Flash forward fifteen minutes and I’m in the backseat of Lorenzo’s luxury SUV with an IV jammed in my left arm as we make our way to the Bagnoli Tower downtown. I’m dressed in my old fatigues and boots which are still untied. Even though I insist that I’ve sobered up Enzo is having none of it.

“You’re fucking lucky, Flynn, you know that?” he asks. “First you’re lucky that I keep some hangover cures in the car at all times. Now? The old man’s pushed back lunch, he’s had his plate full this morning.”

“Well whoever fucked up his schedule, send them my regards,” I grumble.

Bagnoli tower is located in near the center of town. You can’t miss it, it’s this huge fucking obelisk with windows and neon lining that makes it look like even a gigantic pillar of light at night. Armed guards waive us through the gates and down into the undercity parking garage. The goon administering my IV pulls the needle out slaps some tape on the puncture mark before I’m unceremoniously herded out of the car and led into the elevator. Enzo keys in the penthouse level and passes the hand-eye scanner test. The elevator shoots up and- fuck, okay, gonna have to fight to keep my stomach calm. I’ve puked in the Bagnoli Tower elevator before. I don’t want to do it again.

“We’ve got some time, I can clean you up proper,” Enzo tells me.

I’m not entirely sure what that’s going to consist of. Enzo is a good-looking guy, really handsome. Two-piece pinstriped navy suit, gold cuff links, designer leather shoes, rich brown hair with a faded double undercut, and a perfectly bushy mustache with a clean-shaven chin. Everything about his look oozes class and machismo, what every girl wants. And sure, he looks good, but he also looks soft. He’s got the bronze skin and green eyes of an ancient warrior, but you can tell from his gait and the way he runs his mouth that he hasn’t been in a fight since his time at boarding school.

But then again, Enzo doesn’t have to get in fights, that’s part of what he pays me for.

We reach Enzo’s apartment and my stomach finally eases up in joy. His apartment is one of the four that reside on the top of Bagnoli Tower, one for “the old man” Filippo Bagnoli and each of his three sons. Enzo, or Lorenzo, occupied the southeast corner. The doors open and we disembark into the main foyer shared by all four penthouses. Enzo tells the goons to get me in the shower and then the hairmaster while he goes and stalls for a bit more time. One of the goons asks about clothes, but Enzo says the fatigues are good enough for authenticity. It’s a lost cause anyway: Enzo is a good six inches shorter than me so nothing of his will ever fit me.

The goons hustle me through the sea-blue halls of Enzo’s apartment right into his washroom. There I strip down even faster and sloppier than before while one of the goons sets the shower to a quick wash. I tell him it better be cybernetics-friendly and step in the chamber. The jets of warm water blast my skin clean while a soap-shampoo hybrid is filtered in as a powder that mixes in with the water. I scrub myself clean. If the timer didn’t give me five minutes I’d stay in for probably thirty.

After the time is up, I step outside and into the hairmaster’s chair. The machine descends from the ceiling on my head, and as it gets a feel, I see a readout of the possible styles. Damn, it even spots the plate in my forehead and how it keeps hair from growing. I opt for the standard one-sided mohawk with a part to my left. Lasers and razors remove the excess hair and even the stubble before combs part it in place. It finishes with a quick blow-dry treatment and in less than ten minutes my fatigues (sprayed heavily with odor killers) are back on.

The whole thing is such a rush and I’m so pressed for time that it still doesn’t occur to me that I’m about to meet Filippo Bagnoli, One of the richest and most powerful men in all of Nocturne City. The goon waiting outside the washroom tells Enzo that I’m on my way as hee leads me out of Enzo’s apartment and into the foyer.

I’m having lunch with Filippo Bagnoli.

A different goon escorts me through heavy brass doors into Filippo’s place. The walls are all a deep shade of red and the floor is this disorienting black-and-white zig-zag pattern. Abstract paintings line the walls in gilded frames. My gut starts to contort itself into a knot. I’m glad I did get the IV, Filippo’s place is just as intimidating as he is.

