Chapter 1102: Bob and Fran

"Bob, our Colio Nightclub in the East Side was attacked..."

"Bob, our bar in the Lower District was attacked."

"Boss..."

The name "Boss" was mixed in with the constant calls of "Bob." Bob kept insisting people call him "Bob," his given name.

He was not the family Boss yet; he was only one of the key core members. The "Boss" was still Fran, and only Fran could be called "Boss."

This insistence earned him some minor, passing goodwill, but his own men still called him "Boss." Since his corrections were useless, he had stopped trying.

So, in the office, both forms of address were used.

Calling him by his name, and calling him "Boss."

From his personal perspective, he preferred being called "Boss"; it sounded more authoritative. He genuinely wanted to be the Boss, but this wasn't the time.

Listening to the continuous reports of Lance family attacks on their businesses, Bob felt a headache coming on, but thankfully, he already had a countermeasure.

He raised his hand, signaling the noisy crowd to be silent. But he lacked Fran's influence and authority; only when he shouted, "Quiet down!" did the people in the room fall silent.

Their gazes—some scrutinizing, some displeased—were all fixed on Bob.

Not everyone was loyal to him; many were loyal only to the patriarch, or specifically to Fran.

Looking at them, Bob knew that if he couldn't stabilize the situation, they would quickly consider replacing him with someone else.

His position in the family was high, but he wasn't the only option; others could capably fill this crucial role.

Once the room quieted, he shared his plan. "The Lance family's attack seems very fierce, and we appear to be on the defensive, but this is an illusion."

"Gentlemen, this is Old City. There is only one voice here, and that is the voice of the Perez family!"

"We were caught off guard because we weren't prepared for their surprise attack. Once we recover and stabilize, they are no match for us!"

"Therefore, I now mandate that wherever you go, you must be accompanied by at least ten people, and you must be armed."

"Handguns, submachine guns, even grenades—these things will help you deal with those who launch surprise attacks."

"Furthermore, restrict your men. Keep them on your territory, don't let them wander, and prepare for defense and counter-attack."

"Your men must have weapons, ammunition, know how to shoot, and dare to shoot."

He emphasized the act of shooting.

Not every gang member had the courage and capability to kill. It wasn't as simple as people imagined.

Many were thugs; they could insult, beat, extort, and commit many crimes, but they might struggle to overcome the psychological barrier to killing.

Such people were common. To those who claimed moral high ground, this was their bottom line. But in reality, the bottom line could be broken at any time, provided there was enough motivation.

Now, the family was at a crucial moment. It was time to break that bottom line.

Being able and daring to shoot—that was the key.

Whether they actually hit the target didn't matter. This was like the dynamic between a bully and a victim.

If the victim dared not fight back, the bully would only intensify the abuse.

But if the victim fought back, causing the bully fear or even pain, the bully would likely leave them alone in the future.

This was a matter of cost.

If the Lance family suffered fierce resistance and casualties during their attacks, they would consider the cost.

If they started to hesitate and became cautious about whether it was worth the effort, the chaotic situation would quickly stabilize.

The way people looked at Bob shifted slightly. What they needed now was a clear direction, and they would fill in the details themselves.

No one objected. They felt this was worth trying. Bob was satisfied with the mood. He looked at them. "Then go now and execute the plan!"

People began leaving the room, quickly finding phones to contact their subordinates and inform them of the new defense strategy.

In the room symbolizing the highest family authority, only Bob and a few others remained.

There was one subtle detail: Bob never sat in the chair belonging to Fran, not even now.

He consistently sat in the separate armchair, which was also Fran's exclusive seat, but it was less sensitive than the desk chair.

He desperately wanted to sit in the Boss's chair, but he knew he couldn't do it now.

"Will this solve the problems we are facing?" his son asked curiously. "It doesn't seem like we're doing much."

Bob lit a cigarette, frowning as he took a drag. "You don't understand."

"Our strength is immense, far beyond what ordinary people can imagine. Even double this number of attacks would fail to defeat us."

"Do you know how many men I alone can mobilize?" Bob looked at his son with a calm expression.

His son hadn't seriously investigated this. He guessed uncertainly, "One hundred, or two hundred?"

Bob didn't answer directly, instead looking with a half-smile at his chief lieutenant, a man in his forties.

The lieutenant stood by the wall, almost unnoticed. "We can mobilize about six to seven hundred men right now."

"That many?" Bob's son looked back at his father in disbelief.

Six to seven hundred men didn't sound like much more than the workers in a medium-sized factory.

But they were a gang, not a factory.

Even for a factory, six to seven hundred was not a small number. At the current high wages in the wealthy Southern region, a worker earned at least $55 to $60 a month, meaning six hundred men alone cost nearly $40,000 in monthly salary.

These gang members were paid much more than ordinary workers. Why else would they risk dangerous, illegal work?

They risked death and imprisonment for the money.

Bob spent over $100,000 to $200,000 every month on various expenses.

The men under his command alone matched the core teams of some medium-sized gangs.

If he added the loosely affiliated peripheral members, he commanded a force of over a thousand.

If one Bob had this much strength, what about the others?

Did they also command hundreds of men?

Therefore, Bob never believed the Perez family was outmatched by the Lance family. They were merely shocked and slow to react this time.

Once they stabilized and retaliated against the Lance family, it would be like a strong adult bullying a child.

Even if the child held a sharp knife and managed to wound the adult, killing him was impossible!

Feeling this confidence and power from his father, his son's anxiety gradually subsided.

"So, we just wait for good news now?"

Indeed, just as Bob predicted, once they began consolidating their forces and stopped running around in panic, the attacks on the Perez family quickly subsided.

