The Mafia Empire

"I have a bad feeling about this," Gador muttered as he paced nervously around the room. He rubbed his eyes, unable to shake the sensation of his eyelids twitching, an omen that something was off. One persistent question nagged at him—where had Corder and Kent gone? He had mobilized all of his resources, searching every possible place, but they had vanished without a trace.

Following Pronto's instructions, Gador had picked three low-level gang members who were struggling to make ends meet, promising them promotions to captain and a cash reward once they got out. He had also beaten them to a pulp, just as Pronto had demanded. So far, no bad news had come his way. He and Pronto were in this together—if Gador went down, Pronto wouldn't escape either.

Without Pronto's cooperation, there was no way Gador could have gotten away with using three stand-ins to cover for the real culprits.

But something still didn't sit right with him. He wasn't exactly a thinker, and the more he dwelled on it, the more frustrated he became.

He thought about going to Wood for advice, but Pronto's private warning echoed in his mind, making him reconsider. Wood had already been "eliminated." The moment he failed to handle this situation properly, his backers would have deemed him unfit. The big players needed effective tools, not ones that caused them headaches.

Gador had made it this far through his own hard work and his boss's favor.

Years ago, he had been nothing more than a low-ranking member of the gang, working with a few other young boys outside a theater, parking cars and cleaning horses for the big shots inside.

It had been a rainy day when a distinguished man stepped out of his carriage. A servant had opened a black umbrella to shield the man's face from view, but Gador had caught glimpses of his fine suit, polished boots, and the white scarf draped around his neck.

As the man stepped into a puddle, muddy water splashed onto his pristine boots. While everyone else stood frozen, unsure of what to do, Gador instinctively knelt down and, in the pouring rain, used his sleeve to clean the man's boots. When he finally looked up, he heard a raspy voice ask him, "What's your name?"

Suppressing his excitement, Gador flashed what he thought was his most perfect smile and replied, "Gador. My name is Gador!"

The man had walked into the theater without another word, leaving Gador stunned. His companions looked at him oddly, but Gador simply waited under the theater's awning, silently biding his time for the next opportunity.

On the ninth day, a man in a trench coat and hat approached him, asking him one simple question.

"Do you have the guts to kill?"

Gador nodded vigorously. "Yes. A knife right here," he pointed to his chest, "and it's over in one stroke!"

The man handed him a slip of paper with two names, an address, and a time.

Thirteen-year-old Gador had stolen the family's only kitchen knife—a badly worn one—and spent the night by the well sharpening it. The next day, without resting, he went to the address on the note and waited for the two people who would change his fate.

That was the day Gador gained a benefactor, and from then on, his rise was unstoppable.

He wasn't a thinker, but to the powerful, he was the perfect weapon. His boss had told him that if all went well, two years from now, he would back Gador to become the police chief of Ternell City. But first, Gador needed to clean up his act and groom a suitable, obedient successor.

Not being much of a strategist, Gador usually did as he was told. After much deliberation, he decided to seek his boss's counsel.

An unremarkable car pulled into an alley. Two patrolling officers approached to tell the driver that parking was prohibited, but upon seeing the car's insignia, they wisely chose to keep quiet and walked away.

Gador walked through the alley, then crossed two more streets before arriving at a house near city hall. He knocked on the door.

A white-haired, slightly curly butler in a well-tailored tailcoat with a bow tie opened the door. After giving Gador a once-over, he frowned slightly and shut the door. About three minutes later, the butler opened it again, this time stepping aside to allow Gador to enter.

As Gador entered the modest house, he removed his hat and held it carefully in his arms. He followed the butler to the garden at the back. There, an old man dressed like a farmer, wearing glasses, was hunched over a potted plant, delicately snipping away at a branch with his shears. Neither the butler nor Gador spoke or made a sound.

They stood quietly at the edge of the garden, watching as the elderly man worked for nearly an hour before finally putting down his shears.

"What is it?" the old man asked, removing his dirt-covered gloves and washing his hands in a basin. "You know you shouldn't be here."

The raspy voice was the same one Gador had heard all those years ago. Instinctively, Gador lowered his head, drew in his chest, and bent his back, speaking with humility. "There's something I don't quite understand, so I've come to seek your guidance."

The old man's face remained expressionless. Someone of his stature shouldn't even be meeting with Gador. But over the years, Gador had eliminated enough "unnecessary" people for him that he now occupied his current position. Tilting his head, the old man said, "Speak, I'm listening." As he spoke, he unfastened the buttons on his shoulders and headed toward the wooden door.

Gador hurriedly stepped aside, following close behind.

As they entered the study, Gador recounted every detail of the past few days, leaving nothing out. Just as the old man was changing out of his overalls, he froze mid-movement. In an instant, he backhanded Gador across the face, the slap echoing through the entire house. Footsteps could be heard scurrying upstairs as the old man's expression softened slightly. He motioned toward the study door.

"Get in here!" he barked.

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