Chapter 3: The Club

Ariane

— Wake up, sleepyhead...

I grunt and turn in bed, burying my face in the pillow.

— Damn it, let me sleep just a little longer. I haven’t closed my eyes all night...

— If we want to go shopping today, it’s now or never. It’s already noon.

I sit up abruptly.

— What? Noon? That can’t be...

— Oh yes, Marianne. Come on, get up, hop in the shower. I’ll take care of breakfast.

— Thanks... What would I do without you?

— I ask myself that question every day, she says with a laugh.

I hear her leave the room as I shuffle my feet to the bathroom. The hot water cascades over my skin as I slowly wake up. Ariane is already in the kitchen; I recognize the smell of risotto. Her favorite dish.

We’ve known each other for four years. Since my mother’s death.

That day, everything changed. A drunken driver crashed into the car she was in. That driver was Ariane's uncle. A cruel twist of fate. She loved him dearly. Yet, she left everything behind for me. Her parents were always between flights, so she chose to stay with me in this small apartment so we could support each other in our grief. I was alone, and so was Ariane. She became my family, my pillar.

Every month, her parents send her a hefty sum that she generously shares with me. And you think I’m proud, that I refuse out of vanity? Well, no. I need it. Without her, I would surely be in an orphanage, drowned in oblivion. She saved me, plain and simple. She’s my guardian angel.

When I join her in the kitchen, the table is set, and the risotto steams in the plates. We sit down, and as always, I savor every bite.

— So, how much can we spend today? I ask, stabbing a shrimp with my fork.

— As much as we want! I’m so hungry for shopping, she laughs.

— Hurry up then, I can’t wait to empty my account. But you know, I’ll pay you back as soon as I’m rich.

— Ha! You’ll never let this story go, will you?

— One day, I’ll find myself a millionaire. And then, I’ll buy you Gucci bags with my eyes closed.

I laugh with her. With Ariane, even the mundane days become precious memories.

Auracio

I dial Fernando’s number. The raspy voice of my right-hand man answers immediately.

— How did the noon transaction go?

— Perfectly, Boss. You know the Russians are always reliable.

— Did you verify that the cargo is complete?

— Every piece, every crate. Everything is there.

— Good. Everything is under control here for now. We’ll talk later.

— Understood, Boss. Enjoy your evening.

I hang up.

For years, I’ve been buying weapons and wheat from the Russians. I use the wheat to produce my food supplies that I distribute internationally. But behind the image of a prosperous businessman lies much more.

I have about ten legitimate businesses in the United States, six in Russia, two in Canada, one in China, and around fifty in Italy. The facade is impeccable. Behind it is a hellish machine for money laundering. None of these companies bear my name. I am a ghost to the law, but a king in the shadows.

Even the Chinese and American mafia don’t know these businesses belong to me. They think they’re dealing with local partners. That’s the art of power: to appear nowhere, yet control everything.

I prepare for my meeting. With me, business must be handled quickly. Less time wasted, more time for pleasures. I always travel with a wardrobe arsenal. Ten watches, half a dozen pairs of luxury shoes, custom-made suits from Milan. Elegance is a weapon, and I wield it with precision.

Marianne

After breakfast, we get into my Lamborghini. I’ve always loved sports cars. A Bentley, a Porsche, and this blood-red Lamborghini. Gifts from my parents to compensate for their absence.

But no car can replace a father’s embrace or a mother’s tender gaze.

We see each other four times a year. My mother, an international lawyer, spends her life defending the worst criminals around the world. My father, a renowned scientist, rushes from conference to lab. I grew up with my nanny, a gentle woman who gave me the love she could never give to her own daughter. My uncle was the only stable male figure in my life. I will always miss him.

We finally arrive at the mall. The windows sparkle, and the mannequins offer us their dresses like a promise.

— I want something eye-catching, Ariane exclaims, already admiring a split red dress. Something that highlights my breasts and my pretty butt. In black or red. The color of desire.

— My closet is overflowing with clothes I haven’t even worn yet...

— You’re not going to do this to me, are you? Choose two outfits; I’ll take the one you don’t pick.

— Deal. But you pick two, and I’ll take one.

— Always bargaining...

In the end, we leave the mall with ten bags each. Three going-out outfits, some enticing lingerie sets, heels that defy gravity. Everything is ready for the evening.

Let the men prepare: tonight, they will crawl.

John

I button my black shirt, check the magazine of my Glock, and strap my Swiss watch around my wrist.

My meeting with Auracio is approaching.

His name precedes his shadow. He is feared, respected, dreaded. Even the craziest dare not speak his name lightly. He is not just a mafia boss; he is a living legend.

I am John Smith. The Bloodthirsty. African American born in the streets of Chicago, raised the hard way. I grew up with the stories of my great-grandfather, an African warrior. He told me how the victors drank the blood of their enemies to absorb their strength. This ritual is etched in me.

I love blood. The real stuff. The kind that flows when I slice flesh. My pleasure is to skin those who betray me, slowly, methodically. But contrary to what people think, I am not crazy. I am disciplined. My cruelty is a tool, not a weakness.

Having Auracio as an ally means winning a war without having to fight it. We start with weapons. If the operation is a success, I will gradually enter his circle. Together, we can unite all the mafias under one banner. Ours.

The world does not yet know what awaits it. But soon, it will no longer be able to ignore our names.