The Mafia Empire

"I hear Mrs. Vivian's been buying quite a few expensive pieces from you. Is that right?" The mayor didn't open with the topic he wanted to discuss, but rather started with something trivial and unrelated. "It's clear that she loves art; those pieces are piling up in a storage room."

During the mayor's speech, Delier could only force a smile, nodding nervously. He knew the "true nature" of his art pieces. Put simply, they were his way of covering up his service fees for arranging meetings for noblewomen.

Direct monetary transactions would raise too many suspicions, but paying for "art" was far more acceptable. Since everyone's taste in art differs, one person might see an artwork as worthless, while another might view it as priceless. This subjective and highly personalized method of payment allowed Delier to avoid many complications and remain well-hidden. To this day, few people truly understood what his business entailed.

"What do you think your so-called 'art pieces' are worth?" The mayor's seemingly friendly smile gave Delier an odd sense of danger.

"Um... they're worth something, I guess?" Delier ventured cautiously, relieved when the mayor didn't outright reject his answer. He relaxed a bit and continued, "Art is difficult to understand, much like Mr. Mark's

Genesis

—it's just a multicolored circle on a canvas, yet I could easily paint something similar. However, the meaning of what I create wouldn't compare to the esteemed reputation of

Genesis

."

He continued earnestly, "Everyone has a different sense of art, whether high or low, but art itself is priceless!"

The mayor nodded thoughtfully. "You have a point, but I brought in prominent artists from Olodo and the capital to appraise the pieces you sold to Mrs. Vivian. They said your works don't even measure up to those of a beginner. What do you think of that?"

Of course they didn't measure up. Those were just casual doodles, their sole purpose to cover for "other expenses." There was no way he'd sell genuine artwork to those noblewomen. Delier offered only an awkward smile, choosing not to argue—he knew that remaining silent was wiser than trying to explain.

Seeing the moment was right, the mayor spoke slowly, "I know what you do, and I know what they do. Now, I don't care to interfere in your business; just tell me who Mrs. Vivian has been spending time with recently."

Delier fell silent. He knew that one day someone would uncover his business, but he hadn't expected it to happen so soon, and certainly not by someone with this much authority.

"Unwilling to talk?" The mayor shook his head. "Or do you think that silence will let you escape an unavoidable question?"

Delier maintained his silence. The next second, the mayor grabbed a heavy crystal ashtray from the coffee table and smashed it onto Delier's head. They say bones are hard, but even the hardest bone can't shield soft skin. Blood trickled down from Delier's forehead, his vision turning black as bursts of light danced before his eyes. Dizzy with the sensation of spinning, he struggled to keep his focus.

With a loud thud, his head was knocked to one side again, and a hot stream poured from his nose. He reached up to feel his face—not blood this time, but a clear liquid. Realizing the imminent danger, he raised his arms to shield his head. Only then, as his arms throbbed with intense pain, did he scream, but the mayor had already ordered that no one was to enter.

"See? Guarding a secret could cost you your life, but if you speak up, there's nothing to lose." The mayor, breathing heavily, tossed the ashtray back onto the coffee table and sat down again. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the blood from his hands, the bright red staining the cloth in alarming spots.

"Jon?" Pronto looked in confusion at the expensive letterhead bearing only a single name. Completely bewildered, he glanced up at the mayor's butler. Being disturbed from a sweet slumber early in the morning was hardly pleasing, especially since today was his day off. If it weren't for the clout of the person knocking, Pronto would have gladly retaliated against this unwelcome disturbance.

The brown paper with woodgrain was edged with a layer of gold—gold foil stamping—and carried a faint fragrance. The name "Jon" was written in an artistic, elegant script. The letterhead alone must have cost a small fortune, and it was used simply to convey one name, highlighting the prestige of the sender.

"I'm sorry, but who is this Jon?" Pronto asked, still puzzled.

The butler responded patiently, "Jon is a young man who frequently visits the Delier Art Gallery. He's around fifteen or sixteen, very fair and handsome, with a strong build. His hair has a slight touch of silver, making him easy to recognize. The mayor wants you to investigate him discreetly and see if anyone might be directing him from behind the scenes."

"Very well, I've delivered the message. I'll take my leave now." The butler tipped his hat, bowed, and left. Watching the butler's retreating figure, Pronto frowned.

He was growing increasingly irritated. In theory, as the district police chief, he and these mayors and council members were of nearly equal standing. But to both the mayor and the councilmen, he was more like a family servant—someone to command as they pleased.

Doing his job correctly rarely brought any rewards; to those in power, doing things right was simply what was expected. As police chief, his main duty wasn't just to maintain public order but also to handle the trouble these leaders threw his way. This wasn't the first or second time he'd dealt with such a matter. Recently, Mrs. Vivian had asked him to arrest someone, and now it was the mayor's turn.

Despite his irritation, Pronto had no choice but to comply. He hastily donned the uniform he had set aside for tomorrow, put on his hat, slapped his cheeks to look more alert, took a deep breath, and hurried out of his house.