I sit facing him. Claremont remains standing for a moment, hands behind his back, gaze directed toward the window.
He sighs.
Claremont:
— The Roskarov...
(pause)
— You want to understand, right? Why I seem to give up in front of them. Why I talk about peace, while you all expect war.
I remain silent. He continues, more seriously:
Claremont:
— You know their name. But you don't know their rise. No one here knows the whole story. Me... I've seen the essentials.
He turns toward me, his eyes darker than usual.
Claremont:
— The Roskarov started as a small cell in Saint Petersburg at first. Back then, they were just port racketeers, pawns for the great Russian families. No respect. No stature.
He finally sits down, fingers interlaced before him.
Claremont:
— Then the old man, Ilya Roskarov, had a vision. A twenty-year plan. He told his sons: "We will not be a gang. We will be a nation without borders. A mafia that speaks all languages, that infiltrates all structures."
Natsa:
— And did they succeed?
Claremont:
— Better than that.
(he leans in slightly, voice low)
— They started with human weaknesses. Not drugs. Not weapons. Debts. The Roskarov bought the debts of thousands of people across Eastern Europe, then Germany, then South America.
They built their empire like a black bank. When someone couldn't pay, they didn't kill. They offered a solution. Jobs. Services. Recruitment.
He taps the table softly.
Claremont:
— Those who served them became rich. Those who betrayed them disappeared. No corpses. No messages. Just... nothingness.
And the bigger they grew, the more they replaced the old families. Corrupting judges. Buying ports. Infiltrating private surveillance systems.
An octopus without a center.
I nod slowly.
Their reach explains their arrogance. And their silence too: they are never seen striking directly.
Claremont (distant gaze):
— You know what made them invincible? It's not strength. It's structured fear. They established an unspoken rule: "He who opposes us does not lose everything. He loses himself."
No one knew what that meant. Until the day entire families were erased. Files, photos, memories, even voices. As if they never existed.
A chill runs down my spine.
Natsa:
— Erased... how?
Claremont:
— No one knows. There's talk of a man in their organization. A certain Korvich, nicknamed the narrative cleaner.
Some think he works with ultra-specialized hackers. Others say he's just a legend... but I believe he's real. Because I saw a scene once that no logical system can explain.
He falls silent for a few seconds. The silence is thick.
Claremont:
— That's why I want peace, Natsa. Because if we fight now, without a position of strength, they will wipe us out. Literally. I'm not talking about deaths. I'm talking about oblivion.
Natsa:
— And you think they'd accept peace without reducing you to a puppet?
Claremont:
— No. But that's where my plan begins. You see, I want them to believe I'm weak. That I'm ready to fold. I want them to invite me into their world. To show me what they protect.
And that's where you come in.
He looks at me, more serious than ever.
Claremont:
— I don't want you as a guard. I want you as an infiltrator. An observer. The one who walks silently by my side... but sees everything. And above all, remembers everything. Because what you'll discover there, no recording can keep. But you... you're not just anyone.
Natsa (eyes fixed on him):
— But boss...
Why are the Roskarov so obsessed with you specifically? Why push you toward submission? You're not the biggest. Nor the most violent.
They should ignore you or crush you... not try to integrate you.
Claremont slowly raises his head, a faint smile on his lips. He stands and takes a few steps.
Claremont:
— You're finally asking the right question.
He remains standing, hands clasped behind his back, and stops facing a map hanging on the wall. A map of Veltrazia, the island-nation once detached from Australia.
Claremont:
— You think I'm a mafia boss.
But behind the scenes, I'm the bridge. The one who sees all the goods passing, all the black deals, all the underground strategies.
I'm the one they call when a South American cartel wants to know if a maritime corridor is at war or not.
When Italian mafias want to quietly move weapons.
When Nigerian bosses want to hide their money in crypto but don't know which structure won't fall in three months.
He turns to me, grave.
Claremont:
— You think I sell services? No.
I sell direction. Real information.
I'm the knot that connects ambitions.
The Roskarov don't need me to make money.
They need me to crush others without mistake.
Natsa (narrowing eyes):
— You mean... you know all the future big moves of the underworld?
Claremont nods.
Claremont:
— Not all. But enough that all the top families want me with them... or silenced.
And you know what that implies, right?
I remain speechless. He approaches.
Claremont:
— If the Roskarov own me... they don't just have an informant.
They have a strategic prism. An eye everywhere.
And if I fall, then Veltrazia falls too.
Silence falls in the room. I blink.
Natsa:
— What? Why Veltrazia?
Claremont (more serious than ever):
— Because our island is more than a country, Natsa.
It's a maritime crossroads, a technological center, and above all: an invisible nation. The great powers watch it... but no one wants to control it openly yet.
The mafias? They use Veltrazia as neutral ground.
But if the Roskarov control me... they control the only reliable clandestine interface on the island. And thus, all underground movements in the South Pacific.
I am speechless. It's too much all at once.
Claremont:
— That's why they hunt me.
I'm not a gang leader.
I'm a key.
And if they break me, they turn the continent's lock.
Claremont turns away from the bay window, still serious but calmer. He presses the intercom in his office.
Claremont:
— Léya, come in. I have a mission for you.
A few seconds later, the door opens gently. Léya enters, straight and attentive as always. She glances quickly at Natsa, then fixes her gaze on Claremont.
Léya:
— Yes, boss?
Claremont:
— We're leaving Veltrazia.
Me and a few others, we're going to Mexico. World meeting of the bosses.
But here... it has to hold. And you, you're going to hold the line.
She frowns.
Léya:
— Me?
Claremont:
— Yes. You're ready. I'm not giving you a fief. I'm giving you our home.
You protect the sensitive points, monitor internal movements, and above all... make sure the Roskarov don't take root here while we're away.
Léya straightens, even more serious.
Léya:
— Understood. I swear no one will touch Veltrazia during your absence.
Claremont nods with satisfaction. She leaves the room.
Claremont then slowly turns toward me. I feel his gaze sizing me up.
Claremont:
— You're coming with me.
I stare at him, a little surprised.
Natsa:
— Me?
Claremont:
— No one else can keep me alive like you. And believe me... if the Roskarov decide I'm too useful to die, that also means I'm too dangerous to remain whole.
I'm going to need a wall of flesh and steel between them and me.
I lower my eyes for a moment. The image of my family flashes abruptly through my mind.
Jamila, her calm laughter.
My father, silent and tired.
My mother, always between two prayers.
And my little sister... too young for this world of blood.
Natsa:
— I accept.
But I have a request.
Claremont raises an eyebrow, intrigued.
Natsa:
— We'll probably be filmed there. Mafia meetings, deals, attacks. Everything is under hidden cameras, drones, satellites, double agents.
And I have a face.
A name. A family. People they could trace... and break.
Claremont folds his arms, attentive.
Natsa:
— So I want to wear a mask. All the time. There, during operations.
Not for show, nor for style. Just... to protect those who know nothing.
Claremont blinks. Then a short laugh escapes him.
Claremont:
— You're serious...?
A mask?
Sounds like a comic book hero.
He approaches and taps my shoulder with a sly smile.
Claremont:
— But you're not wrong.
We live in crazy times. And monsters hide better than straight men.
So be it. You'll wear your mask.
He turns away and stops at the door.
Claremont:
— Find one that looks like you... but also scares the hell out of people.