The Art if Mafia

Abigail adjusted the electric fan on her desk, sighing as she looked out the open window on the second floor of the Siezend Contemporary Art Gallery. Prague was beautiful this time of the year, but the heat made it difficult for anyone to admire.

It was currently 40 degrees outside. It was hot enough for Abigail to feel like her skin was about to fall off.

The phone rang. It was Miss Greenfield. She wanted to confirm her appointment for today and wanted to let her know that she was almost at the gallery. Sighing again, Abigail rushed her iced tea and headed downstairs to welcome Miss Greenfield at the entrance of the art gallery.

She collected her bag, a sign of respect, and they headed back upstairs to her office and had their seats.

Abigail handed Miss Greenfield a file she had been working on for the past few weeks

“Here is the collection of artworks available that I think you would like,” she said to her. She fiddled with her fingers nervously as she watched the woman go through the pages. She had put a lot of effort into it.

Miss Greenfield flipped to the pages, her eyes scanning the contents rapidly.

”Oh, wow, I love all of them, Abigail, you have outdone yourself once again.” She said

Abigail felt relieved but unfulfilled. It was good that Miss Greenfield was satisfied, but she felt like she could do more. Do better.

If she were a curator, she would get to pick the painting the gallery would buy. Unlike now, where she only got to select what customers would buy from what was available in the gallery but try as she may, her boss didn’t seem to trust her.

Miss Greenfield finished selecting the artworks she wanted soon after and after signing some papers, she left the office with a promise to invite Abigail for some tea later.

Abigail walked over to her desk, powering her laptop back on and pulling up the Alley-wall website to browse their paintings collections. She was searching for artworks from the Adelina Greens collection, a collection her boss adored.

She had only one goal, to locate an elusive gem from the Adelina Greens collection, a collection that her boss was fascinated with.

Flora Bell, the gallery's director and head curator simply adored the collection. And for that reason, the gallery currently has two artworks from the collection displayed on the walls of the gallery. There was even a third one in her home.

Abigail had tried and failed several times to acquire additional artwork from the collection. She believed, naively, that if she were able to secure another piece, maybe then her boss would finally entrust her with the task of curating artwork for the gallery. It was supposed to be a golden ticket to winning the attention and favour of her boss.

Additionally, with Mrs. Weller, the Assistant Curator, leaving soon, this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for her. If she played her cards right, she might just be able to take Mrs. Weller's position.

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On the opposite side of the city, Drake leaned against his car, savoring the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafting from a paper cup he held in his hands. Nothign like freshly brewed coffe.

His eyes scanned the crowded sidewalk as he waited patiently for his friend, Ryan.

After what felt like forever, Ryan emerged from the nearby coffee shop, cradling a iced tea in his hands. He couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at Drake's choice of beverage, a hot cup of coffee on such a sweltering day. "I can't believe you're drinking coffee in this heat," he remarked with a bemused grin.

Drake took a long sip from his cup before responding, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "I need the energy," he said cryptically, leaving Ryan intrigued.

Ryan's curiosity got the better of him as he leaned in, his voice laced with excitement. "The businessman? What did he say?"

Drake chuckled softly, his coffee cup hovering near his lips. "Well, he yelled a lot, but he eventually came around. For someone being blackmailed, he sure is ballsy."

Ryan's face lit up with satisfaction. "This is great news. Let's head back and tell the boss about it. The dirt we have on that businessman should be enough to keep him in line."

However, Drake's gaze drifted to the picturesque scene before them, momentarily distracted by the charm of the street they were on. "We don't have to leave right away," he suggested, his smile hesitant. "The view of this street is stunning. Unlike Ceovally, it's not constantly shrouded in darkness and the stench of damp tobacco. I like the fresh air here."

The street they stood on was very distinctly different from the environment they were used to. Filled with the enticing aroma of a nearby bakery and filled with the joyful chatter of Drake couldn't help but be captivated by the tranquillity of the place, his imagination wandering towards living in and owning a house in a neighbourhood like this.

