The Mafia Empire

He had be so focused on pocketing a hundred cases of alcohol on the side that he had completely forgott that restocking meant settling up the previous balance. Illegal liquor wasn't a legitimate business, and it was under the constant threat of crackdown by both imperial and religious authorities. No bootlegger ever allowed a buyer to hold back paymt.

The rule was simple: each shipmt was paid in full as soon as it was sold. No one had ever heard of paying for illegal goods on an installmt plan.

It wasn't a small sum—several thousand dollars!

Because it was no small amount, Graf's expression gradually darked, and a deadly aura began to emanate from him, likely heighted by the fact that he had just killed someone. The murderous intt was so thick it seemed to seep from his very being.

Colt blinked, th quickly laughed. "Of course! I was just messing with you. Don't take it seriously!" He raised his hand, intding to pat Graf's shoulder, a habit of his. Colt liked to do this to show his superiority over others, but in this momt, his hand froze in midair.

It was as if an invisible wall had ris betwe Colt and Graf, stopping him from crossing the boundary.

Colt gave a dry laugh and waved his arm. "Wait here a momt. I'll go get the money. Can't exactly carry that much cash on me, can I? I had to make sure you were really here first."

This explanation made sse, and Graf's deadly glare began to fade. Colt quickly rushed back inside the bar, cursing under his breath.

"Damn filthy Guar," he muttered, glancing at the dark stains on his clothing, his hatred for them growing. Wh he reached his office, he oped his safe and pulled out the remainder of the paymt, stacking the bills together. It pained him to see the money—his "little darlings"—leaving him.

Returning to the back door, Colt quickly handed over the cash to Graf, watching as the big man tucked the money into a small iron box. The sight filled Colt with an overwhelming sse of loss.

That was his money!

Siltly, Colt cursed them, hoping they wouldn't survive the night.

Once all the goods were unloaded into the bar's storage, Graf and his m left with the money. Colt, still smiling, waved them off at the back door as if he couldn't bear to see them go. Yet his lips moved, siltly spitting out every foul word he could think of.

Back in the office, Wood suddly appeared.

Tonight's business was no small matter, so there was no way Wood wouldn't personally oversee it. He had stayed out of sight earlier to avoid any accidtal counter with Graf in the office. Instead, he had be hiding at the bar, warming himself with a drink.

Just as Wood was about to speak, his eyes sharped. He strode toward Colt, who instinctively held his breath. Wood extded a finger and touched the two dark, sticky stains on Colt's clothes, sniffing them.

With his previous experice in killing many gang rivals, he immediately knew what it was. His expression turned grim.

Pacing back and forth a few times, Wood put on his hat and quickly headed out.

Watching Wood hastily disappear into the night, Colt looked down at the two dark stains on his shirt. Mimicking Wood's actions, he touched the spots with his fingers, rubbed them, and sniffed, coming to a simple conclusion—the Guar are filthy!

What Colt couldn't understand was that the stains were actually dried, oxidized blood, and he certainly didn't realize that Wood had rushed off because he underestimated Graf and the others.

A person who has harmed or ev killed someone experices a profound change in mtality. Before crossing that line, they are bound by society's moral and ethical rules, always seeking to resolve conflicts peacefully. But once that line is crossed, their perspective shifts completely. This was something Wood knew all too well.

Before he killed those three vagrants who had tried to drag him into an alley, he had be a dreamer. But after taking lives, he stopped dreaming—because he had realized and achieved his "dreams" through force.

Crossing the line of morality isn't difficult; it only takes a small step forward.

Once someone has crossed that line, wh they face danger, they no longer think about how to defuse it. Instead, they draw their weapon and eliminate the threat tirely.

Wood had initially thought that these new faces, Graf and his group, were just inexpericed kids. But now he realized his mistake—they wer't sheep; they were wolves.

It wasn't tirely Wood's fault for misjudging them. His years of experice, while invaluable, had caused him to overlook some basic truths. These newcomers hadn't made any introductions or sought permission from the established powers before tering the market, nor had they st anyone to smooth things over. They had simply barged in, breaking the unspok rules of the underworld.

New players had to respect the existing order, or they would face consequces—sometimes losing money, sometimes losing their lives.

However, those drops of blood made Wood realize that this wasn't just about cutting out a small, inconvit branch from a larger tree. This was war.

War is a terrifying concept, whether it's betwe nations, gangs, or factions. In war, one side is completely wiped out, and any ceasefires or reconciliations are just delays in the inevitable outcome.

Wood wanted to push these new faces out of Ternell City and reclaim his share of the market, but he didn't want to wage war.

Unfortunately, he had chos the wrong opponts and used the wrong strategy.

After years of dominance, Wood had grown overconfidt, leading him to make a grave error in judgmt.

Standing at the dark crossroads, the chill autumn wind biting at his skin, Wood felt lost. He didn't know which way to turn, much like how he now stood at a crossroads in his life, filled with uncertainty.

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