The Mafia Empire

People always talk about successful individuals as if they were born with some extraordinary quality that sets them apart. However, the reality is different. Charisma and a sharp mind are, in fact, built upon the recognition of wealth by society.

We often praise a particular entrepreneur for being bold, but we overlook the ninety-nine others with the same boldness who end up searching through trash piles for food after losing everything.

We acknowledge the successful entrepreneur—behind whom lies the numbers representing status and wealth. The bigger those numbers are, the more firmly we affirm our belief in him.

So, no matter what Julian says, in the eyes of those whose numbers are smaller than his, he is always right because he succeeded. We always believe in the successful because we have not yet succeeded ourselves.

That is the goal, that is the example!

Batch after batch of illicit alcohol was packed into sturdy wooden crates and loaded onto trucks. The trucks, filled to the brim, raced along the city streets, transporting low-proof liquor that, when poured out, turned into cash. More and more low-proof liquor gathered here, and more and more money flowed into Julian's bank account.

It's worth mentioning a small anecdote here. Some people constantly reminded Julian that the Imperial Central Bank was unreliable because it was run by Ordinians. They suggested he should hide his money in a cellar.

Well, that's just a joke.

The successful influx of high quality illicit alcohol into the market made life difficult for two other figures.

In a quiet restaurant, there were only six people: two attendants, two bodyguards, and two tycoons.

Ernst sat elegantly at one end of the long table, cutting his steak with grace. The quality of the steak was incomparable to the food consumed by the lower classes. While cows might be cheap, there were exclusive, expensive breeds meant only for nobles and capitalists.

These cattle ate better than some middle-class families, and to ensure the fat was perfectly distributed within the muscle, each high-quality Wagyu cow had a team of at least three people to care for it.

They fed the cattle expensive fruits and even other quality beef to increase the amino acid content in the meat, making it tastier. They also gave the cows regular massages to evenly distribute any excess fat throughout the meat. Of course, the cows needed exercise, too. Their daily life resembled that of noble lords, pampered and attended to, until they were finally served on someone's plate.

A nearly perfect steak like this cost around sixty to seventy dollars per pound, and for premium cuts, the price could exceed a hundred.

Ernst, like a connoisseur, patiently cut a slightly charred piece of steak with a pink center, using a silver fork to pierce the meat. A hint of pink juice oozed out. He leaned forward carefully, stretching his neck to place the morsel into his mouth, nodding as he chewed.

Glancing at the man across the table, he swallowed the meat and raised his fork and knife. "Aren't you going to try some? It's very fresh—slaughtered just this morning."

Carrell's upper lip twitched twice, making him look somewhat ridiculous. His expression was stern and grim, with a chilling glint in his eyes. He lowered his gaze to the plate of steak emitting a tempting aroma and then crumpled his napkin into a ball, throwing it onto the table.

"I don't understand how you can eat. Don't you know our market share is shrinking? Our daily profits are declining. We should stop that madman; at the very least, we can't let him continue running wild!"

Carrell was referring to the recent price cuts of the "Snow Elf" and "First Love" liquors. Though each bottle's price had dropped by only fifty cents, it was enough to make more bars favor these two brands over high-proof illicit liquors. On one hand, the premium quality came with a mid-range wholesale price, and on the other, word of mouth from customers was rapidly spreading.

More and more bars were falling under Julian's influence. Bars were cash cows, and their owners didn't care about unwritten rules; they only cared about profit and market demand.

Ernst, due to his complex background, wasn't too concerned about the gains or losses from illicit liquor. Or rather, he maintained his composure because he was confident he would outlast everyone else. But Carrell didn't share that sentiment.

Recently, as profits declined and expenses soared, he had already received warnings in a joking manner. If contributions continued to decrease, they would consider supporting someone else.

With the midterm elections approaching, the competition had already begun. While most ordinary people saw only the fierce "battles" in the one or two months leading up to the election, they were unaware that preparations had started a year or two in advance.

Faced with Carrell's questioning, Ernst shrugged, setting down his fork and knife and looking seriously at Carrell. "Do you know how many rulers this city has seen come and go since it was founded?" Without waiting for Carrell to answer, Ernst answered his own question, making a gesture with his hand. "Countless—yes, countless. The successful leave behind names, while the failures leave behind bones.

Nothing remains unchanged forever."

"No, this is different! I will not allow anyone to take away everything I have now, absolutely not!" As Carrell was about to stand and leave, a commotion erupted behind him. The quiet restaurant grew slightly noisy, and the door, which was supposed to remain closed, was pushed open.

The two attendants barely had time to react before straightening up—sharp blades were pressed against each of their necks.

A young man, tall and upright, walked in wearing a white suit. With his head held high, he casually removed his hat and handed it to someone beside him, then strode confidently toward the table. At that moment, Carrell's bodyguard tried to stop the intruders but found a gun pressed against his head.

The man in the white suit pulled out a chair and placed it in the middle of the long table. He snapped his fingers, and one of the attendants stumbled backward and was pushed to his side.