At the bustling boxing event, I intentionally left behind my name and number, ensuring they would have a way to reach out to me.
I didn't even bother with an alias. I scrawled out my real name, clear, unambiguous, as if signing a contract, because I wanted them to know—needed them to know—that I had nothing to hide from their kind. That I operated with a certain reckless legitimacy, the sort that translates across syndicates and breeds a dangerous kind of respect. I wanted my identity to echo through their ranks, to be whispered and dissected in their smoke-shrouded back rooms until my name was as familiar as their own. That's how ties are formed in the criminal world: through mutual recognition of the risks taken, and the possibilities inherent in such transparency.
Of course, there was a price to this openness. If they decided I was a liability, a target, it would be the first and last time my name appeared on any of their lists. But that was the gamble—I wagered that my transparency would pique their curiosity, make them see me as a potential collaborator rather than a threat. Still, I didn't kid myself about the danger. If I was useful, I'd be tolerated, maybe even protected; if not, I'd be dealt with swiftly. That's how they had survived for decades, after all.
But beyond the immediate threat, there was a certain allure to the dance. After a lifetime of operating in the shadows, I relished the prospect of stepping into their world openly, my intentions laid bare, my value proposition self-evident. I needed them to know that a partnership with me wasn't just advantageous—it was inevitable. I orchestrated the entire performance at the boxing match for their benefit, aware that every gesture, every word spoken or left unsaid, would be catalogued and analyzed.
Now, as I leaned against the wall outside the arena, the cacophony of the crowd fading behind me, I considered the next move. There would be an assessment first—low-level operatives watching me, making discreet inquiries, maybe a test of loyalty or competence. I was ready for that, had prepared for every conceivable angle. The only uncertainty was how quickly they'd come, and in what form.
I scanned the lot for any unfamiliar faces, any hint of surveillance. It wasn't paranoia; it was protocol. I ran through the risk matrix again—threats, opportunities, contingencies—until my nerves settled into a steady, focused hum. All I had to do now was wait, and when the call came, be ready to play the part to perfection.
As I ground my heel into the scattered gravel, I caught sight of a figure lingering in the periphery, just inside the sodium glow of the streetlamp. Some part of me was thrilled at the possibility; the game had begun, and I was already a piece in play.
I was the mastermind destined to eventually dominate the criminal underworld.
Once someone with some legitimacy and intelligence looks at the forms to see who participated in the boxing, as it's not the most legal venture, and when they do the background checks, my name gets flagged,
and my possible connection to my father will allow me to be contacted in the near future.
The next step, I determined, was to establish an entity in Italy—a legitimate company, a shell wrapped in so many layers of respectability and obfuscation that no amount of cursory inspection could touch it. This was the linchpin through which every euro, every transaction, every favor traded or bribe laundered would pass. I'd spent years observing how the big players operated, how seamlessly they interwove their criminal enterprises with the legal machinery of the state. It wasn't enough to simply hide; the real art was to be seen, to operate in the open under the cover of impeccable paperwork, to be so thorough in one's bureaucratic self-fashioning that regulators and investigators alike mistook you for one of their own.
It meant finding the right notary, the right attorney, the right set of pliable accountants who could craft a company charter so bland, so unremarkably legalistic, that it would never draw attention. I pictured the name: something innocuous, perhaps borrowed from an ancient family holding or appropriated from an old, defunct vineyard to lend a patina of old-world legitimacy. There would be office space, a landline, a receptionist, quarterly filings—every tiny gesture of corporate existence performed with methodical precision, each step both a shield and a weapon.
But this wasn't just about money. The company would serve as a gateway to Italy's labyrinthine financial systems, a cipher through which information could flow between allies and adversaries alike. It would grant access to exclusive spaces: private clubs, closed-door auctions, shadow markets where the real business of the world was conducted. It was leverage, a platform from which to orchestrate movements and manipulate players, and I knew exactly how to make it work. I'd watched my father do it a hundred times before—with less subtlety, perhaps, but with the same underlying goal.
I will need to register a company in Italy so all our finances that happen in Italy can pass through their accounts.
To establish any sort of financial entity in Italy would require local counsel, not just a random legal practitioner, but the rare sort of lawyer who navigates notaries and organized crime with equal sangfroid. I had, by virtue of endless research and a penchant for collecting obscure talents, already identified the perfect candidate. She was fresh out of the University of Corsica, her record impeccable, her name only ever whispered in the darker corners of Nice and Bastia. The irony was delicious: while her classmates gossiped about government appointments and lucrative real estate gigs, Elodie Morelli—barely twenty-six and already notorious—was quietly cultivating a reputation as the consigliere of the next generation.
Her CV was a work of art, a palimpsest of court appointments and academic honors, with a single, excised line in the "Family" section that told me everything I needed to know. The missing line was the name of her father: Francois Paoli, the retired don whose operations had kept Corsican ports running on time for two decades. I recognized the old man's handiwork immediately—the way her credentials were curated, the strategic silences in her biography, the feints that led investigators in circles until they gave up out of sheer exhaustion.
But what truly piqued my interest was her rumored side practice. Beyond the glossy facade of contract law, Sandra ran a subterranean network of informants, archivists, and a discrete corps of private enforcers who specialized in sanitizing financial records and facilitating the transfer of dubious assets across the Mediterranean. Word in the legal underground was that she could flip a property title in under an hour, launder a fortune through antique art, or make a problematic witness recant with little more than a phone call. Every major syndicate recruiter had tried to buy her loyalty. She had declined, citing "ethical obligations." It was clear to me that what she truly prized was autonomy, and that made her both unpredictable and invaluable.
I knew her by reputation only, but rumor had it she was negotiating the re-opening of her late mother's law office in Porto-Vecchio. It was the perfect front, and I suspected she'd made herself available in advance of the haute-season business rush. I doubted she would respond to anything so gauche as a cold call; it would require something more artful, a demonstration that I understood the finer points of the game she was playing.
I began laying the groundwork that same afternoon. A series of encrypted messages to a mutual acquaintance in Marseilles, a carefully phrased inquiry to a local title office, and a subtle but unmistakable financial gesture—a minor endowment to the University's legal aid society, just enough to appear on her radar—were all deployed in quick succession. Within hours, I received a concise reply: "You are expected. Tomorrow, 10:00 a.m. Do not be late."
The message was unsigned, but I recognized the signature in the tone alone.
Her unique position and connections could prove invaluable.