American comics farmer: start by adopting the villain savior.

Chapter 134 The Chronicles of Dio (Part Two) — The Emperor said: Gotham is addictive.

At the entrance of the Iceberg Club.

Dio shifted his gaze from the waiter's despairing face and slowly looked at the door leading to the club's core area, as if he could see through the walls to the decadent crowd inside and parasitic managers like Ogilvy.

He bent down.

This action was extremely rare for him.

Instead of kicking the hand away, he used two fingers to pinch the waiter's wrist with extreme disdain, prying his hand off his trouser leg.

Then, he took out a clean handkerchief from the inside pocket of his jacket and carefully wiped his fingers, as if cleaning off some kind of filth.

"Snapped."

The blood-stained handkerchief was carelessly tossed aside next to the waiter.

His movements remained indifferent, but his words caused the almost desperate waiter to suddenly open his swollen eyes wide—

I will pay for your sister's medical expenses.

Dior's voice was calm, yet possessed a wondrous charm.

after all
No matter how lowly these peasants may be, they are still tools serving him.

"Now, get to the hospital. Later."

He paused, a cold glint flashing in his crimson eyes. Without saying a word, and no longer looking at the waiter who was utterly shocked and moved to tears, he turned around and pushed open the side door.

Loud and extravagant music came out first.

A warm breeze carrying the scents of expensive perfume, alcohol, and desire wafted towards me.

"boom--"

The heavy side door slammed shut behind him with a dull thud.

Deafening electronic music pounded against eardrums, and under the dazzling crystal chandeliers, well-dressed men and women were immersed in revelry, as if the desperate world outside had nothing to do with them.

Dior walked expressionlessly through the busy kitchen aisle, ignoring the awe or fawning glances cast at him by the chefs and waiters on either side.

He has clear goals.

He first went to his private lounge on the fourth floor to change clothes.

Can.
Just as he emerged from the relatively quiet staff elevator area.

An annoying roar, mixed with suppressed arguments, came from the nearby waiter's room.

"—I said no, and that's final! Kyle! Are you deaf or dumb?!"

It's Ogilvy again.

Dior stopped in his tracks, his eyes instantly turning cold.

Noisy insects.
He turned slightly to the side and peered inside through the slightly ajar door.

Ogilvy was standing arrogantly, blocking a tall and slender waitress.

The waitress had long, jet-black hair tied in a neat ponytail, with a few stray strands falling beside her fair neck. Her uniform clung to her shapely figure, highlighting her slender waist and long legs.

Even though the uniform was issued by the club, it couldn't hide her outstanding temperament.

Dior recognized her; her name seemed to be Selena.
A flexible approach and tactful manner seem to be popular with customers.

At that moment, the gorilla was practically poking Selena's face with his finger, spitting everywhere:

"Your service area is the West Zone VIP booths! Who gave you permission to go to the East Zone bar to deliver drinks without permission?! Huh?! This violates Article 3 of the Area Service Regulations! Fine! A fine is mandatory! All tips for this hour will be deducted! Deliver them to my office safe later."

"."

“Mr. Ogilvy.” Selena maintained a professional smile, but a barely perceptible hint of mockery flashed in her green eyes.

Her voice remained soft and charming, yet it possessed a resilience, as if she were suppressing some kind of wildness about to erupt:
"It was Mr. James from the East District who specifically asked me to deliver a bottle of Dom Pérignon. He's a regular customer, and his spending is always quite high, I thought."

"What do you think?! Do you think you have the right to think this way?!"

Ogilvy interrupted her rudely, his voice even sharper:

"Rules are rules! If Mr. James wants service, wouldn't he call a waiter from the East Wing? Why do you have to overstep your bounds and do it for him?! I think you're just trying to squeeze more tips out of the rules! I've seen plenty of women like you!"

His words were full of insults and targeting.

It's obvious they deliberately came to the fourth floor to cause trouble.

It even seemed to happen often, since several passing waiters kept their heads down, daring not to speak out against their anger.

"."

Selena's smile faded, and the temperature in her green eyes dropped.

Her fingers tightened slightly as she held the tray.

Those familiar with her in the underworld know this.

This woman, codenamed 'Cat,' has limited patience and tact.

"Mr. Ogilvy."

