章 135: Chapter 135: The Story You Don't Know part 3
CIA interrogation room.
Aurel sits alone, hands tied behind his back, looking at the one-way mirror on the wall and shouts.
"I know you're there! Why not come out and talk? I didn't do anything! This is a violation of human rights, don't you know?"
In the monitoring room behind the one-way mirror, the chief secretary speaks to Mitchell, the CIA director.
"You did well to suppress the situation before it escalated.
Mitchell grimaces, indicating his headache.
"We'll need support for the two cars that were totaled."
"Huh, we'll get you better cars with the White House budget. But what about that guy now?"
Mitchell sighs deeply as he looks at Aurel, who is making noise in the interrogation room.
"The only thing he's done, apart from carrying an unregistered weapon, is not a crime we can prove. He's not even wanted by Interpol. However, since he entered the country illegally, deportation is possible."
The chief secretary looks troubled.
"Hmm.. It feels a bit unsatisfactory, but please proceed according to the law. He's not an American citizen, so please ensure there's no diplomatic friction, Director."
"Understood, Secretary."
Mitchell enters the interrogation room, and Aurel smiles cheekily, still tied to the chair.
"What's this about? Is this how all American cops act? Crashing into someone's car without any reason. What have I done to deserve this?"
Mitchell places a yellow folder on the table and sits opposite Aurel, taking out a cigarette from his pocket.
"Aurel Mavraj. 47 years old. Born in Peshkopi, Albania. You've been in and out of juvenile detention and prison since you were 15, and at 18, you joined the Tuland Shaka organization based in Blöner. Involved in prostitution, drug trafficking, kidnapping, among other crimes. Is that correct?"
Aurel's expression stiffens for a moment before he smirks.
"Too bad, none of that happened in the US, did it?"
Mitchell opens the folder and looks at Aurel's photos.
"You're right. You haven't done those things in the US."
Aurel glances at his hands tied behind his back.
"Would you let me go if I admit?"
Mitchell, holding his cigarette case, asks,
"Want one?"
"Sure. But as you see, my hands are tied."
Mitchell stands, pulls out the key from his pocket, unlocks Aurel's handcuffs, pats his shoulder, and points at the CCTV installed on the ceiling.
"If you don't want any charges in the US, better behave."
Aurel rubs his wrists, looks at the CCTV, then picks a cigarette from the case and leans towards Mitchell for a light. Mitchell lights it for him, and Aurel deeply inhales the smoke, laying back in his chair and blowing out smoke.
"So, when do I get out?"
Mitchell leans on the table and says,
"Depends on what you tell me."
Aurel looks up at Mitchell, takes another deep puff, and exhales the smoke before speaking.
"Got any information you want?"
Mitchell smiles slyly.
"Why are you targeting Gregory Miocic? Heard you didn't get along with Lindro, who's dead. But why him? Doesn't seem like revenge."
Aurel shrugs indifferently.
"What are you talking about? Was he in the car ahead of me?"
"Let's not waste each other's time, friend. We both know the truth."
Aurel glares at Mitchell for a moment, then stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray.
"Fine. As you know, we're both in the mafia. Why does a mafia lose its territory?"
Mitchell looks down at him silently as Aurel spreads his hands.
"It's embarrassing, isn't it? The moment rumors spread that the Albanians got scared and tucked their tails by the Russians, it's over. So, what should we do? We need to screw over those who hit us, so it doesn't look like we ran away with our tails between our legs, right?"
Mitchell taps the table with his finger, smiling leisurely.
"Is that all?"
"All? What do you mean? You know how important momentum is in a mafia war."
"Okay, I get that, but is there no other reason?"
"Well, there was also an order from back home to properly take revenge, but I don't care about that."
"Alright. You can go now."
Aurel looks at Mitchell skeptically as he shrugs and smirks.
"Go? Why can't you leave even if I release you?"
Aurel stands up, looking seriously at Mitchell.
"What's your angle? You think I don't know you guys are slipperier than mafia folks?"
Mitchell stands up, picks up the folder from
the table, and says,
"Ha, well, it's my job to manage information. We're done here. You can leave."
Bang!
Aurel punches the table and yells,
"Tell me what you're thinking!"
Mitchell smiles wryly, takes out a cigarette, and lights it.
