Mobsters, Inc.

One.

Franco Moore closed his eyes and pressed the bridge of his nose. He felt a headache coming on, and he instinctively rubbed a hand over his forehead. It was a late afternoon in London, and he was still cramped up in his office, looking over documents. It had been a very long day.

“Ugh,” he grunted. His eyes hurt, his neck hurt, his shoulders hurt. Who knew looking over documents could hurt this much? Plus, he really missed home. And his friends, and his parents.

Franco ran a hand through his thick dark hair and took a deep breath. He seriously needed a break. He did nothing but pretty much work ever since he got to London, and it was getting to him. He stood up from his chair and made his way out of his office, informing his secretary that he was just going for a walk. Usually, he would have bodyguards hovering around him wherever he went out since his father didn’t exactly have a good working relationship with the London underground. Right now though, he just wanted to walk, by himself, and clear his mind. He could take care of himself, anyway.

He walked along the streets of London, lost in thought. He wondered how his girlfriend, Crystal, was doing. He also wondered how his father was faring. Franco hadn’t really gotten the chance to talk to them for long, since he was always running around taking care of everything. He was fine when it came to the construction and real estate businesses. In fact, he did well in those fields. When it came to the underground deals, though, he was still a bit hesitant.

Franco first witnessed a gang fight when he was ten years old. His father brought him to an abandoned warehouse in New York, and he was made to sit in a room surrounded by bulletproof glass, sort of like a viewing deck for VIPs in a ball game. He knew then that his father was involved in some sort of fights and gangs—he had been training in different fighting styles since he was five, and he also knew that he was going to have to be exposed in this whole other world. So, he sat there and watched duelling gang members charged at each other with fists, knives and guns.  

Being a young boy, his heart raced and he flinched and he turned his head away when he saw a guy get stabbed, right at the chest. His breathing laboured, and he fought back tears as his fists clenched at his lap. The elder Moore looked on, but when Franco felt his father’s hand rest on his shoulder, and he felt a rush of comfort.

Twenty-three people died that day.

His father took him for ice cream afterwards.

Franco’s father wasn’t very strict. No, George Moore was kind to the people he cared about, and  he was a loving father. He allowed Franco to still be a kid, sans the martial arts and combat training. Franco grew up surrounded by other kids—he had friends, went to school, partied, had a girlfriend, graduated with a business degree. His father let him experience all of that, and despite the other hundreds of gang fights, assassinations, and illegal deals he had seen, and despite how much he loved to fight, Franco could say that his father did not intentionally shove the world of gangs and mafias down his throat.

Still, his father was the George Moore, one of the most powerful, dangerous, and most feared men in the underground world. He and his own people, as he had always termed his men, would not hesitate to go for the kill, if absolutely needed. That was the part that he did not like at all. He didn’t think that he would ever be comfortable with killing someone, even though he did learn how to fight with knives and shoot guns.

Franco Moore was not a killer.

Franco let out a puff of air and stared at the sky. It was no longer a clear blue color. It was the point in a day when the light struggled to compete with darkness, but in the end, darkness would win.