Her voice turned colder. "I believe this is just a normal customer service request response, not as serious as you're making it out to be. If you insist on a fine, I think we'll need to have Mr. Roccoman or, more specifically, Mr. Coppert, make a ruling."

She brought up Rochman, who had now gone from manager to supervisor, and Cobbot, who was above everyone else.

To try to apply pressure.

but.
This only further enraged Ogilvy, making him feel that his authority had been challenged!
The name 'Rocoman' in particular seemed to have touched a nerve in him.

"You! And that guy on the fourth floor too!"

He seemed about to utter an insulting word, but he held it back, though the contempt and anger on his face were undisguised. "That 'king'! Don't think I don't know what you're doing currying favor with those nobles! Do you all really think you're someone important?!"

The anger clearly went beyond the current event itself.

Ogilvy seemed to be using this as an excuse to vent some long-suppressed resentment.

"And you think you can use him to pressure me?! Who do you think you are?!" He was furious, his face flushed, and he reached out to grab Selena's arm. "Let me tell you! Mr. Cobblepot isn't here! Here, my word is law."

The words stopped abruptly.

Because a cold, iron-like hand silently reached out from behind him and firmly grasped his wrist, which was about to touch Selena!
The force was astonishing, squeezing his wrist until it cracked. The intense pain made him swallow back all the harsh words he was about to say, and he let out a painful gasp.

"Ugh! Who?! Which bastard?"

Ogilvy turned around abruptly, both surprised and furious.

But the next second, all his anger and curses got stuck in his throat, his face instantly turned from red to white, and his pupils suddenly contracted in terror.

The man was standing right behind him.

In the dim light, those scarlet eyes, like two cold flames, stared at him without any emotion.

His face was expressionless, but the almost suffocating sense of oppression made Ogilvy's legs go weak.

It's Diego!

The one he despised from the bottom of his heart, but had to put on a smiling face to greet because of his boss's favoritism—the Cowherd King.

是 的
This is the man.

Since he rose to prominence on the fourth floor, he has been frequently reprimanded by his boss for "incompetence" and even beaten every day.

Do you know how much pain a cane can cause for a 38-year-old middle-aged person?!
Even the fourth floor that originally belonged to him was taken away by this guy.

Such humiliation was like a thorn, always stuck in his self-esteem.

Why? She's just someone who makes a living based on her looks. Why does she deserve the boss's favor?
"You bastard?!"

His voice was distorted by pain, but that didn't stop Ogilvy from staring intently into Dio's red eyes. An indescribable sense of humiliation surged up his head, even briefly overshadowing his fear.

"let me go!"

"Who do you think you are?! You're nothing but a gigolo! How dare you interfere in my business?!"

He tried to struggle, but Dio's hand was like cast iron, unmoving and instead tightening its grip, the excruciating pain turning his face instantly pale.

"If it weren't for me, how would you have gotten in touch with Elana?!"

"."

But the person holding his hand seemed not to hear his roar at all.

Their gaze didn't even fully fall on him, as if they had just casually pinned down a buzzing fly.

He turned his head slightly to look at Selena beside him, his voice calm and emotionless:

"He touched you?"

Selena snapped out of her brief surprise and looked at the starkly contrasting scene before her.

The management team is furious but unable to move, while the male public relations officer is indifferent but in control of the whole situation.

A glint of keen interest flashed in her green eyes. She shook her head, her tone playful:

"Almost! Luckily, Your Majesty, you arrived just in time!"

These words.
This seemed to pierce Ogilvy's fragile nerves even more thoroughly.

"Your Majesty?! Bah!"

Enraged, he blurted out, "Diego! You're nothing but a gigolo who got to where you are by relying on your looks! You really think you're something special just because the boss flatters you?! In my eyes, you're nothing! Let me go right now! Or I'll make sure you can't stay in Iceberg!"

The insults echoed in the waiters' room, and the waiters who were secretly watching held their breath.

Only then did Dior's expression finally change slightly—

It wasn't anger, but a kind of...
Utter contempt.

He finally looked directly at Ogilvy, his scarlet eyes narrowing slightly, as if ice were freezing within them.

"Finished?"

Dior's voice lowered, yet carried a chillingly dangerous quality.

