In the end, Mr. Jobav didn’t immediately hire a hitman. Instead, he picked up the phone and called Cohen, a senior member of the Camille Gang.
Cohen and Jobav hailed from the same region, making them quasi-hometown acquaintances. With Jobav’s financial support, Cohen had climbed the ranks to his current position.
In the Federation—or anywhere in the world, for that matter—money was the foundation for advancement, whether in politics, business, or gangs. In the underworld, gaining influence required tangible benefits to rally supporters.
Though their relationship was cordial, Jobav and the Camille Gang were not closely tied.
When Cohen received Jobav’s call, he was reclining in his chair, a young woman kneeling before him. With his head tilted back and eyes half-closed, he answered lazily, “Mr. Jobav, what can I do for you?”
The use of “Mr. Jobav” was Cohen’s way of sounding familiar, even deferential.
Jobav glanced at the receiver, feeling the situation was absurd. “If you’re busy, I can call back later.”
“Busy?” Cohen chuckled. “Not at all, both hands are free! What can I help you with today?”
Cohen’s tone was laced with mockery. Their past interactions had been indirect, often mediated through assistants or even their assistants’ relatives. Jobav had always avoided direct contact with Cohen.
This was understandable. Jobav, a semi-high-society Imperial immigrant, had little interest in associating directly with a notorious gang leader. His ambition was to integrate into the Federation’s elite, not sink into the mire of the underworld.
To achieve that goal, Jobav needed to maintain a reputation untainted by scandal. Being known as a banker with ties to gangs was the last thing he wanted.
While Jobav’s avoidance of direct contact was practical, it had always irked Cohen. Initially, when Cohen was just a struggling newcomer, he hadn’t minded. But as he rose through the gang’s ranks, the lack of respect began to fester.
Understanding Cohen’s underlying resentment, Jobav suppressed his frustration and got to the point. “I have a problem.”
Cohen pressed the woman’s head down further and smirked. “Whatever the issue, just say the word. I owe my success to your support.”
“Jimmy,” Jobav said simply.
“Jimmy?” Cohen paused, frowning. “Jimmy from the Brotherhood?”
“Yes, that’s the one.”
Cohen’s initial eagerness to profit from the situation faded. “What did he do to you?”
“He’s extorted me multiple times,” Jobav admitted. “Today, he walked off with another $30,000.”
Cohen’s expression shifted to one of mild exasperation. “Mr. Jobav, everyone says you’re worth millions. It’s just $30,000—hardly worth getting involved with lunatics like him.”
“I’m not sure you understand Jimmy or the Brotherhood,” Cohen continued. “They’re former child gang members from the Port District. Most of them grew up in single-parent homes or as orphans. They’ve always been reckless and unrestrained.”
“Honestly, if it were anyone else, I might be able to help. But if it’s Jimmy from the Brotherhood, the best I can do is arrange a meeting to talk.”
“Not me—you,” Jobav clarified coldly.
The Brotherhood’s origins as a child gang had once been front-page news in The Federation Times. The Port District’s challenges were complex, stemming from its transient population of sailors and tourists. After long voyages, many sought out the district’s infamous services.
Some providers operated professionally in organized settings with safety protocols. Others, however, were desperate individuals engaging in unregulated transactions. The result was a high number of abandoned infants, their mothers often unknown and their fathers almost certainly foreigners.
These children were taken in by orphanages and grew up under Federation laws that allowed child labor. Learning to band together for survival, many formed gangs, which eventually evolved into organized groups like the Brotherhood.
While economic improvements had reduced the visibility of child gang issues, the problem had never disappeared—only the media’s attention had.
Cohen’s reluctance was clear as he advised Jobav to drop the matter. “Mr. Jobav, you’re a man of means. These kids are scrappy nobodies. Why risk everything over a trivial sum? If it’s too much trouble, you could even move to another city. The Brotherhood’s influence doesn’t extend far beyond the Port District.”
Frustrated, Jobav ended the call abruptly.
Back in his office, Jobav seethed. “Is it my fault I have money?” he raged. “No! In the Federation, being wealthy is the only thing that matters.”
What was wrong, he decided, was failing to act like a proper, untouchable wealthy man.
Turning to his assistant, he declared, “This ends now. Find a hitman, pay them, and get rid of Jimmy.”
“I don’t care about the $60,000. I need to send a message!”
The assistant, recognizing that Jobav was dead set on revenge, sighed and nodded. “How much are you willing to spend?”
“Keep it under $20,000,” Jobav replied tersely.
The assistant contacted his nephew, who often handled dirty work for Jobav. “Two grand up front. Find a hitman to take out Jimmy from the Brotherhood. I’ll send you his photo.”
The nephew, a thirty-year-old with his own network, quickly located a willing participant: a recently smuggled Imperial deserter.
The deserter needed money fast to repay his debts to the smugglers and protect his family back home. This job, paying $5,000, seemed perfect.
The deserter accepted immediately, with $2,000 paid upfront. He used $1,200 to settle his debts, sent $500 to his family, and spent the remaining $300 freely, reasoning, “If I die, at least I’ll have enjoyed myself a little.”
For a week, he scouted the Port District, tracking Jimmy’s movements. Today, he decided, would be Jimmy’s last.
As he prepared for the hit, the deserter took a swig from a bottle.
“Now this is real liquor,” he muttered, mocking the watered-down spirits back in the Empire.
Checking his weapon one last time, he stepped into the sunlight, ready to embrace what he saw as a new beginning.