Chapter Thirty: The First Wave

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Time passed quickly, and the first batch of bootleg liquor was finally ready.

The Sea God’s stay in Winster was also drawing to an end. Ten days had passed, and it was time for the vessel to set off for somewhere else.

Ethan therefore had to call a meeting and speak frankly with everyone involved in the enterprise.

That morning, after washing up, Ethan changed into a well-tailored white formal suit. He was just about to have breakfast before heading out when Anya brought him some bad news.

“Young master, a telegram from the royal capital. It was sent by your professor…”

Anya’s expression remained as mechanical and calm as ever, yet Ethan detected a trace of awkwardness in her demeanor.

He took the telegram. It read:

“Damn you, Ethan—Ethan Poletta—what in the world are you doing? Why have you still not returned from that blasted hometown of yours? Do you have any idea what you’re about to miss? If you fail to sit for the autumn examinations, I won’t be able to recommend you for further study at the academy with a perfect record of A-pluses. Then your artistic career will be incomplete. Do you understand what a grievous sin that would be? I’m giving you five more days. Get your backside back here at once, and don’t force me to kick it bloody with my boots! —Your loving teacher, Hughes”

Reading the telegram reminded Ethan that his vacation had ended. Technically, he should have already returned to the royal capital and be sitting for the autumn examinations.

But there was no “technically” anymore. He had already become the head of a mafia family. What on earth would he want with an autumn examination?

“Young master, shall I send a telegram refusing?” Anya asked at the appropriate moment.

Ethan was about to nod, but then he stopped.

Wait a moment. Who said that a good mafia boss couldn’t also be an outstanding artist or scholar?

Whether one looked at the classic cases from his previous life—mafia chieftains who had washed their hands of crime and gone on to reach the pinnacle of success—or at the lessons of his present life—

Ethan had no desire to be dragged into a police station in handcuffs ever again.

Lewis’s death could only make the police wary of him for the time being. Once enough time had passed, they might even come to resent him.

And if he wanted to make the police truly afraid to touch him, he needed a position with genuine weight.

Ethan the great painter?

Or perhaps… Ethan the legislator?

Either way, an impressive education did seem to be a solid foundation.

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“Reply for me: ‘My dear teacher, I’m terribly sorry. I truly do love art, but something has happened to my family. My father…’”

Ethan composed the message word by word as he ate breakfast.

Returning to school was impossible, but transferring back to school was not.

Winster had a university of its own. It simply was not particularly distinguished; otherwise, Ethan would never have gone to the royal capital to study in the first place.

He wanted Hughes to help him transfer back.

Judging from the telegram, Hughes was an extraordinarily irritable man.

Yet according to the memories of Ethan’s predecessor, Hughes was merely a hot-tempered old man on the surface. In truth, he treated his students well. It was not difficult to tell from his words that he genuinely liked Ethan, and he had even granted him five days’ grace to return and sit for the examinations.

In that case, Ethan could only apologize to Professor Hughes.

When the telegram had been drafted, Anya seemed somewhat puzzled, but she said nothing. The young master was always right.

After breakfast, Ethan rode Klaus’s Spear toward the Star of the North Sea.

For a meeting of this caliber, there was naturally no better venue than the Star of the North Sea.

When Ethan reached the grand conference room on the fourth floor, the top floor of the Star of the North Sea, someone was already there.

It was an acquaintance—the most familiar one of all: George.

Clearly, as someone who had nearly been kicked out and had only just managed to return, George might not have slept much the previous night. He had arrived at the conference room first thing in the morning.

When he saw Ethan, he hurriedly rose and began to approach, only to halt abruptly, as though determined to preserve the last scrap of his dignity. With a smile, he said, “Hey, Ethan. Morning.”

Ethan had no desire to make things difficult for him either. He smiled and nodded. “Morning, George. I see you’re full of enthusiasm.”

Everyone in Winster already knew that George was a loser. There was no need to grind his face into the dirt; doing so would only produce the opposite effect.

Besides, George had transferred the handicraft factory in the southern suburbs to Ethan several days ago, along with Lewis.

What George had sent to Ethan’s home was one of Lewis’s hands, together with his epaulets.

That was sincerity enough.

Not long after Ethan took his seat, a third person arrived. Ethan did not know him, but George took the initiative to introduce him.

“This is Haska of the Murich family. Haska, this is the Ethan who’s been making quite a name for himself lately.”

Haska was an elegant, handsome middle-aged man. His hair was combed with immaculate precision and slicked back with gleaming pomade. He wore a pair of neatly groomed mustaches. He looked less like a mafia boss than a film star.

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After hearing George’s introduction, he hurried over to Ethan and embraced him.

“Ethan, thank you so much for letting me join this magnificent enterprise. I hardly know what to say.”

The Murich family’s primary business had once been the sex trade. When the Poletta family had tried to expand into part of that market, the two sides had come into conflict, though it had never been particularly serious.

And now that such a lucrative business as bootleg liquor had appeared, Haska had long since forgotten what had happened in the past.

Dani arrived after Haska.

Dani was equally delighted. He could not help glancing at George, too. He was genuinely grateful to him. If George had not made such a mess of things, Dani truly would not have known how to get involved in this enterprise.

The last to arrive was usually the most important, so Sandro came last. Three men accompanied him, all of them fronts for powerful friends of his in the political world.

Once everyone had taken their seats, they began discussing the various details. In fact, Ethan had already spoken with Sandro beforehand.

Sandro and his friends would naturally take the largest share, followed by Ethan, while the other three families would receive the smallest portions.

No one objected to this arrangement, so the negotiations over the division of profits proceeded in a remarkably pleasant atmosphere.

When the discussion ended, George opened a bottle of fine liquor and poured a glass for everyone.

They drained their glasses amid laughter and cheerful conversation.

Then someone suddenly tapped lightly on his glass, signaling for everyone to quiet down.

Ethan looked toward the man.

It was one of the fronts, a man named John Holt. On the surface, he was the owner of a company called Glacier Investments and a well-known merchant in Winster. In reality, he was the lapdog of some highly influential figure.

Cray had said that his master might be the man seated in the judgment hall.

“Gentlemen, our great ship has successfully set sail, but we must not grow careless. The first enormous wave has already crashed down upon us. We must not capsize the moment we leave port.”

Everyone stared at him, somewhat bewildered.

He smiled, and at last revealed the answer.

“As I understand it, the Kingdom’s prohibition agents are already on their way.”

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