Ogilvy felt a chill run down his spine under his gaze, yet he still roared, his voice laced with bravado, "So what if you're done?! You—"

"Crack!"

A sharp, teeth-grinding cracking sound suddenly rang out!

Without warning, Dior exerted his strength and decisively broke his wrist!

"Ah—!!! My hand! My hand!"

He let out a bloodcurdling scream, so shrill it was inhuman, and Ogilvy collapsed like a lump of mud. The excruciating pain instantly shattered all his courage and arrogance.

He glanced at the gorilla on the ground with disdain.

Dio reached out and grabbed at Selena.

Under her wary gaze, he casually untied a silk scarf from her collar, then slowly unfolded it and meticulously wiped each of his fingers, as if he had just touched something extremely filthy.

then
He took out the keypad phone.

With his extraordinary memory, he smoothly dialed a number that was not saved.

The call was answered after only two rings, which allowed Dior to turn on speakerphone.

"Hey?"

A slightly surprised but still warm voice came from the other end of the phone.

In the background noise, you can faintly hear the sound of a roulette wheel spinning, the clinking of chips, and people haggling in an Italian accent in the distance.

"What a rare guest, my dear 'King' Mr. Calling me at this hour, is the night in Gotham not enough to keep you entertained?"

On the other end of the phone was Oswald Coppert, who was handling business on the other side of the ocean.

However, he spoke as if he were chatting with an old friend, not at all like a superior and subordinate.

Without any pleasantries, Dior cut to the chase, his voice calm and unwavering even through the phone:
“Mr. Cobblestone, since I took over the fourth floor, revenue has increased by 300%, top customer satisfaction has increased by 100%, and bookings have tripled.”

He stated the facts in a flat tone, as if he were reading a report.

"but"

He then abruptly changed the subject, his voice revealing an undisguised weariness: "I am extremely tired of the inefficient, stupid, and brutally exploitative management style here. It is lowering the 'iceberg's' proper standards and hindering us from creating greater value."

"Oh?"

Copeport on the other end of the phone seemed interested, and the noisy background noise decreased slightly.

"Sounds like my cash cow is a little unhappy? Tell me, my dear Diego, what do you want?"

His voice carried the shrewdness and inquisitiveness of a businessman.

Without the slightest hesitation, Dior made his request directly:

“It’s very simple. Starting tonight, the fourth floor of the Iceberg Club—my venue—will be entirely under my control. Personnel, finance, operations—I’ll have the final say on everything.”

There was a brief silence on the other end of the phone.

Dior could almost picture Copper leaning on an umbrella, squinting his small eyes as he weighed the pros and cons.

A few seconds later, the voice came again, still with a smile, but with a hint of sharpness:

“A very ambitious proposal, Mr. Diego. I admire it. However…”

He paused slightly, his tone suddenly tightening: "Business is business. You've demonstrated your value and made your demands. So tell me—"

"What can you give me in return for this, well, 'privilege'?"

He seemed to be weighing the chips with great interest, and asked slowly.

Without any lengthy explanation, Dior simply uttered four words:
"Falcone".

"."

There was a sudden silence on the other end of the phone.

The previous relaxed smile seemed to have been cut off with a single stroke.

Instead, there was an almost frozen, precisely targeted silence.

It took more than ten seconds for Coppa's voice to come through again.

His tone had completely changed, filled with disbelief and a kind of ignited excitement:
"Hahahaha! Excellent! Very good! Mr. Diego! I knew I hadn't misjudged you! I never expected you to not only know how to please women, but also have such a sharp eye! You even noticed that!"

His voice rose slightly with excitement.

Clearly, this name touched upon his most core interests.

Ruthless, precise, and incredibly audacious.

This is no longer just a cash cow; it's practically a powerful tool that has been quietly handed to him, capable of shaking up the landscape of Gotham!
That Falcone was completely infatuated with him.

"That idiot Ogilvy"

Copeport's tone instantly filled with disdain, as if he were talking about a piece of trash:
"It's just a defective product I casually brought back from my last 'procurement' trip to the Black Gate. It was only meant to fill a temporary gap and do some dirty work. Since it upset you, why is it so blind?"

