The Atlas Lyons Club: Roaring Ambitions

The New Founders

August 28. Late. A cool breeze hung in the alley, the kind that crept under collars and whispered of colder nights to come. The moon, barely more than a sliver, cast a thin light between the towering buildings. Faint sounds from the city filtered in—somewhere, a saxophone played—but here, at the edge of the world, it was quiet. Too quiet.

The Cadillac 341A glided around the corner, its engine a low growl in the night. The car came to a stop just short of the narrow alley, tires hissing softly against the cobblestones. The back door opened, smooth and deliberate, and Oren Oberman stepped out.

He paused, hand brushing the lapel of his suit, as if the gesture could settle his mind. The heavy door of The Atlas Lyons Club loomed ahead, the faintest notes of a chanteuse seeping through the cracks, muffled and distant. The light from inside barely leaked out, swallowed by the alley's shadows.

Junior "Sunny" Domenica, known as JDoms, followed Oren out, his movements silent but precise, like a man always watching, always thinking. Behind them, the Cadillac's interior glowed faintly, a last flicker of the old guard. Von, his mop of hair barely visible in the dim light, took a long, deliberate drag from his cigarette, the ember flaring bright for a second before dying back into darkness.

"You're clear tonight," Von said, voice rough, low. "We made sure of it."

Oren nodded, no words needed. He knew the game. Von, Mobee, and Snitch had played it long before him. But tonight, their time was up. The torch was passing, and Oren was there to take it.

The Cadillac's door clicked shut, and the car eased back into the shadows, disappearing down the alley. The street swallowed its sound, leaving only the quiet hum of the city far off in the distance. The three shadows of the Original Founders were gone. The alley was empty now, save for Oren and JDoms. But the night was thick with something else—something unspoken, heavy.

Oren's hand tightened on the handle of the club's door, the carved wood cool under his fingers. The air carried the scent of damp stone and old tobacco, a reminder of how many men had passed through these doors. How many still lingered in the dark corners, even if their faces were no longer present.

Inside, the club was alive. But not in the way most places were. It breathed quietly, like a beast at rest. Light spilled from the doorway, but it was subdued—muted, careful. The mahogany walls gleamed in the soft glow of low-hanging chandeliers, casting long shadows over the polished oak floors. The scent of cigars clung to the air, blending with something older, something buried deep in the leather of the armchairs and the wood of the tables.

Oren stepped inside, JDoms close behind. The room was thick with murmurs—voices blending with the soft music that swirled through the air, the chanteuse's voice low, sultry, like smoke curling around the room. A grand piano sat near the center, its surface gleaming under the dim lights, the player's fingers moving with a practiced grace. She was part of the scenery, unnoticed but essential, her notes wrapping around the patrons like a familiar fog.

Eyes turned toward Oren and JDoms as they made their way deeper into the club. The men in tailored suits, the women draped in silks and jewels—they all watched, measuring, judging. Oren could feel the weight of it, the silent assessments. He knew what they were thinking: The new blood. The new Founders. Can they hold it?

JDoms scanned the room with his usual calm. His eyes flicked over the patrons, reading the unspoken tension in the air, the power plays happening in the shadows. Oren didn't need to look. He already knew. The Atlas Lyons Club was built on deals made in dimly lit rooms, on promises whispered over glasses of whiskey. Tonight would be no different.

As they approached the small raised platform near the back of the room, a figure stepped forward from the shadows. He was tall, his suit sharp, his eyes sharper. Maxwell Fifty.

Oren recognized the name before the face. Fifty was a Dealer, one of the most influential in the club's ranks. His deals were legendary, his ruthlessness even more so.

"Maxwell Fifty," the man said smoothly, extending a hand. His voice was calm, too calm.

Oren took his hand, a firm shake. "Oren Oberman."

Fifty's eyes flickered, just for a moment. "I know who you are."

JDoms stood just behind Oren, his presence a quiet force. He watched Fifty with the same detached focus he gave to everything, waiting for the play.

"I wanted to be the first to welcome you," Fifty continued, his tone too polite. "It's not every day we see such a... significant transition."

Oren didn't flinch. "We're here to make sure it's smooth."

Fifty's smile was thin, barely there. "Smooth transitions are rare, Oberman. Power doesn't move quietly."

Oren met his gaze, the room around them fading for a second. This was the real test, not the crowd, not the platform. Men like Fifty didn't bow easily, and they never played fair.

"Power's only a problem if you don't know how to hold it," Oren said, his voice low, sharp.

Fifty's smile didn't waver, but the gleam in his eyes darkened. "We'll see," he murmured. With a slight nod, he stepped aside, letting Oren and JDoms pass.

The room was quieter now, the murmurs fading as the two new Founders made their way toward the platform. Eyes followed them, some curious, others suspicious. The air was thick with the weight of the moment. Oren could feel it—this was more than a handover. It was a reckoning.

He stepped up onto the platform, the chandeliers casting long shadows across the room. JDoms was at his side, steady as always. This was their moment, but Oren knew it was just the beginning.

The crowd waited. The room seemed to hold its breath, the air still, the tension heavy.

Oren let the silence stretch for a moment longer, feeling the weight of it settle over the room. Then, he spoke.

"Tonight," he began, his voice steady, commanding, "marks the start of something new. The Atlas Lyons Club has always been about power, about legacy. Tonight, that legacy continues. But it evolves."

He let the words hang, watching the faces in the crowd—some nodding, others unreadable.

"We honor those who came before," Oren said, his voice sharp, "but we move forward. We don't just survive. We thrive. And as long as we're here, that's what this club will do."

The room was silent. The weight of his words settled over the crowd like a thick fog. The eyes that had once been skeptical were now watching him with a new kind of interest.

Oren glanced at JDoms, who gave a subtle nod. This was the beginning. The Atlas Lyons Club was theirs now, but the game had only just begun.

And in this club, nothing stayed clean for long.