Ivan boarded the tram, the rattle of its wheels against the tracks filling his ears. He glanced at his watch: 2:00 p.m. There was still plenty of time left in the day.
After a moment's thought, he decided he deserved a good meal before heading back to the hotel. He hadn't eaten anything memorable in days, and with a rare opportunity to indulge, he wanted something a bit more upscale.
---
The Baroque-style restaurant Ivan found was a far cry from the modest eateries he typically frequented. Its exterior boasted elegant woodwork and stained glass, and the inviting aroma of herbs and grilled meats wafted from within. He pushed open the heavy wooden lattice door, stepping into a dining area bathed in warm light and soft conversation. A waiter led him to a table by the window, and soon Ivan was handed a menu printed in both Hampton and Baroque languages.
The dishes were unlike anything he had encountered before, with unfamiliar combinations of ingredients that made choosing a challenge. After a moment of indecision, Ivan flagged down the waitress. "I'll take the chef's recommendation," he said, closing the menu with a decisive snap.
As he waited for his meal, Ivan's thoughts wandered. He mentally laid out his plans for the rest of the day. First, he needed to analyze everything he'd learned about the Kangaroo Bandit and the Mexican Cartel. Something about the situation didn't sit right, and he wanted to piece together the puzzle before his upcoming delivery. Afterward, he would take some time to explore the city. It had been an exhausting few days, and he finally had a moment to catch his breath.
---
The meal began with a cold dish of oysters drizzled with lemon juice. Each bite tasted fresh and briny, a surprising luxury in an era without reliable refrigeration. Ivan appreciated the effort it must have taken to source such high-quality ingredients.
The next course was poached and grilled salmon, served alongside thin cucumber slices and a delicate sauce. The fish was tender and flavorful, and the dish was accompanied by a creamy broth that soothed the palate.
Then came the main courses: roast duck glazed with apple sauce and herb-braised snails cooked with onions, tomatoes, and parsley. The snails, rich and aromatic, were served with small slices of bread. Hesitant at first, Ivan took a bite and found their taste surprisingly palatable, earthy but not unpleasant.
Dessert was a vanilla mousse. Ivan had expected it to be the grand finale of the meal, but he was underwhelmed. The texture was light, but the flavor lacked depth, reminding him of ordinary ice cream. 'Definitely not as good as pudding,' he thought, mentally downgrading the restaurant's rating.
When the bill arrived, the total came to 97 cents. Ivan retrieved the cash from his hidden stash and paid, then stepped outside and paused to count his current savings.
'3242 dollars,' he tallied. 'Not bad.'
By modern standards, this sum placed him comfortably within the middle class. But compared to the 160,000 dollars he expected from his upcoming deal, it was a drop in the bucket. With that kind of money, he'd cross several social classes in one leap, transforming from an immigrant laborer to a small capitalist.
'The Great Ivan,' he thought with a smirk. 'My rise would make Jay Gatsby jealous and Herbert Hoover weep.' He chuckled to himself. "Turns out the methods detailed in the criminal code really are the most profitable."
---
Later, Ivan returned to the Hilty Hotel. Opening the door to his suite, he found Charlie lounging on the sofa, a dog-eared novel in his hands.
"Anyone come by today?" Ivan asked, shrugging off his coat.
Charlie put down the book and shook his head. "No, sir. No visitors. Honestly, if this keeps up, I'm starting to feel guilty for taking your money."
Ivan chuckled, amused by the boy's earnestness. "Don't feel bad. What we're doing isn't exactly honest work, anyway." He hung his coat on the rack and added, "By the way, make me a coffee, two spoons of milk, one sugar."
Charlie nodded, hopping off the sofa. The suite had a small pantry stocked with basic supplies, so preparing drinks wasn't a problem.
Ivan headed to his room and pulled out the papers he'd gotten from Sheriff Snowden. Spreading them across the desk, he began sorting through the notes, hoping to glean something he might have missed.
As he worked, a thought struck him. He remembered the wallet he had taken from a trafficker during a previous skirmish. It had been sitting untouched in his coat pocket ever since. 'Might as well check it out. A mosquito may be small, but it's still meat.'
He dug through his old clothes until he found the wallet, a shabby piece made of faux leather. Opening it, he found six dollars and a handful of coins; not much, but worth pocketing. Then he noticed a folded slip of paper tucked into one of the compartments.
Unfolding it, Ivan discovered what appeared to be a handwritten registry. Several buyers' names were listed alongside their "orders." Most were gold mine owners, which came as no surprise. But one name stood out, written in bold letters:
'Pablo C. Metallia.'
Ivan stared at the name, his mind racing. It wasn't a common name, and he was certain he'd heard it before. Then it clicked, this was the same Pablo who worked with the Mexican Cartel. A chill ran down his spine as he realized the connection.
'Pablo wasn't just an ally of the Toltecs. He was directly tied to human trafficking.'
Ivan leaned back in his chair, staring at the paper. What else had he stumbled into? Whatever this was, it was bigger than he'd initially thought. And suddenly, the stakes felt higher than ever.
