The Rise Of A Billionaire 1943-Chapter 26: All-Powerful

A kindred spirit...

If Pierre had heard how Song Chengjun described him afterward, he would've raised his glass in heartfelt agreement — that was someone who truly understood him.

The Caribbean sun poured through the window.

Pierre stirred awake, the scent of perfume still lingering on the pillow beside him. He turned his head, catching a glimpse of golden waves of hair spread across white cotton sheets. Beneath the covers, soft curves rose and fell in a way that made the mind wander.

Smack.

He playfully slapped the shapely silhouette beneath the sheet.

A blonde woman stirred, opened her eyes, and smiled dreamily at him.

"Mon chéri... you wore me out," she murmured. "I'm exhausted. Let me sleep a little longer..."

And with that, she burrowed deeper into the bed.

Pierre shook his head with a wry smile.

"Fine, sleep in. I've got work to do."

On his way out, he pulled out his wallet, took out two ten-dollar bills... then paused, and swapped them for a single Benjamin Franklin.

American girls were passionate — and this one had definitely earned it.

After all, he was a rich man now. What was a hundred dollars?

He couldn't even remember exactly how she'd ended up in his room.

He'd gone to a bar the night before out of boredom, ordered a drink, watched a dull cabaret show — and she had just sat down beside him.

They drank, they talked, she suggested going to a casino. He declined. fгeewebnovёl.com

Why gamble with cards, he'd said, when we can play a better game in the bedroom?

She hadn't disagreed.

And one thing led to another...

But he had business to attend to.

He was a man on the rise, and sugar wasn't going to smuggle itself.

He took the hotel car straight to the warehouse, just as arranged.

The gates were locked. No guard. No trucks.

Per the deal with Song Chengjun, once the sugar was delivered, the drivers left immediately — not even the workers knew who the buyer was.

To prevent interference from American competitors, total secrecy was essential.

Inside, Pierre stepped into the vast, silent warehouse — and stared at mountains of raw cane sugar stacked to the ceiling.

He grinned.

"System."

A glowing panel appeared.

"Temporarily expand storage capacity?"

→ Yes.

With one tap, the warehouse's internal volume grew by 50%. Now: 1,140 cubic meters.

"Upload cargo."

With a burst of white light, sacks of sugar began vanishing — sucked into the invisible dimensional vault.

Even though he'd used the system before, seeing thousands of tons of sugar vanish in seconds never got old.

"This isn't just a storage system," he muttered.

"This is a goddamn magical moving service."

Soon, the warehouse was empty.

Not just empty — cleaned out.

Pierre snapped his fingers in satisfaction.

"All done."

The hotel car was still waiting outside.

"Back to the hotel, sir?" the driver asked.

Pierre shook his head.

"No — airport."

As the car rolled away, back in the hotel room, the blonde stirred and yawned. She stretched, her eyes still hazy with sleep.

"Where'd that man go...?"

She sat up and blinked at the empty room — and then saw the hundred-dollar bill on the nightstand.

Next to it, a handwritten note:

"The room is paid for.

Thank you for a wonderful night."

Her expression twisted — somewhere between laughter and heartbreak.

She stared at the bill for a moment, then muttered:

"Did I just get... paid and ghosted?"

She rubbed her hair and groaned.

"That bastard. He ran off. Ugh! Men!"

By the time Pierre's plane touched down again in New York, he'd had a proper rest.

When the stewardess gently tapped his shoulder to wake him, he leaned toward the window.

The Statue of Liberty loomed large below.

Moments later, the Manhattan skyline came into view — the city's steel bones gleaming in the afternoon sun.

New York.

A city of wealth, ambition, and hunger.

His heart pounded with excitement.

Everything down there — all of it — could be his.

A few hours later, however, Pierre would come to understand a very different kind of excitement.

When he arrived at his warehouse, he was stunned to find it surrounded — armored cars, trucks, and about a dozen men with Thompson submachine guns at the ready.

Was this a robbery?

Then a familiar voice called out.

"Pierre! Is it true? What Zhu told me — is it real?"

It was Anastasia — and she looked halfway between panic and awe.

"You seriously brought back 1,300 tons of sugar?"

Pierre stared at the scene behind her — the guns, the trucks, the crowd — and rubbed his temples.

"Anastasia," he said slowly,

"were you planning to rob a bank?"

"No," Anastasia said flatly,

"We're here to protect you, my friend.

Dear God, I can't believe you're still alive."

He gestured toward the warehouse.

"You have 1,300 tons of sugar in there. If anyone finds out, every thief, thug, and gangster in New York will descend on you like locusts."

As they walked inside, he kept ranting.

"Cars? Sure, they're valuable — but they're hard to fence.

But sugar? Sugar is everything."

"A few pounds will get you into any woman's bed.

A few dozen and a shopkeeper will kiss your feet.

Hundreds? Every baker and confectioner in the city will worship you."

"But thousands?"

He stopped walking and turned dramatically.

"Thousands of pounds, my friend — and the entire food industry will call you a god."

Pierre chuckled at the melodrama.

But then... he caught a whiff of the air — sweet, rich, unmistakable.

Even with the sacks sealed, the scent of sugar filled the space.

He watched as Anastasia's eyes went wide.

He said nothing.

Because the man had a point.

This wasn't just sugar.

This was power.