He paused, his tone becoming lighter, as if he had only made a trivial decision:

"Then it's up to you, my dear Mr. Diego. As long as you can 'convince' him, you can take over his pitiful territory and manpower at the club."

"Remember to check the eighth floor before you leave work; someone will be there to greet you."

"I'm looking forward to your performance. Perhaps we'll be able to have a deeper collaboration soon."

His voice was truly full of anticipation!

"See you next week."

Without saying another word, Dior pressed the hang-up button.

He put his phone back in his pocket, his gaze returning to Ogilvy, who was now staring in disbelief on the ground. The obstacle removal permit was now in hand.

He remembered that Ogilvy was in charge of the 2nd, 3rd, and 6th floors of the chassis.

It's time too.

Next, it's time to make everyone on these floors fully understand who the new rules are here.

“Mr. Diego”

Ogilvy's voice instantly turned obsequious, the sharp pain in his wrist causing sweat to bead on his forehead. "What's going on here? Don't you think so? How about we settle this?"

Dio didn't even look at him; his gaze passed over Ogilvy and landed on the slightly surprised Selena, his voice calm and even:
"He just said that here, whose word is law?"

A hint of surprise flashed in Selena's green eyes.

Her red lips curved slightly, and she said softly, "Mr. Ogilvy."

“Very well.” Dio then slowly shifted his gaze back to Ogilvy’s pale face. He tilted his head slightly, as if genuinely curious: “Tell me. Since when did it become your place, Ogilvy, to set the rules of the Iceberg Club?”

“I…I didn’t mean that, Mr. Diego. I…”

Ogilvy was rambling incoherently, his shirt soaked with cold sweat.

Dio, however, was too lazy to listen to his nonsense and kicked him.

"Crack!"

A dull thud, and the ribs broke.

"what--!"

Ogilvy let out a pig-like scream and rolled three times on the ground in pain.

"Ah."

"It seems you're not quite familiar with the rules here." Dio's voice remained calm, yet carried a chilling authority. "Then I'll teach you."

He raised his eyes, glanced at the servants around him who were silent but secretly casting gratifying glances, and finally fixed his gaze on Ogilvy, who was groaning in pain.

“Rocoman!” Dio raised his voice and called out a name.

Supervisor Roccoman, who had been nervously watching from nearby but dared not approach, immediately scrambled over, his forehead covered in cold sweat.
"Mr. Diego! What can I do for you?"

"First, from today onwards, he is a servant."

Ogway looked up abruptly, his eyes filled with disbelief and fear.

“Second,” Dio continued, his voice clear to everyone, “go to his office and return all the money he withheld and fined, along with three times the amount in compensation, to the parties involved.”

“If you lose even a fraction of that, I’ll throw you and him into Gotham Bay to feed the fish.”

"third."

Dio stepped forward, looking down at Ogilvy, who lay slumped on the ground, a cold, menacing glint in his crimson eyes.
"Get him out of my sight. Never dare to swagger in here again."

He didn't finish his sentence, but the unspoken threat was more powerful than any words.

Ogilvy was terrified. He scrambled to his feet, ignoring the excruciating pain in his wrists and ribs, and cried out for mercy:

"I was wrong! Diego, no, Your Majesty the King!"

"Rocoman".

"Yes! Yes! Understood, Mr. Diego!"

Roccoman nodded repeatedly in fright and immediately ordered the security guards to drag the screaming Ogilvy away like a dead dog, like a stray dog.

He kicked his legs in vain, his leather shoes scraping the floor with a harsh sound, and he pleaded incoherently for "Your Majesty" and "Spare me."

The surrounding waiters watched with bated breath, no one showing sympathy, only a long-suppressed sense of exhilaration silently conveyed in the silence.

Ogilvy was quickly dragged down the corridor, his cries fading into the distance until he disappeared around the corner leading to the logistics corridor.

The waiters' room was deathly silent.

After they came to their senses, all the waiters stared intently at Dio.

But this time.
It is no longer just a simple feeling of awe and flattery, but has been enhanced by a profound sense of shock and awe.
worship.

Dio casually tossed the silk handkerchief he had used to wipe his hands into the trash can, glanced at Selena again, nodded slightly, said nothing, and turned to walk toward the dressing room.

Damn it, that's a high-end Chanel scarf!

