The car's engine roared down the highway, carrying me toward an unknown destination. My vision was dark again, but not from sleep—this time, a sack covered my head, and my hands were bound behind my back with rope. My legs were free, but there was no chance of escape. They had activated the child lock before I was forced into the backseat.
The silence inside the car was suffocating. None of us spoke. Only the distant hum of passing vehicles reassured me that I wasn't alone in this world. I focused on that, trying to ignore the dread creeping into my chest.
After what felt like an eternity, the car finally came to a stop. A door opened, and a firm grip yanked me out. A hand pressed against my shoulder, guiding me forward. The sound of dripping water, creaking wood, and the faint purring of a cat painted a picture of our surroundings. The air smelled damp and foul. Wherever we were, it was in bad condition.
We walked for a while before stopping. A door groaned open, and I was led inside. They forced me onto a hardwood chair before ripping the sack off my head. My vision blurred momentarily as my eyes adjusted to the dim light.
The room was old—decaying walls, shattered windows, and dusty shelves lined with books. A single interrogation lamp cast eerie shadows around the space. Seated across from me was a man in his forties, his presence radiating authority.
He leaned forward, voice deep and rough. "Young man, you have stepped into a world you do not belong to—even if you don't realize it yet." He rose from his chair, slowly circling behind me. "It is unfortunate that you've been dragged into this against your will."
I swallowed hard. "I… I don't understand. Did I do something wrong?" My heart pounded in my chest, fear creeping into my voice.
He paused. "…If I tell you the truth, there will be no turning back. Your life will change forever." His words carried a heavy finality. "Are you sure you want to know?"
I hesitated. Every instinct told me to refuse—to walk away and pretend none of this ever happened. But I needed answers. My car was gone, my life upended by those men in black hoodies. I had to know why. Taking a deep breath, I met his gaze. "…Yes. I want the truth."
He returned to his seat. "Then prepare yourself."
What I learned shook me to my core.
The state I lived in was controlled by four major mafia families, each ruling over a different city—Spade, Heart, Clover, and Diamond. The very people sitting in this room belonged to the Clover Group. Real mafiosos—not the kind you see in movies, but the kind that held entire towns in their grip.
Their hierarchy mirrored a deck of tarot cards. The King led the group, the Queen stood as his wife, and the Jack was his right-hand man. The Numbers ranked below them, with 1 being the highest. Then there was the Ace—an invaluable wildcard, the strongest among them.
The man before me was Douglas Sinclair, Number 10 of the Clover Group. Though he was the lowest-ranked Number, he commanded over twenty men and controlled several districts. He was more dangerous than I had imagined—someone who could end me without consequence.
As for the men in black hoodies from last night? They had been deep in debt—owing the Clover Group a staggering $100,000. They had tried to run, but Douglas's men caught up to them. The car crash wasn't just an accident—it was their execution. I was simply caught in the crossfire.
Then, I recalled something—two figures standing over me before I lost consciousness. Douglas confirmed it had been Jordan and Tyler, the two men who brought me here. They had saved me, dragging me out of the wreck and getting me to the hospital. If not for them, I might have died there too.
I exhaled sharply, unsure of how to process everything. "Thank you… for saving me."
Douglas nodded. "That's the least of your concerns now." He leaned forward, expression unreadable. "You know too much. We can't just let you walk away."
The air in the room thickened, suffocating. My pulse quickened.
"You have two options," he continued. "Join the Clover Group… or die."
My blood ran cold. This wasn't a choice—it was a death sentence, thinly disguised as an offer.
How did my life end up like this? Just yesterday, I was an ordinary guy. Now, I was being forced into the mafia because some debtors chose my car to escape in. If fate had picked someone else, I'd be at home right now, playing video games and snacking on chips. But no. It had to be me.
Taking a deep breath, I forced out the words. "…I'll join the Clover Group."
