The Mafia Empire

Not that he was ever rude, but compared to the city folk who wore politeness like a mask, he'd seemed a bit coarse. Over time, "rough" Mr. Kesma disappeared, replaced by the polite Mr. Kesma, albeit with the occasional family quarrel over the boundary stone.

Everyone has a role model, someone they admire and aspire to be like. For the Kesma family, Mr. Kesma was that figure, influencing the family's courteous demeanor.

The young girl's smile revealed slightly yellowed teeth, and the freckles on her nose dotted her face like stars scattered across a night sky.

Quickly averting his gaze, Mason adjusted his hat, tapped his pistol at his waist, and nudged past the last few people to enter the center of the crowd.

For the past two months, being the sheriff in this rural town had proven grueling. His first duty upon pinning on the sheriff's badge was finding a missing cow for a woman more robust than himself. Here, cows aren't used for plowing; instead, they provide a cheap source of fat for cooking, much like pigs in other places.

When the cow was finally ready for slaughter, it would be fattened and taken to the butcher.

Losing a cow was a heavy blow for a family. As one of the two sheriffs in Clover Town, Mason took on the responsibility. He found the cow in a nearly dry mud pit, caked in mud and with a broken leg, likely from stepping into the pit.

After a two-day struggle, Mason managed to return the cow to town, only to watch as two burly brothers from the woman's family effortlessly hoisted it up and carried it away.

Since then, he'd handled trivial tasks: a rooster that suddenly stopped crowing, with neighbors demanding Mason "encourage" it to resume its morning routine; a goose that mysteriously stopped laying eggs, sparking a minor panic. It seemed Mason was the only one in town people could turn to for help.

The other sheriff, an old drunkard, spent each day either preparing for his next nap or recovering from his last.

If it weren't for a simmering desire to prove himself as the sheriff he aspired to be, Mason might have given up long ago.

Despite the triviality of these tasks, he had made progress. At least some now regarded him as a real sheriff and even supported him.

As he reached the center, he spotted a gleaming new car, its polished surface so reflective he could see himself in it. Straightening his collar and adjusting his hat, he approached the man in the white suit, who was facing away from him.

"Hello, I'm the sheriff here. You may not realize, but parking here isn't allowed…" Mason's voice trailed off, his eyes widening in shock until they ached. "Good heavens, Julian! What happened to you?" He finally dared to reach out and touch the car's smooth, polished surface. "Is this… your car?"

Just as Mason was astounded by Julian's transformation, Julian was equally surprised upon turning around. For a moment, he felt a mental disarray—since when had Mr. Kesma become so lenient as to let Mason become a sheriff?

"When did this happen?" Julian pulled a cigarette from his pocket, offering it to Mason. Mason eyed the filtered cigarette in surprise, hesitating briefly before tucking it into his pocket. He knew that cigarettes with filters weren't cheap, and in the countryside, such a cigarette could hold more "influence" than his badge.

Julian lit his own cigarette and then slapped the freshly opened pack onto Mason's chest. "Let's go home. As much as I hate to admit it, I kind of miss our old stubborn father."

After a brief hesitation, Mason put an arm around Julian's shoulder and gave him a hearty pat. "Father will be thrilled!" he said, glancing uneasily at the curious onlookers who were even daring to touch the car's exterior. He was helpless; there was nothing he could do about them, and they clearly didn't care that Mason was the sheriff.

Julian gave a slight nod to his two young associates.

The crowd was no obstacle to Julian. His two attendants, who had accompanied him for both protection and assistance, pulled handfuls of coins from cloth bags in the car and tossed them into the crowd. In an instant, the farmers, housewives, and young men and women who had been pressing forward all bent down with delighted shouts.

At that moment, Julian stood at the center of Clover Town like a revered king, receiving homage from all around!

...

Mr. Kesma hummed a nostalgic tune as he tended to a modest potted plant, a new hobby he had taken up recently. His children were growing up, and with Mason and Julian each taking their own paths, the family began feeling the urge to break free, to venture into the world beyond.

He understood this was beyond his control, so he sought other pastimes, such as cultivating plants he found particularly meaningful and beautiful.

Most of his potted plants came from the fields or small shoots he'd gathered from under trees. Through trimming and nurturing these rooted plants, Mr. Kesma seemed to reclaim a sense of control.

His approach to plant care was not meticulously planned; he simply knew how to shape them into his ideal vision. Holding scissors poised to snip a tender bud emerging from a branch, he was startled by the loud, sudden opening of the living room door.

The intense focus he had on his ideal bonsai shape caused his hand to tremble, and, before he could stop himself, he cut off a large portion of the branch. Staring at the branch now lying lifelessly on the floor, Mr. Kesma paused, then quietly set the scissors down, picked up the severed branch, examined it, and finally turned toward the living room.

He wanted to see who dared make such a racket in his house. As he stepped through the door, about to scold the intruder, he froze, almost as if someone had hit the pause button on him. After rubbing his eyes, he felt the tension in his face ease, though he maintained his usual stern expression.

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