The Robbins family; one of the invisible puppeteers of San Francisco. They were the quiet overlords of the city, pulling the strings behind its banks, casinos, red-light districts, and countless other gray market operations. Their influence seeped into every corner of the city like smoke, difficult to see but impossible to ignore.
But Ivan knew their reach extended beyond just the mundane. Though it wasn't listed in any official record, it was an unspoken truth: the Robbins family controlled the wizarding world in San Francisco as well.
And standing in front of Ivan was proof of that, the enigmatic Santos Robbins.
Fortunately, Santos didn't seem hostile. In fact, the man's attention was laser-focused on Ivan's supposed background, particularly his heritage from Russia. Santos's curiosity bordered on childlike as he fired off a barrage of strange questions.
"So… you have ever seen a poplar bear. I heard they eat the prey alive?"
After what felt like an eternity, the shopkeeper finally handed Ivan his serviced pistol. Along with a box of bullets, the total came to '1.5 dollars.' Ivan paid quickly and left, exhaling deeply the moment he stepped out of the store.
"Well," he muttered to himself, "at least he didn't realize I was a wizard." Still, interacting with a B-level powerhouse like Santos was no easy feat. Even without hostility, the weight of his presence was suffocating. Ivan glanced at the time. Nearly noon. It was time to start preparing for his next move, meeting Mr. Howard.
---
'Three o'clock in the afternoon.'
A sleek, brand-new Ford car rolled through the narrow streets of Chinatown, its polished exterior gleaming under the afternoon sun. Heads turned as the car passed, catching the attention of old men playing chess in the shade and shopkeepers lounging outside their stores. It was rare to see such a luxurious vehicle in this part of the city, and even rarer to see it stop here.
The car made several sharp turns before pulling up in front of a modest two-story house. The driver's door opened, and a young boy in a neat suit hopped out, moving quickly to the back to open the passenger door.
Out stepped Ivan. He looked nothing like the scrappy investigator he had been earlier in the day. Dressed in a semi-formal navy coat, his hair slicked back with pomade, and a pair of dark sunglasses perched on his nose, Ivan exuded an air of authority and wealth. He adjusted his coat casually, looking every bit the respectable businessman.
As he stepped away from the car, Ivan gave the boy a quick pat on the head. The boy was 'Charlie Hank,' a street-smart newsboy Ivan had hired for the day. For thirty dollars, Charlie had agreed to play the role of an assistant, adding legitimacy to Ivan's image.
Ivan turned to Charlie. "Remember, follow my lead. You're just here to make me look important."
Charlie nodded quickly. "Got it, Mr. Ivan."
Ivan smiled. "Good."
Their arrival hadn't gone unnoticed. An older man in a long gown, clearly the gatekeeper of the two-story house, approached the iron gate with hurried steps. His sharp eyes studied Ivan and Charlie carefully.
"My lords," the gatekeeper said respectfully, "may I ask who you are?"
Ivan smiled politely, his tone calm and confident. "My surname is Rocky. I've recently arrived in California, and I'm interested in doing business here. I'd like to pay my respects to Mr. Howard."
He motioned to Charlie, who stepped forward with a red envelope in hand. The edge of a crisp '2 5-dollar bills' peeked out from the envelope, deliberately visible.
"This is a small token of respect," Ivan continued smoothly, "nothing more than a humble gesture for a fortune."
The gatekeeper's eyes lit up at the sight of the bill. His demeanor shifted instantly, a wide smile spreading across his face. "Boss, you're far too generous! Please wait here while I inform Howard. I can't promise he's available, but I'll do my best."
Ivan nodded graciously. "I understand. Take your time."
As the gatekeeper disappeared inside, Charlie leaned closer to Ivan, whispering curiously, "Mr. Ivan, what exactly do they do here?"
Ivan glanced down at the boy, his expression unreadable behind the sunglasses. "Call me Mr. Ivan while we're here," he said quietly. "And don't ask questions. You're just here to follow instructions, understood?"
Charlie hesitated, then nodded. "Understood, Mr. Li."
Ivan gave a small nod of approval. "Good. Did you memorize what I taught you?"
"Yeah, I got it," Charlie replied confidently.
Ivan took a deep breath, steadying himself. This meeting was critical. Without the cooperation of Mr. Howard, his plans to infiltrate Oakland would collapse. While the risks were high, he'd done everything possible to create the right impression. And as long as Charlie stayed clueless, the boy would remain safe, even if things went sideways.
"Alright," Ivan said, adjusting his coat once more. "Let's see if the door opens for us."
