Chapter 54
Chapter 54
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Translator: Ebonarch
Chapter: 54
Chapter Title: Underworld Bigshot (2)
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Dodging the stares of the citizens, we made our way to the mafia's headquarters.
A massive building in the heart of the empire's bustling commercial district.
Unlike its flashy exterior, the roof had been smashed open.
Even the back exterior wall was completely blown away.
As if someone had cleaved it apart with a gigantic greatsword.
Thanks to that, the boss's office enjoyed excellent natural lighting.
"What on earth happened here?"
When I pointed at the gaping hole in the wall and asked, the man who resembled a black bear quickly shook his head.
His name was Don Chichi, the boss of the Bakar Mafia, leading the family for three generations now.
"......I absolutely cannot say."
It looked like they'd been hit hard by a rival mafia.
Too proud to admit it, probably.
"If you accept the ring, I'll tell you later."
"Why would I take this? It's the symbol of your mafia boss."
I eyed the gaudy ring with its oversized red gem uneasily.
It was undoubtedly a top-tier item stat-wise, but somehow, accepting it felt like it'd land me in that black leather chair.
"You know about our organization......?"
Oh, I knew plenty.
Your crew was one of the major players in the empire's downfall.
As the imperial family wobbled, the mafia seized control of the streets.
The boss back then wasn't this guy, but he had to be connected somehow.
"I'm from the Minster family. You think a renowned assassination outfit like us lacks that kind of intel?"
I shot them a venomous glare that said I knew everything about them already.
Don Chichi and his men bowed their heads, looking like they'd expected as much.
"As you can see, we've lost our entire foundation. We're offering the ring to entrust ourselves to you, my lord."
A noble, sure—but why us, of all people?
Our family's image did mesh well with the mafia vibe, though...
But getting tangled up could drag the princess down with us.
Her top aide mixed up with the mafia? That'd tarnish Camillia's reputation too.
I needed to toss them some advice and shake them off.
Since they'd helped bring about the downfall, best to steer them toward something legitimate while I was at it.
"Why not go legit from here on out?"
"Us?"
"Yeah, you. Tell me exactly what businesses you were running."
"Understood."
Don Chichi headed to his desk, wrapped head to toe in tape.
He pulled out all his ledgers and laid them out.
"We mainly did bootleg booze, smuggled smokes, and hired muscle."
"Real proud of that, huh."
I tsked at the boss pitifully.
While flipping through their books, I sorted my thoughts.
"Tweak the direction of what you were doing a bit, and you can dodge the law's net easy."
"All three businesses?"
I nodded, and Don Chichi and his men gulped hard.
Their eyes sharpened with hope—they might not have to slink back to their hometown after all.
"H-how?"
Arms crossed behind my back, I pointed at the family tree on the boss's desk.
It listed their carriage hauling ops and glass bottle factory—tools for bootlegging booze till now.
"Don Chichi, know what defines liquor?"
"Stuff that gets you drunk when you drink it."
"Right on the money. So how does the empire distinguish booze from drinks?"
"By the Magic Tower's standards, alcohol content."
"Good recall. Anything over 10% alcohol is booze."
I gazed out through the gaping hole.
Directly at the massive market teeming with fruit vendors.
"Lately, oranges have been flooding in from the south. Mix their juice in and sell as drinks."
"Oranges? Yeah, shipments exploded recently, but we've never mixed 'em with booze."
Guy knew distribution inside out, as expected from a bootlegger.
I patted his shoulder in approval.
"Hit exactly 9% alcohol. Boom—legit beverage business."
Don Chichi ordered his men to fetch oranges.
As they mixed booze and fruit, the boss asked gravely,
"But dropping to 9% will make it watery as hell. Not sure there's demand."
"I know. Target the young crowd hitting their twenties soon—youths and ladies."
A few years from now, better distribution nets flood the capital with fruit.
To offload it, juice-mixed booze catches on with young nobles unaccustomed to bitter tastes.
That palate sticks even into middle age.
Thus, fruit-juice cocktails spread far and wide.
I'd cornered the liqueur market myself using last-round knowledge.
Bankrolled my assassin gigs nicely.
"We got what you asked for."
His men hauled in oranges and distilled spirits.
I squeezed one-handed, mixing like a pro.
"Here, everyone try it."
His men stared blankly at the fruity booze like kids' play.
Then they took a sip.
"This...... ain't half bad?"
"Yeah. Starts sweet, then the booze kicks in at the end—fun twist."
Even these hard-drinking macho types approved.
If picky bastards like them liked it, youngsters were a lock.
"I'll give you the recipe—write it down. Your factory runs legit from now on."
These mafia guys, wracked with guilt over their illicit deeds.
Base smashed, drowning in gloom too.
Watching them brighten sip by sip, even Don Chichi's face lit up.
"We'll remember that."
Before I knew it, I was in the black leather chair, issuing orders.
Next up: fetch the smuggled smokes.
"Why sell smokes illegal?"
"Addictive ingredients stronger than competitors'."
"Yeah. Dial it back to compete? You'd get crushed by established brands."
"Spot on. You know everything."
The Bakar boss clamped his lips shut solemnly.
"Mess with the ingredients to make drugs, and you'd all be dead."
"We got a shred of conscience."
I dissected a smoke from the desk.
Pried apart the tightly packed tobacco leaves.
"Fetch some blue herb."
