Page 49 of Forbidden Empire
It helped that I’d grown into an imposing force. I was tall, broad-shouldered, a presence that filled every doorway.
I learned how to use it—every inch of muscle, every ounce of strength, every bit of fury that burned through my veins.
Fearless. Dangerous. I wore my anger like armor, and it made me unstoppable.
Turning to crime? It wasn’t a choice.
It was a pull, a gravity I never could have resisted. The first steps were effortless, a couple of jobs for a friend’s uncle, hands dirty before I’d even realized what I was doing.
And then word spread.
People said I could get things done, that I was good at making others see reason, good at putting the right kind of fear in them.
The truth?
I rarely had to do much.
One look at me and they’d shrink, eyes wide, reading the violence I promised. They handed over cash, signed whatever paper my bosses wanted, and begged me not to come back.
Sometimes, breaking bones was necessary. Rare, but not impossible. When I had to do it, I never hesitated.
Pain was a promise, and I kept mine.
After a while, my reputation worked for me.
I’d walk in and see my mark go pale, trembling, scrambling for their wallet without a word from me. That was when I started learning the real game, the way fear worked, the way power meant more than fists.
I had power. Not just brute force, though that was always there, simmering under the surface. But something sharper.
Influence. Reputation. The threat of what I might do was more potent than the memory of what I’d already done.
I watched the true players. The men who never raised their voices, who ran empires from smoke-filled back rooms, settling scores with a look or a whispered word.
I watched their every move, every calculated silence, every glance that meant more than a shout. And I learned. Lesson by lesson. Threat by threat.
That’s how you survive.
It was a game, nothing more.
At first, I was the quiet observer, listening in on those shadowy meetings, absorbing every calculated move and razor-sharp strategy the mafia bosses revealed.
I learned fast.
This was about power, yes, but more than that, it was about secrets.
Leverage.
Blackmail was the currency, and they traded it like kings.
If you had dirt on someone, you owned them.
I watched men sit on secrets for years, never showing their hand until the perfect moment. They collected information like gold coins, stashing it away, hoarding it, biding their time.
When the CEO of the local bank was fucking someone’s wife? One filed it away.
That was leverage when you needed a loan, or a favor, or a little of both. Or if you caught wind of a politician squeezing a developer for cash? You tucked that away, too. That kind of knowledge was dangerous, priceless, and it glimmered in the dark like a sharpened blade.
So I listened. I collected. I waited. And, in time, I became one of them. The kind of man I’d spent my whole life watching from the shadows.