Filippo Bagnoli is the patriarch of Bagnoli Industries, a global conglomerate built around the Bagnoli Shipping company. Everyone knows some sort of story about Filippo. Most of what I know about him comes from Enzo. He had three different sons from three different wives. He would take a wife when she was around 30, then get the marriage annulled a few days after she hit 40, paying her a good bit to quietly retire away from the spotlight. He didn’t seem to see any distinction between legitimate enterprise and the dealings of the underworld. One time in the middle of a contentious meeting he tore off his shirt and threatened to beat the hell out of every man in the room then go home and fuck their wives. Another time on his yacht a photographer’s boat got too close so he started shooting at it while in his underwear. He sleeps for around four hours, and starts each early morning with a ninety minute workout session. He never smokes, only drinks in moderation, and has never touched a single narcotic in his entire life.

Enzo meets me in the living room, where bizarre geometric sculptures surround lily-white high-end leather furniture. He looks me over and asks me if I’m good, and I nod as I suppress the pressure just like I would right before the helicopter doors opened. Enzo takes me out through the stained glass door and out onto the terrace, where a circular table is set for three people. Two of the seats are empty. Filippo’s sitting in the third.

“Okay Pop, this is the guy I told you about, Lance Corporal Flynn Callahan. He’s a hired gun, Occidential, he served with distinction in the Khyber Pass.”

The gnarled old man sitting at the table eyes me up and down. I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing. Filippo looks just like how I’ve seen him in his portraits, bald with a thin, waxed mustache. His skin is leathery and wrinkled, and his eyes are as mean and beady as a hawk’s. He’s wearing a pastel-red dress shirt that’s entirely undone, allowing me to see the gold chain and undershirt underneath. His rolled-up sleeves expose hairy, muscular forearms. Finally, he speaks with his gravelly voice.

“What, did you just literally go and pull the guy out of there or something?” He smiles a toothy grin and chuckles at his own quip. “Come on, sit down, eat! Don’t let the pasta get cold!”

He beckons to the chair and both Enzo and I obey. Oh fuck yes, a whole plate of pasta coated in sauce, all for me. I don’t hold back at all, I attack it harder than I attacked the Trog after I woke up. The carbs are welcome especially when I haven’t had anything all day. I eat and eat and eat and I’m done my plate before Enzo is halfway through his. The old man smiles again with arched eyebrows. I think he’s impressed.

“You served in the Khyber Pass?” he asks me.

“Occidental Expeditionary Force, 13th Air Cavalry. Three tours of duty.”

“And your scars?”

“Last tour. IED blew up in my hand.” I raise my right hand and roll down the sleeve so he sees where the cybernetic hand connects to the rest of my body. Filippo nods. Next, I pull open my right eyelid to show the cybernetic eye, then take the table knife and tap the hairless part of my skull. The distinct dinging noise betrays the metal plate. “Shrapnel,” I explain.

Filippo never bats an eye.

“How many men you kill?”

“Never kept track.”

He smiles again. “Never met a real soldier who does. Met plenty of bullshitters though, wannabe tough guys. They brag about their kill counts, but then they go and eat all girly and daintily like Lorenzo here,” he says, pointing out Enzo’s more measured eating habits.

I feel kind of embarrassed for him, but Enzo rolls his eyes in an act of assurance that this is normal. “Flynn’s a troubleshooter, pop,” he tells Filippo. “Not a family man. I call on him when I want to make sure our name isn’t tied to, uh, whatever the job calls for.”

Filippo nods and looks at me. “Do you want to be a family man?” he asks. That’s a big question. Being a formal member of the Bagnoli crime family has its benefits for sure. I’d have an apartment in Bagnoli Tower, I’d get freebies at their clubs, comps at their casino, and guaranteed work for life. No more cold showers, no more angry landlady phone calls. But on the other hand, there were rules to follow, obligations to uphold, an image to maintain. And as for that…

“It’d be nice, I guess, but I don’t know. I’m just not that kind of guy,” I answer. Shit, did I offend him? Okay, no, good, he’s still smiling. I think I’m in the clear.

