The Mafia Empire

"Of course, it would be my honor!" Just when Julian most needed support and was considering how to deepen his connections with the union, a three-thousand-dollar check resolved all his concerns.

Money truly has limitless power—anytime, anywhere!

Oliver was thrilled; this was good news for him and for the Ternell union. Membership fees alone barely kept the union running. A single lawsuit could cost a sixth, even a quarter, of their annual funds. From the capital's central labor union to local chapters, everyone sought ways to secure more benefits. They certainly advocated for workers' rights but also generated value and profit for themselves.

Fortunately, the world wasn't short of clever thinkers. Over ten years ago, someone proposed a plan to increase union revenue. After some challenges, it was approved. This plan suggested that the union not only protect workers' interests but also offer certain services to "capitalists" when necessary. The idea was straightforward: for any businessperson, "skilled workers" were always in high demand because they could create more profit in less time.

The union had an extensive database of skilled workers and resources. By paying a service fee and filling out some paperwork, capitalists could get the union to assign skilled workers to new positions.

Initially, this plan was rejected; some felt it betrayed the working class. But by the second and third rounds of debate, it was approved. It solved the union's financial struggles and broadened the union's real-world scope.

Although this plan improved union funding, no one ever thought having more money was a bad thing. When Julian handed over the check, Oliver decided on the spot: if Julian might need the union's help, why not draw him in directly?

That talk of a future meeting was nonsense—something he'd made up on the spot!

And the real purpose of Oliver's conversation with Julian tonight was to gather "donations."

Julian became the evening's indisputable main supporting role. Tomorrow's newspapers wouldn't mention Julian; they'd only focus on the charitable donations of the councilman and mayor. Julian's name wouldn't appear at all—he was simply a supporting role, albeit a significant one.

If he could spend so much to win favor with those in power, why not donate a portion to the union as well?

With this in mind, Oliver came to the event and successfully achieved his goal.

After a brief chat, the city's bishop, dressed in solemn attire, approached them. His black robe with a white-silver-trimmed vest made him look a few years younger than his actual forty-something age. Oliver nodded and excused himself, leaving Julian and the bishop with ample private space.

This was routine at charity galas; if anyone made a particularly "generous" bid, representatives from various organizations, including clergy, would take turns to approach them during the reception. They might not gain anything, but there was always a chance of reaping some benefit.

"Thank you for supporting Ternell's charitable causes!" The bishop's voice was slow and smooth, with a tone that was both rich and soothing. Smiling, he placed his hand on Julian's. "May the Lord's gaze always be upon you!"

Julian responded with a pious reply, "God bless us all!"

The bishop's eyes widened. He stared at Julian for three to five seconds before asking in a slightly raised tone, "Are you one of God's children?"

Julian pulled a check from his pocket and slipped it into the bishop's hand. "Not yet, but I hope to be!"

Most of the money Julian had recently earned was now either banked or spent in tonight's extravagance. Altogether, over twenty thousand dollars had filled others' pockets. While this spending pained Julian, it also felt strangely satisfying. The money might be gone, but its influence far exceeded its monetary value. What he had purchased tonight would form a protective shield around him.

Leaving the Ternell Grand Theater, Julian's cheeks ached. Smiling all night had left his face nearly numb. He patted his face, exhaled, and exited through the main entrance, heading toward his car. As he stood by the door, reaching for his keys, he caught a faint reflection in the car window: a group of people was approaching him from behind.

Had this been four months ago, he might have turned around to see who was behind him and ask what they wanted. But after experiencing fights and the threat of death, Julian had developed a certain level of social intuition. He didn't turn or look back; he simply ran.

He had a gun in the car's glove compartment, but because of the charity gala's high status and strict security, he hadn't brought it inside.

He could have unlocked the door, slipped inside, retrieved the gun, and calmly fired. But he wasn't willing to gamble on the chance that everything would go smoothly, so he decided to leave.

Mad Dog Wesson, who'd waited all night, nearly beat up the informant out of frustration, until he finally saw Julian, the target of this mission, and everyone seemed to "wake up."

Four months ago, Wesson had his nose broken by Julian. A broken nose might not seem significant, but it had become a joke among his gang. Wesson was always boasting about defeating dozens, hundreds, even thousands of enemies alone, but lately, people had begun questioning his stories. This latest episode—four people bested by one small guy who then escaped—made Wesson a laughingstock.

Just this morning, someone had asked him how many thousands he'd defeated the previous night.

The source of his humiliation was this guy. So when the car washer told him he'd seen Julian, Wesson immediately gathered his closest allies to corner him. Gritting his teeth, brandishing his club, he chased after Julian, ignoring the fact that he'd just exited the theater—his mind was filled only with revenge.

Running with all his might, Julian mentally thanked Mr. Kesma. The heavy labor he'd been forced to do had given him a strong body, ensuring he wouldn't be easily caught.

The city by day was governed by law, but under the cover of night, it became a criminal's paradise.

Along the way, Julian encountered two groups of patrol officers. Yet, from the way they avoided his gaze and withdrew, Julian knew that seeking help would be futile. As he ran, he stripped off his expensive overcoat, his costly suit, and even his high-priced shoes. Mad Dog Wesson and his gang slowed down while Julian maintained his pace.

Were it not for his strong urge to vent his anger, Wesson might have stopped long ago. But now, he was still chasing, up until a street corner.

Turning the corner, Wesson, panting like a broken bellows, held onto the wall, glaring at the empty street with veins bulging on his forehead. After all this, he'd lost his target again, fueling his rage. He smashed the glass of a nearby security window with his club. As he turned around, Julian reappeared in his line of sight.

"You… still dare to show up?" Mad Dog Wesson took two deep breaths, trying to steady his heaving chest. Pointing his club at Julian, he screamed, "Get him!"

He thought this would sound intimidating. The dozen or so gang members who had chased Julian were also hot and agitated, immediately charging forward with their weapons. But they soon noticed two figures beside Julian.

Wesson, leaning against the wall, sneered and said, "Don't think having two guys will save you. You're only dooming your friends!"

Apart from those who'd fallen behind, there were still around thirteen or fourteen gang members. Defeating three young men would be no problem. The tales of one-versus-many battles were only supposed to happen to him, or in legends, and he believed they'd all come here to meet their fate.

Julian stood still, unmoved. As the gang members charged forward, a contemptuous smile spread across his face. The more he smiled, the angrier Wesson felt. Graf, who'd left earlier, would have understood Julian's smirk better than anyone. Julian tilted his chin up slightly, looking past the gangsters toward Wesson, and said, "Keep him alive. Deal with the rest."

At that moment, the two men standing beside Julian stepped out of the shadows into the lamplight. They wore caps with the brims pulled low, casting shadows over their faces. The wind rustled their long coats in the empty street. Reaching into their coats, they drew pistols and, under the shocked gazes of the gang members, raised their guns.