The janitor climbed the stairs to the second floor, his footsteps muted against the polished wood. Upstairs, the faint crackle of a radio filtered through the closed office door. Mr. Howard was seated in his Western-style office, surrounded by luxurious furnishings: intricately carved decorative sofas, a gleaming mahogany desk, and glass-fronted cabinets filled with trinkets and books. Behind his desk, a single yellowed painting hung on the wall; a stark contrast to the otherwise European opulence of the room. The art was an elegant landscape, its brushstrokes evoking a quiet but deliberate power, much like the man who owned it.
The doorman knocked softly, three measured taps against the heavy wooden door.
"Who is it?" Mr. Howard's voice was calm, his focus still on the crosstalk performance emanating from the radio.
"It's me, sir," the gatekeeper replied respectfully. "There are two people at the door. They claim to be businessmen and wish to pay you a visit."
Mr. Howard leaned back in his chair, his expression curious but composed. "Oh? What sort of people are they?"
The gatekeeper cleared his throat, his words careful and precise. "The man is young, perhaps in his twenties. He gave the name nilly and carries himself with dignity. He's dressed in a fine suit and brought along a teenage servant. Polite, sir."
Mr. Howard chuckled, finally reaching over to turn off the radio. The room fell silent. "Interesting. I've got time today. Let them up."
The gatekeeper bowed slightly. "Right away."
Moments later, the sound of approaching footsteps echoed from the stairwell. The faint creak of the office door announced their arrival.
"Come in," Mr. Howard called out, standing to adjust his long coat. His movements were deliberate, his posture commanding yet approachable.
The door opened fully, revealing Ivan standing in the doorway, with Charlie just behind him, clutching a paper bag. Ivan paused for a moment, taking in the room and the man before him. Mr. Howard was an older gentleman, his face lined with the wisdom and wear of decades, but his sharp eyes suggested he missed nothing. Ivan smiled warmly and stepped forward, bowing slightly.
"Howard," Ivan began, his voice steady and polite. "I have heard much about your great name and reputation. My name is Rocky Balboa, but friends call me Rocky. It is truly an honor to finally meet you."
Mr. Howard's lips curved into a practiced smile, and he stepped forward to meet Ivan halfway, extending a hand. "Rocky, there's no need for such formalities. You honor me with your presence."
Ivan gestured to Charlie, who stepped forward and carefully handed over the paper bag. "I've brought you a small gift as a token of my respect," Ivan said. "This is 1889 French wine. It's difficult to find in the United States, and I thought it would be a suitable offering for someone of your stature."
Mr. Howard's eyes gleamed with appreciation as he peeked inside the bag. He instantly recognized the value of the gift. High-end wines like this, while not technically banned under Prohibition, were rare and expensive, reserved for those with connections or deep pockets.
"You are far too kind," Mr. Howard said with a chuckle, handing the bag to the gatekeeper. "Alfred, take the wine and show this young gentleman here to the dining room to wait."
Charlie hesitated for a moment, glancing at Ivan for reassurance. Ivan gave him a subtle nod. "Go along," he said softly. "Wait for me downstairs."
With the boy escorted out, Ivan and Mr. Howard were left alone in the office, the afternoon sunlight streaming in through the windows.
Mr. Howard gestured for Ivan to sit, pulling up a chair across from his own. Once they were seated, he leaned forward, his smile growing more genuine. "Brother Rocky, you are young and promising. But from what I hear, you've only recently arrived in California. Is that correct? Otherwise, I would have surely heard of you by now."
Ivan nodded smoothly, his mind already rehearsing the story he had prepared. "That's true, Howard. I grew up in Russia, where my family conducted business. But after the World War, things took a turn for the worse. My father's business began to fail, so I decided to come to the New World to seek better opportunities."
Mr. Howard listened carefully, his expression thoughtful. "Ah, I see. Russia was once a land of great opportunity, but war changes everything. You are not alone in your struggles. Many young men have had to leave home to build something new. It's admirable that you are taking that step."
Ivan offered a modest smile. "War truly is a disaster for all. But I see promise in this land, and I am determined to make my way here."
"And what business are you in, Brother Rocky?" Mr. Howard asked, his tone casual but probing.
Ivan leaned back slightly, his smile sharpening. "I hope you'll forgive me for being discreet, Howard. My business isn't exactly something to discuss openly."
Mr. Howard chuckled knowingly, folding his hands in his lap. "Ah, I see. Let me guess… munitions, perhaps?"
Ivan laughed lightly, shaking his head. "Not quite that serious, Howard. Let's just say… I deal in the trade of opium."
The room grew quiet for a moment, the weight of the admission hanging in the air. Mr. Howard's eyes didn't flinch; instead, a faint smirk tugged at his lips. He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone.
"Opium, you say? Now that… is a serious business."