"The mafia is fighting over territories. We need to stop it. Arresting both sides would just lead to them hiring expensive lawyers to get out, and even if we manage to press charges, another mafia will just take their place. Just like after Lindro died and you showed up."
"And then?"
"So, if we just take care of the Albanians in the US, we can solve the dispute. Gregory Miocic doesn't cause trouble in the US, unlike you guys."
"What? You mean to arrest our members?"
"Something like that. You guys are just third-rate punks dealing in prostitution and drug sales. It's easier to clean up your side. Gregory Miocic, on the other hand, is a big fish."
"You bastard!!"
Aurel lunges forward, but Mitchell flicks his finger and points at the CCTV.
"If you want a charge in the US, go ahead."
Aurel looks at the CCTV angrily and then says,
"What's the reason? Why are you siding with the Red Mafia? Is there a deal between Gregory Miocic and the US government? If that's the case, let us take over the deal. We can offer better terms, how about it?"
Mitchell flicks the ash from his cigarette and smacks his lips.
"Mmm, it's an interesting offer, and I usually operate on those kinds of interests, but you've touched someone you shouldn't have."
Aurel hits his chest in frustration.
"That's the point! I'm saying I'll take his place and even throw in a kickback!"
Mitchell chuckles and extinguishes his cigarette.
"The person you shouldn't have touched isn't Gregory Miocic."
"What? Then who? His daughter?"
"Hmm, well, why don't you head out now? Hey, someone get this guy out!"
As if waiting, two agents enter, grab Aurel by the arms, and drag him towards the door, Aurel struggling and looking back as he shouts.
"Tell me! Who did I touch? Whoever it is, I'll make them pay back double, no, triple! Let go! Let go, you bastards!"
Mitchell chuckles as he watches Aurel being dragged away.
"If you could produce music twice, three times as great as Kay's, maybe we could have made a deal."
A moment later, Aurel, thrown out of the CIA building, grimaces and looks back, throwing a punch towards the building.
"Damn you all!! Take this! Spit!"
As Aurel turns around, he sees three large Caucasian men blocking his path.
"What now?"
"Aurel Mavraj, right?"
"Ah, so many people asking for my name today, who are you guys?"
"We're from the Immigration and Customs Enforcement. You're being arrested for illegal entry. You'll be deported from the United States immediately. Let's go."
"What? Hey!!! Those CIA bastards! Was this your plan all along?!"
Mitchell chuckles as he looks down from a building window at Aurel being led away.
**
The next day, upon hearing that Gregory was looking for him, Geon knocks on his door.
Knock, knock.
"Come in."
Entering, Geon sees Gregory, looking much better, not in bed but sitting on a sofa.
"Gregory, how are you feeling?"
Gregory nods solemnly.
"I'm surviving. Have a seat."
As Geon sits opposite him, Gregory taps a newspaper on the coffee table.
"Something big happened yesterday?"
Geon sees the front page of the newspaper, featuring a large photo of him holding Kiska. He laughs awkwardly as Gregory sighs.
"I would be happy if my daughter is happy with you, but are you okay with it? According to Miroslav, my identity being revealed could damage your image?"
Geon shrugs.
"Kiska is Kiska, and you are you, Gregory. Kiska's not the mafia."
"But do you think others will see it that way?"
"Well, we'll have to see by facing it."
Gregory sighs deeply, leans back into the sofa, and after a moment, speaks.
"Keep it hidden as long as you can. It's for your sake."
Geon smiles and nods as Gregory looks out the window.
"How's Kiska doing? Haven't seen her face in a while, did she mention me?"
"Ah.. Well..."
Geon laughs awkwardly as Gregory chuckles.
"Guess she didn't. Is this why they say it's pointless to raise daughters? Haha. I knew there would come a day when I'd think this, but not while having a ten-year-old daughter."
"Haha, it's not like that, Gregory."
Gregory turns serious again.
"How long can you stay?"
Geon looks troubled, then out the window. He sees Kiska playing in the garden with Byungjun and the six newborn puppies, turns back, and says,
"I'll stay for a while longer. You can see Kiska is getting better."
Gregory breathes a sigh of relief and smiles.