Ivan's eyes widened as he sifted through the file Snowden had given him. One particular sheet of paper made him pause, his breath catching in his throat. It contained a detailed dossier on the 'Metallia family', one of the two dominant families in Saint Francis, locked in a bitter rivalry with the Robbins family.
The name "Pablo Metallia" jumped out at him. Ivan recognized it instantly. 'The second son of the Metallia family.' His mind raced back to his meeting with the Mexican Cartel. Pablo had been there, casually sitting at the table during the business discussions. At the time, Ivan had been too focused on Gallardo to pay much attention to Pablo's full name or what it implied.
Frowning, Ivan flipped through the other pages, scanning for anything that might explain the connections. One note caught his attention:
'"Oakland is notoriously xenophobic. Even law enforcement has struggled to infiltrate it."'
Ivan tapped the page with his finger. 'How, then, could the Metallia family have gained influence in such a hostile territory?' A new possibility struck him: 'What if the Metallia family controls Oakland entirely? That would explain the xenophobia, an intentional barrier to protect their interests.'
He leaned back in his chair, connecting the dots. "If that's true," he muttered to himself, "then the Mexican Cartel isn't just some independent gang. They're either collaborating with the Metallias... or they're under their thumb."
His thoughts turned to the "Tuner," the mysterious figure who had unnerved him during his interactions with the Toltecs. 'If the Toltecs don't have a B-level wizard of their own, then the Tuner must be from the Metallia family.'
Ivan shook his head and pulled out another document, this one detailing the Robbins family. Compared to the Metallias, the information on the Robbins family was suspiciously sparse, little more than a cursory overview with no in-depth descriptions of the family members.
At first, Ivan hadn't thought much of it. But now, the imbalance seemed glaring. 'Could the police department be working with the Robbins family?'
The pieces began falling into place, forming a troubling picture. The Kangaroo Bandit might not be the real focus of this investigation. Instead, she could be the spark igniting a much larger conflict, a proxy war between the Robbins and Metallia families. And Ivan? He was now caught in the middle.
Realizing this, Ivan slammed the documents down onto the table in frustration, startling Charlie, who had just entered the room with a steaming cup of coffee.
"Sir?" Charlie asked nervously, his eyes darting to the scattered papers.
Ivan sighed, rubbing his temples. "Damn it, Charlie. What kind of fool puts a bounty of 'one thousand pesos' on a case like this?" He gestured toward the documents. "This isn't just about catching a Bandit. It's a bloody chess game, and I'm the pawn."
---
Meanwhile, at the Toltec mansion on 21 Maritime Street, the air was thick with the scent of whiskey and cigars. Guzman, Khaled, and Francis sat in the dimly lit study, glasses in hand, the conversation flowing as freely as the liquor.
"So," Hared began, leaning forward, "did you notice anything off about the guy's halamine?"
Francis swirled his whiskey thoughtfully before taking a sip. "I analyzed the sample. Chemically, there's nothing wrong with it."
"But?" Hared pressed, his tone sharp.
Francis shrugged, setting his glass down. "The quality is... familiar. Halamine from different regions has distinct characteristics. For example, the stuff produced locally by the Toltecs tends to be darker and more moist."
"And?" Guzman chimed in, a sly grin creeping onto his face. "Are you saying it matches what we produce?"
Francis hesitated, then nodded. "Yes. It's identical to our own stock."
Hared's eyes narrowed, his expression hardening. "What are you implying?"
Francis raised a hand to temper his brother's reaction. "There's an explanation. Sea transport can cause similar moisture levels. It doesn't 'prove' it's ours."
"But," Guzman interjected with a sinister chuckle, "it 'could' mean the halamine he's selling is from the batch we lost two months ago, 1,600 kilograms, gone without a trace."
Hared clenched his jaw. "Are you suggesting he's a liar? That he's peddling stolen goods?"
"It's a possibility," Guzman said, his grin widening. "Think about it. If the police got hold of our shipment, and some lunatic in the state government authorized selling it back into circulation—"
"That's absurd," Hared cut in, though his voice carried a note of uncertainty. "No senator would risk that. If Congress found out, the fallout would destroy more than just his career."
Francis leaned forward, lowering his voice. "But if the drugs were handed off discreetly, perhaps through a proxy—"
Hared's expression darkened as he considered the implications. After a moment, he straightened up. "I'll inform Father."
"No need," Francis said with a wave of his hand. "He's already aware." Then, as if to change the subject, he turned to Guzman. "How's your wife?"
Guzman barked a harsh laugh. "Same as always. Locked in her room. You know how women get after a beating, docile."
Francis rolled his eyes. "Charming. Just make sure nothing goes wrong before the wedding. Father's ambitions are already stretched thin."
"Let's toast to his ambition, then," Hared said, raising his glass with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "And maybe to the Robbins family while we're at it. What's life without a little irony?"
The three brothers burst into laughter, their voices echoing in the study.
"Cheers!" they said in unison, their glasses clinking together, the undercurrent of tension masked by the illusion of camaraderie.