Ryan, caught on to ther thoughts of his friend fast, having gown up together, he could read drake like a book. He shot him a stern look, his tone pedantic. "Drake, you're not supposed to admire other streets. Not when we have Ceovally. You do realize that you're next in line if the boss ever decides to pass down his legacy to someone? He treats you like a son."

Drake nodded, letting out a sign as he acknowledged his position within the organization. "I know," he said tiredly. "Let's get back then, this place is making me sick" The two friends turned their attention away, ready to return to the shadows of Ceovally Street, where their loyalty and dedication were demanded.

Ceovally Street had earned its notorious reputation as the epicentre of crime in the city. Here, the law enforcement officers were no better than marionettes, dancing to the tune of bribes, blackmail, and good ol threats. The entire street operated under the iron grip of a criminal organization, a Mafia syndicate that knew no bounds. The mastermind of this empire was a man whose name sent shivers down the spine of even the most hardened criminals—Joe Makling. He was the son of a notorious ex-convict drug dealer, a legacy that he had inherited and expanded upon.

For the unsuspecting citizens of Prague, Ceovally Street might have seemed like just another shadowy alley, barely worthy of a second glance. To the eyes of the law, Joe Maklin appeared as clean as a whistle, with no damning evidence to condemn him to prison. Belive me the police have searched and tried. But within the realms of the drug trade and smuggling, everyone recognized his true identity. Some whispered his name with reverence, others with dread, but all knew him as the undisputed Mafia boss.

On one fateful day, as the sun cast long shadows on the gritty pavement of Ceovally Street, Drake's sleek black Mercedes-Benz glided through its maze of secrets. His car, which Joe had frowned upon but allowed out of fondness, possessed an understated elegance. It was obviously expensive yet did not draw attention. It had a sleek profile and the leather-clad interior exuded quality, making it a vehicle that commanded attention without ever demanding it. Just like Drake himself.

Joe Maklin had taken Drake under his wing when the boy was a mere thirteen years old, moulding him into the person he had become, a reflective image of him. Drake's stature was naturally imposing, marked by a tall and broad frame. Years of rigorous daily exercises had sculpted his physique, adding layers of muscle to his gigantic and powerful build. With the support and backing of Joe Maklin, Drake had risen through the ranks to become one of the most feared and respected figures in the criminal underworld, second only to his mentor.

As Drake and Ryan emerged from the car, the Street seemed to hold its breath. The usually bustling haven of illicit activities was eerily silent, with only a handful of individuals daring to venture out onto the desolate sidewalk. Among them, a lone man stood puffing on a cigarette, his eyes briefly meeting Drake and Ryan's. In that fleeting moment, he offered a subtle nod—an unspoken sign of respect.

Drake and Ryan proceeded into the shadowy and desolated building they had parked in front of, a place that served as their clandestine headquarters. As they descended into the subterranean depths of the building, they passed through a concealed hallway, its entrance guarded by two burly bouncers. Drake acknowledged their presence with a casual wave, and the imposing figures readily cleared their path.

At the terminus of the dimly lit corridor, they confronted an imposing iron door, the gateway to their inner section of the building. Upon crossing the threshold, the room revealed itself in an unexpected lavishness and luxury. The walls were painted in a shiny silver tone, bathed in the glow of ample lighting. The decor was so lavish that for a moment, one could forget that they were buried deep underground. Priceless ornaments adorned the walls and graced elegantly arranged stands.

A lingering scent of tobacco hung in the air, lending a certain nostalgic air to the room. In one corner, a transparent box harboured a formidable stack of cash, a statement of the power wielded within these walls. The atmosphere was luxurious, yet cold, with a perpetual hum of air conditioning providing a veneer of comfort.

At the heart of it all, positioned opposite the entrance, stood a substantial wooden desk adorned with intricate gold designs. Seated behind it was a man of formidable presence, ensconced in a plush black leather chair. His voice, though soft, carried the weight of command. "My boys, how is it going?"

Ryan straightened up and said, "Boss, you look good today. We've got good news."

Drake chimed in, "The businessman called. He's ready to do whatever we ask."

Maklin grinned, looking pleased. "Great job, guys. I've got another task for you." He pulled a file from his desk. "I need you to get me this painting."