"Thank you. I haven't spoken to her yet, but I've heard she's laughing a lot. I want to see Kiska's bright smile as soon as I can move. Please continue to make our child smile. But, make sure Kiska doesn't follow you out next time. My heart nearly dropped when I heard."
"Haha, sure, Gregory."
"Good. I feel relieved. Let's have a cup of tea before you go."
Meanwhile, Aurel, forcibly put on a plane to Albania, shouts from the airplane in the sky.
"I'll take his place, but who is ittttttttttttttttttttttt!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
It was just after lunchtime.
Geon and Byungjoon sat side by side on the grass, warmly observing Gregory and Kiska playing with the dogs in the garden. It had been a while since Gregory had been outside, and Kiska, who hadn't shown much longing for her father recently, was beaming with joy at the sight of him. As Byungjoon searched something on his phone, he turned to Geon with a smirk.
"Geon, you've climbed up to number 4 on Billboard. Look at you, finally getting recognized as a real musician."
Geon lay back on the grass, looking up at the sky with little interest.
"The ranking doesn't matter. As long as Kiska is happy, that's all that matters."
"Every chance she gets, she's asking me to play your music. My phone's practically hers now."
"Ha, maybe it's time to buy her an mp3 player."
Looking around at Red Castle, Byungjoon commented, "We've been living here for quite some time now. It's starting to feel familiar, even the gang members armed with machine guns don't seem so scary anymore. You feel the same?"
Geon, watching the clouds drift by in the early winter sky, nodded slightly.
"Yesterday, Miroslav was showing me how to disassemble an MP5A5. I've never seen such a gun in the military, so it was quite interesting. I ended up practicing for an hour without even realizing it. Ha."
"Don't get too caught up in that stuff. It's a dangerous road to go down, son."
"Don't worry. Ha."
Speaking of Miroslav, Byungjoon continued, "That guy, he's got a tattoo on his head, right? A skull in the middle, with a snake wrapping around it among a bed of roses. A pretty grim image."
"Yeah, I was pretty scared when I first saw it. Ha."
"Normally, mafia tattoos indicate affiliation or rank, but living here, I've noticed no one else has a tattoo quite like his. Makes you wonder what it means."
Geon turned to his side to look at Miroslav directing some gang members in the distance.
"I always thought mafia tattoos were meant to intimidate others. So, there's a deeper meaning to them, huh?"
"I got so curious, I followed him once to get a closer look. And it's weird, you know? The snake seems to be protecting the rose garden, as if it turns intruders into skulls. That's what I thought it meant."
Geon whistled softly.
"Sounds plausible."
As Byungjoon crossed his arms, looking at Miroslav, he continued, "But here's the funny thing. When I looked closely, the snake wrapped around the skull was crying. Have you ever seen a snake cry? Do snakes even cry?"
"Hmm...I've never heard of a crying snake. I think reptiles can't shed tears, from what I've heard."
"Right? But there it was, a snake shedding tears. It made me even more curious. It's like, what if there's a hidden past to the mafia that we don't know about?"
Geon sat up to face Byungjoon.
"Hmm.. It is quite unique. But everyone has a past they might not want to dig up, so don't pry too much, brother."
Scratching his cheek with his index finger, Byungjoon said, "Yeah, you're right. I wouldn't dare ask directly. A crying snake, though, that's just weird."
Geon and Byungjoon's attention returned to Miroslav, who was inspecting the perimeter.
---
9 years ago, Novosibirsk, Russia.
Just another morning, a young bus driver was running his route to match the morning commute. A robust young man with short hair, he appeared incredibly simple and earnest. Despite being quite poor, the young man, married at nineteen, was committed to not letting his wife and son go hungry, working diligently as a bus driver and taking on construction work early in the morning.
Thankfully, he had found work at a time when Russia's economy, heavily reliant on natural gas and oil, was suffering due to plummeting oil prices, causing the ruble to lose its value. Despite the tough times, the young man never lost hope and eventually found a job with a bus company that traveled between Novosibirsk and Novosibirskaya Oblast. Although the pay was barely enough to live on, his inherent good nature and cheerfulness always made a positive impression on his passengers.
One day, after driving past an empty bus stop, he slowly applied the brakes. The packed bus of passengers looked at him curiously as he stood up and announced, "Please, bear with me for a moment."