Silence hung in the air for a moment before Douglas smirked. "Good. It would've been a shame to add another body to the count today." He gestured to Jordan, who placed a suitcase on the table and opened it. Inside was a contract.
Douglas slid a pen toward me. "Read it carefully before signing."
I picked up the papers, scanning each word with painstaking detail. I needed to understand exactly what I was agreeing to. It took nearly half an hour, but once I was satisfied, I took a deep breath and signed away my normal life.
Douglas examined the contract, nodding in approval before extending his hand. "Then, I, Douglas Sinclair, 10th division of the Clover Group, welcome you, Vincent Archer, to the world of mafia."
Reluctantly, I shook it.
Jordan followed suit. "Jordan Matthews, Douglas's right-hand man."
Then, the other one. "Tyler Bennett, left-hand man. Nice to have you, Vincent."
Surprisingly, the atmosphere shifted. The tension dissipated, replaced by an odd warmth—almost like a family welcoming a new member.
Douglas gestured toward the suitcase. "Take a look."
Inside, I found a brand-new smartphone, a tarot-style card with a clover symbol, a business card, and a thick stack of cash.
"That phone is yours. Your old one was destroyed in the crash, so I got you a new one. The tarot card is your identification—it shows you're part of my division. The business card has our numbers and the address to HQ. And the cash? That's a thousand dollars. Get yourself some new clothes or whatever you need."
I stared at the money, dumbfounded. A thousand dollars—just like that? I worked an entire month to make that much.
"…Thank you." I bowed my head, genuinely grateful despite my circumstances.
"You're welcome. Now, Ty, Jordan—escort him out. I have other business to attend to."
The two nodded and led me outside. As soon as the sunlight hit my face, I squinted, momentarily blinded by the brightness.
"We called an Uber for you," Jordan said. "It'll be here soon."
Tyler added, "See you around, Vincent. We'll be seeing a lot more of each other from now on."
Then, they disappeared back inside, leaving me standing alone with a suitcase in hand. For a moment, I just stood there, processing everything.
Then, it hit me.
Wait… last night…
Ashley!
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An hour later, in a different part of the city.
A muffled groan of pain echoed through a dimly lit room, followed by the sickening thud of another blow. A tortured scream rang out, only to be silenced by another hit. The brutal session continued for minutes until, finally, it stopped.
The victim—a man of considerable size—lay slumped against a chair, his body battered and broken. Bruises and cuts marred his swollen face, fresh burn marks scorched his skin. He trembled, barely clinging to consciousness.
Standing before him was a man in a sharp black suit, a gun lazily resting in his hand. Cold eyes stared down at the beaten man with a look of utter disdain.
"I warned you to keep your men out of my business, fatty." His voice was calm, almost casual, as he pressed the barrel against the man's forehead. "Did you listen? No. You didn't."
With a sudden kick to the face, the fat man coughed up blood, sputtering weak protests.
"Do you think a hundred grand is pocket change?" Another kick, this time to the ribs. A painful wheeze escaped his lips. "People work themselves to the bone for that kind of money." He ground his foot into the man's chest, pressing down with deliberate cruelty.
"And because you couldn't control your filthy lapdogs, an innocent civilian got dragged into your mess." His voice darkened. "You should die for this. But that would be too easy."
A click echoed through the room as he chambered a round, aiming the gun at the man's trembling leg.
"No—please! I'll—"
Bang!
A gunshot tore through the flesh. A gut-wrenching scream followed, reverberating off the concrete walls. Blood pooled beneath the chair.
The man in the suit slid his gun back into its holster and turned toward the door, unfazed by the agonized wailing behind him. Two guards stood at attention outside.
"Clean it up."
They nodded, stepping into the room without hesitation.
Leaning against the window, he pulled out a cigarette, lighting it with a flick of his lighter. He exhaled a slow drag, watching the cityscape beyond the glass, a twisted smirk playing at his lips.
"I've made him pay the price, kid." His voice was barely above a whisper. "Now, it's your turn to show me what you've got."