Selena rolled her eyes at Li Qu's indifferent back, but a gleam of great interest flickered in her green eyes.

Interesting, so interesting.

She had initially thought this creature was just a beautiful but dangerous Persian cat, but it turned out to be a lurking male lion.

His handling of Ogilvy was ruthless, efficient, and highly symbolic, unlike that of an ordinary gigolo; it was more like that of a male escort.
A born ruler?
Cobo, that fat penguin, actually dug up this kind of treasure.
She could almost foresee the impending earthquake at the Iceberg Club.

The epicenter was this man named Diego.

A smile, a mixture of curiosity, admiration, and a strong desire to conquer, spread across Selena's lips.

perhaps
Is it more exciting to play along with this new 'king' than to find fun anywhere in Gotham?

She gently licked her red lips, whispering to herself, her voice filled with amusement and anticipation:
"Wow. A real 'king' has arrived in Gotham!"
-
Just a moment.

The aftershocks created by Dior began to spread silently.

The hall, which was originally filled with jokes, clinking glasses, and insincere small talk, was now filled with a suppressed yet excited whisper.

"Did you see that? That's how he is."

"Ogilvy has really messed up this time."

"Mr. Cobblestone actually values ​​him so much."

Mr. Diego

The phone in the manager's office rang quietly. It was a tentative inquiry from another regional manager, whose tone was more respectful.

But Dior paid no heed; he was in the dressing room.

The door closed gently behind him, shutting out the noise from the outside world.

He didn't immediately touch the row of expensive suits, but instead leaned against the cold metal wardrobe, letting the silence envelop him.

He needs to sort out his thoughts.

At first, when he saw the foolish waiter, and later Ogilvy who made things difficult for Selena.

All he felt was pure irritation.

The fourth floor is his and Roccoman's territory.

But Ogilvy was like a buzzing fly, constantly disturbing and offending him.

They actually used such a stupid method to disrupt the 'order' in his establishment and to attack his people.

This undoubtedly slowed down his and Rocman's earning speed, which is simply unforgivable!
So Dior made his move.

In order to clear obstacles from the territory, and to maintain order and efficiency.

To protect the cattle and horses that serve them.

In order to make more money from those in higher positions.

That's it.

He has always believed that.

but.
As Ogilvy groaned in pain at his feet, as the soft crack of bone breaking clearly reached his ears, as all the trembling eyes around him focused solely on him...
A completely different, overwhelming, and unfamiliar pleasure struck him without warning.

It turns out
Very cool.

It's even more exciting than easily earning $60,000 the first time you stand here!
"Ogilvy's expression was quite amusing."

Dior muttered to himself, his fingers unconsciously tapping lightly on the surface of the wardrobe:

"Is it fear? Or resentment? Heh." A cold smile curled at the corner of his lips. "That piece of trash can't even come up with a decent apology; he just trembles like a leaf."

"However, the way he ran away like a dog, he wasn't bad at all."

A wistful glint flashed in his eyes.

是 的
At that very moment, seeing the fear, humiliation, and the humiliation of surviving a catastrophe intertwined on Ogilvy's face, and seeing his disheveled figure being dragged along, an unprecedented, almost burning sense of pleasure was savagely growing from the deepest part of his heart.

This feeling is completely different from the calm satisfaction of counting money, and different from the satisfaction of studying physics at home or farming in the fields.

It's a more primal, more brutal pleasure—

He has complete control over the situation and can decide the honor, disgrace, life, and death of others with a single word.

It is the sense of superiority derived from directly crushing and controlling the fate of others with absolute power and authority.

This is more direct, more efficient, and more... than money.
Exciting.

perhaps
Wouldn't it be nice to stay a little longer? This place is much more interesting than Smallwell.

After all, it was my father who said it.

If you want to wear a crown, you must bear its weight.

Since he's going to be the king of the club for this period of time, he has to do his best.

"The Kent Family Motto—"

"Give it your all in everything you do!"

This is what my father said as well.

"squeak--"

Stepping out of the locker room, the door hinges turned with a soft creak, reconnecting the brief tranquility inside with the hustle and bustle of the club outside.

Dior stood in the soft light of the corridor.

He deftly adjusted the cuffs of his suit, the expensive fabric perfectly hugging his lean physique.