He opened the front door and helped an elderly lady who had been waving at the bus from a
distance onto the vehicle.
"There's no seat available, ma'am. Please hold on to the bus handle."
"Thank you, young man. How kind of you."
"Ha, it's nothing. Let's get going."
As the bus ascended an unpaved mountain road, it jolted violently. Despite his cautious driving, the rough terrain littered with large rocks made it impossible to avoid all bumps. Every time the bus shook severely, the young man would shout, "I'm sorry! Please hold on tight!"
The passengers, used to the route, appreciated his constant apologies. As they reached smoother roads, the young man exclaimed, "We're back on the city roads now. I apologize for the rough ride, everyone!"
A middle-aged man in a suit called out playfully, "No need to apologize every time! We all know the condition of these roads!"
The passengers nodded and added, "Exactly! Is it the driver's fault that the roads aren't paved?"
"You're the only driver who greets us with a smile every day, and this bus feels the safest thanks to you! Ha!"
Seeing the passengers chatting and laughing in the rearview mirror, a simple smile spread across the young driver's face.
"Ha! Thank you! I'll make sure you all arrive safely at your destinations."
Checking his watch, the driver noticed they were running 8 minutes late.
'I'm delaying everyone. They might be late for work.'
He gently accelerated. Approaching the next stop, a sense of panic set in.
"What? Oh no, the brakes!"
A stone from the unpaved road had damaged the bus's underside, rendering the brakes ineffective. As they sped past the stop, passengers yelled in confusion.
"What's going on? Aren't you going to let us off?"
"Sir, we're already late! Stop the bus!"
"Come on, driver, focus! Please, stop."
With a face full of panic, the young man shouted back, "Hold on tight, everyone! The brakes have failed!"
"What, what!! Damn it! This old bus, I knew something like this would happen!"
"Hold on tight! Driver, at this speed, we're all going to die! Just keep going straight! There's a hill up ahead, and if we go uphill, we might naturally come to a stop!"
As the young driver reassured his passengers, a middle-aged gentleman quickly came to his side, pointing ahead in horror.
"Look, look ahead!"
The young driver had already fixed his gaze on a woman and her five-year-old son crossing the road ahead. The moment he saw them, his expression grew complicated, and the middle-aged man yelled, "We'll all die if you turn the wheel at this speed!"
In an instant, the young man contemplated millions of scenarios. Turning the wheel would endanger all the passengers, but going straight would mean certain death for the mother and child. As the bus neared the two, the middle-aged man shut his eyes tight, gripping the handle.
Crash!
The bus hit the mother and child, passing over them. The passengers felt the horrifying sensation of the bodies under the bus. Imagining the gruesome scene, women burst into tears, and men started cursing.
"This evil bastard! The child looked no more than five!"
"Heartless monster!"
"How could this happen?"
Although everyone knew the young driver had hit the mother and child to save them all, they needed to blame someone to ease their own guilt.
When the bus finally stopped on an uphill, people banged on the back door, yelling, "Let us out, you monster!"
"You call yourself a bus driver? I'm calling the company to complain!"
"You're a murderer! You killed that child and his mother, you devil!"
As the young man trembled, opening the back door, the first to exit picked up stones and threw them at him. What started with one person soon became a barrage of stones, and the young driver, kneeling and dazed in front of the bus, became bloodied.
As blood splattered from the young man's head, the attackers snapped out of their rage, backing away. Blood streamed down the young driver's face, and even as the accusers fled, calling him a murderer, he remained on his knees, bleeding. Tears of blood streamed from his eyes as he glared in the direction where everyone had disappeared.
"Darling!!! Son!!! I'm sorry!!!!!!!!! Ahhhhhhhhh!"
That day, the young man had killed a mother and child to save many others.
In sacrificing his beloved wife and precious son to save the passengers, he was met with stones and branded a murderer. And so, he endured a hellish existence in a Russian prison, fueled by a desire for vengeance. Shaving his head, he tattooed a skull, symbolizing his son, surrounded by roses with thorns - the people he greeted with a smile but who were, in reality, harmful. The tattoo depicted him, weeping, as the snake that devoured his son.
9 years later, as he patrolled the gardens of Red Castle, the cold weather made the tattoo on his head seem to rub against his thoughts.
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