The Mafia Empire

"Graf, I want to know what you are doing. This is the station. As long as you're here, you must follow our agreemt and do your job properly!" Mr. Kre loosed his tie and placed a cup of coffee in front of Graf.

Rectly, Mr. Kre noticed that Graf's performance had plummeted to less than a third of what it used to be. He had ev be abst during the busiest times in the afternoon!

That was something no capitalist could tolerate. They pay you to work as if your life depds on it, not to provide charity. The station gave these workers ough food and almost ough rest time every day. They could ev take a few days off each month, as long as it was during less busy periods. Mr. Kre felt that he had already be patit and tolerant ough with these bottom-tier workers.

They should be weeping with gratitude for the life he granted them, not thinking about slacking off!

If it wer't for Graf's high standing and reputation at the station, Mr. Kre might have already invoked certain clauses in their contract to punish this damn guy.

Graf, with a blank expression, raised the cup of coffee and downed it like water. After smacking his lips, he said something that nearly made Mr. Kre jump out of his seat. "This stuff is really bitter, like burnt pot scrapings mixed with water, ev the color matches."

Thirty bucks per pound for coffee beans from the southern empire, and this guy compared it to burnt pot and water?

Mr. Kre frowned but hid his displeasure. A Barbarian countryman would always be a Barbarian countryman. Ev living in the city, they couldn't shake their rural ignorance and stupidity. This thought made Kre's frustration less as he looked at Graf like a gorilla he might see at the zoo with his kids, feeling a sse of superiority rise from within.

"Am I seriously discussing coffee with a gorilla?"

He ev chuckled, filled with disdain and contempt.

He sat down in his comfortable chair behind the desk and took a sip of the rich, aromatic coffee. The bitterness quickly melted into a warmth that spread through him. The lingering aftertaste made every cell in his body seem to relax and breathe freely, craving the next sip. Satisfied, he nodded. Thirty bucks a pound was worth every bit of the indulgce.

Sighing, he spoke earnestly, "Graf, I know you have just over a month left on your contract, but you need to understand that ev if you're free tomorrow, today you're still a station employee. You can't ignore our work rules, and what you're doing sets a bad example for others."

Graf nodded as he walked to the coffee pot with his cup, hesitating for a momt before choosing a larger glass—a square one typically used for liquor. He poured all the coffee into it. "I understand, sir. Don't worry, I'll follow the rules, and I won't skip work again." He raised the large glass of "burnt water," sniffed it, and once again downed it in one gulp.

"It's still so bitter and doesn't quch thirst at all. I really don't know why anyone would like this stuff!" He lifted the empty glass, ignoring Mr. Kre's redding face. "Thanks for the hospitality, sir. If there's nothing else, I'll get back to work."

After patting his pants, he left Kre's office. Kre, staring at the now empty coffee pot, clched his fingers against the desk, sliding them down in frustration. He was losing it.

Julian caught up with Graf outside the office. "What happed? Was Krian making things difficult for you?" Julian asked quietly.

Graf wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and said, "Nah. Same ol' same. He just told me not to skip work again, nothing more." He started to sound a bit indignant. "We skip work together, so why does he only give me a hard time and not you?"

Julian chuckled and shrugged. "Maybe I just bld in better,"

"Or maybe you're worthless to the station," Graf grumbled, the annoyance dissipating quickly. "We've finished two cases. Should we start selling?"

Two cases of twelve bottles each were stashed under their bed in their rted room. One case of "First Love," the sour fruit liquor, and one case of "Snow Elf." According to Julian, both would sell for the same price, with a target of t bucks per bottle. Each bottle contained about .4 pints, roughly 0 milliliters.

Their cost per bottle was a two and a half to three bucks. If sold at t bucks each, their profit would be betwe six and sev bucks. Wh Julian calculated the profit, Graf's eyes turned red. Heav knows, he had never imagined selling high-proof alcohol could be this lucrative! A case of twelve bottles meant about eighty bucks in pure profit.

With his forty perct share, Graf stood to make thirty bucks per case—sixty bucks for both.

That meant if they sold both cases, he could buy out his contract and have more time to make ev more fruit liquor with Julian—and make ev more money.

So whatever Mr. Kre said, he just treated it like a loud fart!

The two walked to a corner of the station, and Julian lowered his voice. "I'll need you to handle the sales. I don't know much about the city's bars. Make sure to sell to differt places, not just one person. We need more people to know about our product."

"I got it!" Graf nodded quickly, excitedly waving his arms. "Wh should we go?"

Julian glanced at the clock in the station warehouse. "Now, before the eving bar rush begins!"

...

Gorn, a wealthy man living on the outskirts of Ternell City, managed two successful farms—one for beef cattle, the other for dragonblood wood trees. His businesses had flourished, placing him among the promint figures of the local upper class, though he remained just shy of the elite in larger cities.

At thirty-sev, Gorn had aged well, his polished appearance and calm demeanor oft drawing atttion. Despite his success, he had never pursued intimate relationships, leaving others to speculate about his private life.

But few knew the truth: Gorn had once loved deeply. Years ago, his family had st her away to a wealthier city, and wh he sought her out later, he found her married with childr. Brokhearted, Gorn buried himself in his work, climbing to his currt status but never finding love again.

One eving at the Wild Rose Bar, the bartder offered him two new drinks: "First Love" and "Snow Elf." Gorn sampled "First Love," and as its bittersweet taste hit his tongue, it stirred memories of the love he'd lost long ago.

That night, Gorn sat in silce, his thoughts drifting to the past. A him, others drank quietly, lost in their own reflections. As the eving wore on, the two new drinks became popular—"Snow Elf" with its smooth sweetness, and "First Love" for the bittersweet taste of nostalgia it brought.

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