He needs to start working hard.

But until then.

Ahem, the king, determined to go all out, planned to begin work before...
Treat yourself a little first, and enjoy the afterglow of your conquest for a moment.

He walked briskly to the luxurious and highly private private lounge.

Right now, he also needs some time to sort out everything that has just happened, and to plan how to truly take over and reorganize this 'territory' that has just become his.

"Wow~"

The bluish-purple liquid poured into the glass, making a pleasant sound.

"Dong dong——!"

But just as Dior poured himself a glass of expensive blueberry juice, the icy liquid about to touch his tongue—

There was a gentle knock on the door of the lounge, which was then pushed open somewhat hastily.

“Mr. Diego”.

It's Roccoman.

"Ms. Elana Falcone has arrived."

He added, emphasizing the weight of that surname.

"Ok?"

Dior frowned slightly, not expecting the person in question to appear so quickly.

All he knows right now is that Cobblepot's target is the powerful Falcone family in Gotham, but he doesn't really understand what 'Falcone' means.

He merely guessed and played a surprisingly effective card by observing the penguins' attitude.

"I'll go now."

Dior set down his glass, and the blueberry juice swirled gently inside.

He nodded calmly and followed the slightly uneasy Rocman toward the most secluded VIP room.

"boom--!"

The door was opened.

The person who appeared in the light inside the door was none other than Elana Falcone, whom we hadn't seen in a long time.

She was still wearing an expensive custom-made suit, her makeup was exquisite, and every strand of her hair was meticulously styled, maintaining the air of a high-class noblewoman.

However, with a little attention, one can see the undisguised fatigue and weariness deep in her eyes, and even the carefully drawn eyeliner cannot cover the fine lines.

My whole body felt like it was being stretched taut by an invisible string, on the verge of breaking.

As soon as Dior entered, her previously unfocused eyes lit up instantly, as if a drowning person had grabbed onto the only piece of driftwood.

Even disregarding the etiquette and pleasantries she usually valued most, she almost impatiently strode forward and grabbed Dior's hand.

Her fingers were icy cold and even trembling slightly.

“Diago, darling.” Her voice had lost its usual languidness and teasing; instead, it carried a sense of urgency. “I’m so glad to finally see you. I managed to sneak out.”

Dior frowned slightly, subtly trying to pull his hand back.

But Elana held on very tightly.

“Ms. Falcone.” Dio waved for Rocman behind him to step back, his crimson eyes calmly scrutinizing her unusual state. “You seem to need a drink to calm down.”

"No! I don't need alcohol!"

Elana shook her head violently, then took a deep breath, as if she had made a huge decision, looked into Dio's eyes, and said in an almost pleading tone:

"Diego, do you want to come with me?"

"Right now! Leave Gotham, leave America! We're going to Italy!"

Her voice seemed somewhat shrill with excitement:

"I have money! Lots and lots of money! Enough for us to live a life of luxury anywhere in the world! We can buy a manor in Tuscany, or go to Venice. Anywhere is fine! As long as you come with me!"

Her words came out like a machine gun, filled with a desperate, mad gamble.

This was completely different from her usual carefree and playful demeanor.

Dior looked at her and instantly understood.

This noblewoman's sudden visit and her outrageous proposal to elope could not possibly be the result of being blinded by romance.

Falcone
“Italy?” Dio’s voice remained calm, even tinged with amusement. He gently pried Elana’s fingers off his grip. “Sounds like a good vacation option. But, Ms. Falcone…”

He leaned slightly closer to her ear, coldly drawing a line:
"What makes you think you can 'take me away'?"

"not to mention."

He straightened up, his scarlet eyes sweeping over her pale, panicked face:
"I think this place is much more interesting than Italy."

It rejects clarity and indifference, even with a hint of mockery.

He, Dio Kent, would never become a vassal of anyone on the run, especially not entangled in the quagmire of a troublesome family like Falcone's.

not to mention.
He's only fifteen years old this year, okay?
The light of hope in Elana's eyes dimmed instantly.

Instead, there was a hollow feeling of rejection.

Looking at Dior's cold and powerful demeanor, she suddenly realized that she and he were just casual acquaintances.

What he wanted seemed to be far more than just money.

(End of this chapter)