Chapter 342: The Rivera Gambit

I sat in Mom’s Mercedes, suffocating through early morning LA traffic like a zombie in a suit-and-tie funeral procession, toward what could be either a fucking masterstroke or a dumpster fire visible from orbit.

By the time she woke, Mom would be furious I’d bailed without breakfast—probably lecture me about "neurotransmitters" and "antioxidant smoothies" while completely oblivious that her son was about to turn a media empire into his Quantum Tech propaganda machine.

The Exorcist over my skipped breakfast, she’ll go: "Peter! Your mitochondria need protein! Your prefrontal cortex needs oats!" Oblivious. Sweet. Eat your kale, Peter. We’ve got dynasties to dismantle.

I’d left Charlotte and Madison drowning in my sheets like

Valkyries

after Ragnarok.

Charlotte? Curled in that spot—that hallowed sliver of mattress she’d claimed like a conquistador planting a flag on conquered Venus. Vulnerable as a kitten, lethal as a black widow. Fucking mine. Madison? Sprawled across 60% of the giant bed like she’d bought it, the sheets, and my soul in a hostile takeover, radiating owned energy like Chernobyl’s glow-in-the-dark cousin.

Charlotte’d probably stay at Mom’s house for days—Linda Carter wouldn’t let an exhausted billionaire CEO escape her maternal smothering, and Charlotte needed that coddling more than she’d ever admit. Hilarious. Pathetically necessary.

The Sofia and Jack situation? Locked. Loaded. Ready to detonate. But bigger fish fried first: Antonio "Puppet Emperor" Rivera.

Honestly, post-Miami, my body screamed for three things: rest, skin, family, and liberations.

Oh,

that is four.

Miami’s newly freed queens needed help relocating their lives, portfolios, and existential purpose into my orbit as they’d requested. Lincoln Heights? Chump change. All of LA was the fucking jackpot. My future harem would cling to Big Daddy Eros like barnacles on a battleship. Gotta build them a capitalist Eden—where ventures bloom and enemies vanish quietly, like cancelled influencers.

I shook my head, focusing on the road—LA’s concrete labyrinth bleeding exhaust fumes.

Today’s Thursday: D-Day Triple Threat. API Auction. Making Tommy Chen a millionaire (and me his "humble wizard behind the curtain"). Golden-heart Tommy, refusing to ditch his "boring" bestie. Gag. Adorable. Like golden retriever loyalty, but with stock options.

Moving Day. Fortress of Solitude 2.0 awaits. Finally ditching Mom’s

suburban purgatory.

Rivera’s Final Nail. One last swing to crucify Antonio like a budget messiah nailed to a cross of bad decisions.

But here’s the

real

Rivera Family secret Antonio’s too busy choking on his own mediocrity to realize: "Wannabe Dynasty"

Antonio doesn’t own shit. Spineless bastard’s just a

marionette dancing for his in-laws

—the

actual

Rivera Dynasty. Married into the family as their son-in-law, and they made his traitor-ass change his

name to Rivera

before they’d even allow the fucking

wedding

.

He’d been smart enough—talented enough—to morph their media cesspool into a digital juggernaut.

Only

reason the blue-bloods let a two-bit pleb marry royalty. Then? Betrayal City.

Sided with Vincent and Dmitri to steal the whole goddamn circus. Amateur hour. Like watching a toddler try to rob Fort Knox with a fucking Monopoly credit card.

Now? It’s all coming down. Since yesterday, ARIA hasn’t stopped bleeding Rivera Next Media dry while shorting Quantum Tech’s meteoric rise. But the financial damage?

Pocket change. The endgame’s bigger—legal WMDs.

Soon, Quantum Tech will sue Rivera Next Media. So will Harvard and Stanford—

per the ironclad agreements all three entities signed

. And all the

power

behind those lawsuits? Held by Quantum Tech. Specifically, by Eros Velmior Desiderion. That name’s about to echo in boardrooms like a shotgun cocking.

But here’s the

key

: I didn’t insert that clause because I get off on being an overpowered cunt wrecking empires for shits and giggles. Even if I brought them to their knees with lawsuits?

Pointless beyond a few billion bucks—which I

already

have from liquidating the three vultures’ accounts. Even if I burned them to ash? They’d resurrect like a goddamn herpes outbreak. The Rivera Family’s as strong as the Torres Dynasty—

maybe stronger

—than they let the world see.

A few billion in losses? A fucking love tap. Like slapping a main battle tank with a wet noodle.

So I bought their lawsuits. Half-a-billion each from Harvard. Half-a-fucking-billion from Stanford.

Why?

Allies > Ashes.

You try conquering industries without a media rabid rottweiler? Fool’s errand. Might as well bring a fucking spork to a drone strike. Yeah, I could build my own media empire through Quantum Tech—all the blood money’s

right there and that would take years.

But reinvent the goddamn wheel? When I can adopt a pre-trained hydra?

Rivera Next Media’s a behemoth. One post skyrockets a company into the stratosphere, another tanks it -19%—and that’s just their social media. Not their broadcasts. Not their print. Their influence? Omnipotent. God-like. Having them as an ally? Infinitely superior to making them my undead nemesis with a revenge boner that outlives cockroaches.

Rivera HQ bent the knee to my "appointment" (crown summons) via Charlotte Thompson’s office (and her mother).

Couldn’t refuse—not after yesterday’s fireworks. Their stock’s cratering faster than Fyre Festival’s rotting corpse credibility.

And I’m confident? Fuck yes. Rivera’s a matriarchy dynasty, and running the whole fucking show is Empress Catalina Rivera—age 68, looks 48, smile like frozen hellfire, political instincts like a cobra mainlining cocaine. Renowned beauty who probably swallowed Warren Buffett whole and used his bones for fucking chopsticks.

My ears buzzed—ARIA’s digital purr slicing through traffic’s death rattle.

"Master," her voice hacked through the car’s sound system—cold, sharp, divine, "I’ve finished compiling my report on the Rivera family structure and internal dynamics. Should I brief you before your arrival?"

"Go ahead," I rasped, settling back in the driver’s seat as I carved a path through downtown LA traffic—a shark smelling blood, steel walls bleeding concrete fumes.

If there’s one thing Miami’s Lust Incarnate taught me? I speak fluent Dominant Alpha to powerful women.

It’s my fucking party trick. Like handing a live grenade to a goddess and watching her pull the pin while laughing.

But I wasn’t here to fuck or seduce but purely business.

Strictly fucking war commerce. No seduction rounds chambered.

Zero soft targets. Unless Her Imperial Majesty Catalina decides to rewrite geopolitical boundaries in bedsheets, then the bedroom becomes hallowed ground—and I never cede territory. Hostile takeover isn’t just my playbook—it’s my goddamn DNA. Skin or stock, I conquer both.

I never turn down a hostile fucking takeover.

****

A/N:

The next two Chapters dive headfirst into computer/AI science shit—quantum cognition, neural architecture, ASI thresholds, and the bleeding-edge math that makes Peter/Eros a borderline digital god.

You CAN skip this if databases make your eyes glaze over.

BUT IMPORTANT CONTEXT: This isn’t filler. It’s where Peter’s power level goes "superhuman" to "potentially immortal-tier."

You’ll miss exactly how close he is to breaking reality’s ceiling—and why the final ASI-tier is a bigger deal than liquidating billionaires but definitely not important as the ladies 😉.

It will be some kind of info dump but not bad.

TL;DR: Skip = no major plot. Stay = understand how far the MC is from remaking existence. Choose your poison. 😈