"Yes, sir."
I mixed in a few medicinal herbs with the leaves.
Wrapped 'em back up and lit one.
Like back when I smoked these to anesthetize targets before assassinations.
"That'll do. Give it a puff."
The guy exhaled, savoring.
But his face fell more than with the orange cocktail.
"Well?"
"Kinda bland. Not exciting enough for a smoke."
I smirked, arms crossed alone.
"How's the wound on your head?"
"Hm......?"
Don Chichi, puffing away, hadn't thought of last night's gash.
Realizing my smoke's purpose, his jaw dropped.
"This is a medical anesthetic. Not full numbing, but patients in surgery would buy it."
"Exactly. The throbbing's almost gone."
The black-bear lookalike chimed in.
"Problem is getting approval and contracts."
"My big bro's a White Tower mage. Drop my name—he'll smooth the approvals."
As I lounged in the leather chair, a snow-white cat padded over.
I gently stroked its back as it hopped onto the armrest.
"Name's Dexter. Busted using sedatives, shaky ground now. He'll love the business."
"Got it. I'll contact him right away."
His fearful eyes now sparkled brightly.
From grizzly bear to cub.
'This should set them up to grow legit on their own.'
Eyes closed, I kneaded my stiff shoulders.
A burly guy stepped up to massage them proper.
"You got strong hands."
"Ex-soldier, sir. Low-rank, though."
Yeah, bruisers like these go bad if they get cut loose.
"You all remember your training and etiquette?"
"Of course. All fresh in our minds."
I rummaged in my uniform jacket's inner pocket.
Pulled out an envelope of emergency checks.
"Go get fitted for suits. All of you."
"We got suits already."
They blinked confused; I glared pitifully.
They flinched at my serpentine eyes.
"Not those tacky pinstripes. Clean white like the imperials'."
"May we ask why?"
Don Chichi ventured cautiously.
I pointed at his handsome-yet-menacing face.
"Your mugs are decent. White suits, slicked-back hair with pomade—you'll ooze class."
Now I sprawled with legs up on the desk, comfy.
Tired from all the yapping.
"To run muscle legit, go bodyguard firm. Start building the image now."
"Solid advice, but with our mafia stigma, who hires us?"
His men nodded agreement.
"Right. No noble hires ex-mafia guards."
Even magic-using ex-soldiers lacked takers.
But.
"Stick me in the middle, and it's different."
I tilted my head up wearily.
Dark circles plus arrogance made me look arrogantly worldly.
"Grab some stationery."
"Ready."
Don Chichi held fine fountain pen and cream paper politely.
I drummed fingers on the desk, dictating.
"Write what I say."
"Yes."
"To Sir Porter, Imperial Secretary."
"Imperial Secre......tary?!"
Mid-scribble, the mafia boss's eyes flashed.
His men buzzed at the high office mention.
"Eh, he's my guy. No issue."
I shrugged it off—school bully I'd blackmailed.
His nonchalance shocked them more.
"From today, you're graduates of Berryhill Prison's reform program."
"We never did that."
I flashed a certificate I'd whipped up on the spot.
"I'm the warden. I'll get the secretary to sign these rehab certs."
"An imperial secretary's signature? That carries weight."
People turn villain simple: the world ignores their goodness.
I was the same.
The Minster infamy haunted me to death.
But a shot at laundering your status?
No one turns down washing away a lifetime's stigma.
"Gave you the clean slate. Be model citizens from now."
The burly men dropped to their knees in unison.
Swore loyalty at the promise of shedding prejudice.
"We obey."
This should keep them from becoming downfall kingpins.
I could leave satisfied now.
"Handle it per orders. I'll nap here, head out afternoon."
"Yes, sir!!"
The giants bellowed.
I scowled thunderously.
"You thugs? Why yell like a mob?"
"......"
I shook my head, petting the armrest cat.
Other hand held a smoke.
"Class it up from now. Got it?"
They bowed politely at last.
Smart operators—easy to handle.
"Out, all of you."
Shooed casually; they filed out.
I soaked in the pouring sunlight, eyes shut.
'Might as well snag a nice carriage back since I'm late.'
Half a day later.
The cat on my lap kept me toasty; slept like a rock.
"Time to rise."
Office empty.
They should've been back by now—where to?
Cat in arms, I descended the stairs.
Entrance lined with tall men in crisp white uniforms.
Look at that.
Suits 'em perfect—sharp as hell.
Any onlooker'd peg 'em for elite guards.
I set the pleased cat down.
Locked eyes with the mafia boss.
"Ah, Don Derek! Over here!!"
Beaming, waving wildly.
His overly chipper voice made me tilt my head.
'Why so thrilled? And Don Derek what?'
No point quibbling—we'd part soon. I followed meekly.
Turned to the building entrance he pointed at.
"Why's my name on prime capital real estate......?"
Plastered bold in the city center, the signs greeted me warmly.
"Gotta paint the group portrait. Come on in."
"Huh?"
The handsome white-suited men bowed elegantly, as instructed.
Right in the street, all eyes on us.
"What're you talking about? I'm outta here."
They swarmed to escort me.
A snake crushed amid snow-white wolves.
"Why drag me into your businesses?!"
Chanting "Don Derek," they shoved me into the group portrait.
What the hell was that damned name?
These lookers all dolled up made me look even shadier.
"Get off me, you lot!!"