-winning actress is secretly running a crime syndicate."
Harley shrugged, her lips pursed in a pout as she turned away. "Whatever."
Jason scratched his head, baffled. ’She was fine five minutes ago. What’s with the attitude?’ Women. He’d never figure them out. But he didn’t have time to play therapist—his mind was already racing, plotting how to pull Christine into his orbit when she showed up. A player like her, with her resources and connections, could be the key to taking his operation to the next level.
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