It was no longer an easy target.

"Since it's not an easy target, call the men back. The first wave of attacks is over."

Lance had been released from the hospital. Doctors confirmed he was completely healthy. His injuries from the attack looked frightening but were only superficial, not even requiring special treatment.

This made some people realize the entire attack was a setup. They might not know who Lance was targeting, but the smile on his face during his public appearance suggested his plan was going well.

Bob had successfully suppressed the news of Fran being shot, so people still didn't know Fran had nearly died.

Lance, remote-controlling the battle from distant Golden Port City, had even considered moving closer to the battlefield.

"If the Perez family consolidates its people, the attacks will become ineffective."

"Our frequent success these past few days was due to an intelligence gap; they didn't know we had their routines figured out. Once they prepare defenses, the cost of attacking them will multiply. It's no longer cost-effective."

"Over the next period, they will try to find our weaknesses and attempt a counter-attack. We must be prepared."

"Director Hull cannot be fully trusted. He aligned with us for profit and a better future, but he might align with others for greater profit and a brighter future."

"If you detect anything amiss, retreat immediately. We might seem small compared to them, but being small has its advantages; we can pivot faster."

"Next, try implementing my idea. It may not succeed, but it's an opportunity nonetheless."

After Lance finished giving instructions, Hiram felt somewhat... excessive.

Yes, a blood-soaked maniac who enjoyed emptying his gun magazines, and who had modified two high-capacity drums to put heavy rounds into people's bodies, actually thought Lance was "excessive."

Yet, he had to admit that Lance's "excessiveness" made perfect strategic sense.

Hiram began assigning tasks. He was eager to see the expressions on the faces of the Perez family core members over the next few days.

Just that afternoon, news that shocked Old City spread like wildfire:

The beloved philanthropist, Mr. Fran Perez, was shot a few days ago at his estate.

The bullet struck him, and he was rushed to the hospital, where his life hung in the balance.

Furthermore, during Fran's coma, Bob took command of the Perez family, and there were rumors that Bob had collaborated with Lance's people to orchestrate the horrifying assassination attempt...

"This is outright slander!" Bob sat next to Fran's hospital bed, condemning the rumors. "I will find the people spreading these rumors and cut out their tongues and shove them up their asses, those sons of bitches, f***!"

Watching Bob's near-hysterical reaction, Fran's eyes held only amusement. He licked his lips. Since the surgery was only a few days ago, he had just started consuming small amounts of liquid food. Even drinking water was rationed.

This left his lips dry, and there was little he could do about it.

His body was still adjusting. With one lung removed, some internal organs had shifted. He would only be able to drink and eat more once those organs adapted to the new environment.

"The doctor told me there are now transplant surgeries available. I could get a lung transplant," Fran said calmly, seemingly unconcerned about the rumors.

Bob's performance became frantic. He straightened his hair, making sure every strand was in place. "What can I do for you?"

Fran took a deep breath, his voice edged with longing. "Find the person who can give me his lung, and bring him here."

Bob had heard of organ transplant technology. Some religious groups called it blasphemy, a foolish attempt by mortals to seize divine power, which would bring retribution.

Unfortunately, their arguments didn't achieve the desired effect because the development of cutting-edge medical technology was always supported by the wealthy elite.

When they believed an organ transplant could bring them longer life and better health, they drove the technology forward.

As for the religious protests?

Let them protest!

The Federation was a land of freedom. They could throw a tantrum, but they would never benefit from the technology.

Only those who were wealthy and powerful enough to disregard law and morality could afford such a surgery. Ordinary people, the middle class, and even the general upper class were ineligible!

Fran himself wasn't exactly qualified, but the doctor he collaborated with was also conducting research in this area.

Fearful, rich, and powerful elderly people were the true consumer base for this technology.

Ordinary people couldn't afford a three-dollar shot of a specialty drug, but the wealthy consumed drugs costing fifty, a hundred, or even more dollars per injection, multiple times a day.

Thus, they were the true core consumers.

As for the poor?

They were simply the waste product left after the profitable phase was over, though their sheer numbers were large.

Fran had secured a slot. The doctor said he could try to transplant a healthy lung into him for free.

Every breath Fran took required immense effort, and he still felt short of breath.

Anyone who hasn't experienced a near-death moment can never understand the intensity of life and the desperate desire to live. Right now, to Fran, the Lance family attacks were irrelevant. What mattered was his survival.

He stretched out his shriveled hand. He had lost a noticeable amount of weight during his two days in the hospital. The back of his hand had shrunk, and the wrinkled, bulging skin looked unsettling.

Bob proactively reached out his hand, which Fran gripped tightly. "I'll have to rely on you to manage the family's affairs for a while."

"But my personal matter—my survival—you must prioritize. You can speak with the doctor. He will tell you what to do."

He finished speaking, let out a deep breath, and closed his eyes, as if falling asleep.

Bob carefully backed out of the room. The moment the door closed, Fran, who had been "asleep," opened his eyes.

Outside the room, Bob found the doctor and immediately brought up the organ transplant.

"So, what do I need to do?"

The doctor handed him a list. "These are local people I have selected: young, strong, and without any bad habits."

"If you can convince them to donate a portion of their lung, we can perform the transplant on Mr. Fran."

"Convince?" Bob emphasized the word. "What happens to these people after the surgery?"

The doctor answered with professional responsibility. "It won't affect their life. In fact, since their lungs are very healthy, the remaining lung is enough for them."

"Of course, there's always the possibility of unforeseen medical complications, which I cannot predict."

Hearing the doctor, Bob knew what he meant.

Whether through money, kidnapping, or other means, the hospital didn't care. They just needed the "resource donor."