“Right, right, good. Because, you know, I didn’t have Lorenzo bring you here today to offer you that.” He’s finished his pasta and he looks at the still eating Lorenzo. They have a spirited exchange in what I presume is Italian, and Lorenzo gets back to the pasta. The old man turns his attention back to me. “You like working for Lorenzo?” he asks.

“He pays me well and he pays on time, and besides, I’m not going to bad-mouth someone who lets me use their shower.”

Filippo laughs like he just heard a baby say a swear word they learned from a stressed parent. He laughs and laughs and talks to Enzo some more in Italian while he finishes up his pasta. Then, finally, he claps his hands and shouts something in Italian. In a minute or so a robot rolls outside and delivers us a plate of fish with a salad on the side. I don’t know when or what my dinner will be but I know that my eating impresses Filippo so I dig in. Damn, it tastes so good!

“What do you know about clocks?” Filippo suddenly asks me. I swallow my fish and look at him. “Clocks,” he repeats himself. “What do you know about them?”

“Not much,” I admit. “I’ve got an alarm clock on my phone, I, uh, I tend to ignore it more than I probably should.”

“You own a clock?”

“Yeah, there’s one in my apartment.”

He smiles. “That’s the thing. Everyone owns a clock, right? Every single building in the world has to have a clock. So if you make clocks, you should be making money, right?”

I nod.

“Well get this: there’s this clock company in Switzerland, where they’ve been making great clocks for centuries. But this clock company, Hiltbrand, they’re in the fucking shitter! Somehow these people who probably make very fine clocks can’t manage to actually sell a clock to save their lives. So I hear about that and I hear an opportunity. I want to buy out Hiltbrand, make them a Bagnoli company. I’ve got plans for them, we’re going to make it big in the clock business. Sounds good right?”

I nod again.

“There’s just one little problem, one teensy-tiny little problem.” He pinches his fingers together for emphasis.

“And what would that be?” I ask.

“Gunter. Fucking. Bachmann.” With each word he taps the table with his pinched fingers. “Head of the Bachmann Group in Germany. This fucking cocksucker, this little fucking kraut, he doesn’t want to sell me Hiltbrand. He’ll sell it, sure, but not to me, not to the Bagnolis, not to anyone who would even immediately sell it to me. He doesn’t like me. And that’s fine, a lot of little shits don’t like me. I don’t care if you like me or you don’t like me, I’m fucking rich. But you don’t have to like me to do business with me. That fucking snake Chavez,” he gestures over at the gleaming white Chavez building to show he meant Samuel Chavez, head of the Chavez Organization, “We don’t like each other at all. But we’re both on the City Board of Directors, so when we do business, we come together and we do business. We’re adults. We respect each other’s money. But this Bachmann guy, this fucking turd, he doesn’t care about the money. I can offer him three times what Hiltbrand is worth, and he won’t sell.”

“You want me to change his mind?” I ask. I’ve beaten up guys before on Enzo’s behalf. Beating up a German billionaire on behalf of his dad wouldn’t be any different.

“In a roundabout way. See, I know you’ve probably heard plenty of stories about me, probably from Enzo, but the thing is, I’m a nice guy. I’m a good guy. Enzo’s mom, she’s taken care of, she’ll never have to work a day in her life. And Chavez, over there? When that thing happened to his wife? I sent the largest batch of flowers and the nicest fruit basket I could find because I’m a stand-up guy. So I’m gonna kill Gunter Bachmann with kindness, and you’re gonna help.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t quite follow.” Was this some sort of coded language? What the hell did he mean by killing with kindness? I sure as hell never was particularly kind about my killing.

“How much do you know about Libya?” Another question.

“Shithole,” I reflexively respond before I can even think about how that had anything to do with Filippo’s problem. I mean, I’m not wrong. Libya is just as much a dumpster fire as the rest of Free Africa.

“Well see, Gunter Bachmann’s daughter Heidi, she didn’t think that way. She’s one of those space hippies, big into that human aid shit. And so she was doing what I guess they call missionary work down in Libya. Or at least until some pirates got a hold of her.”

“Oof.” I wasn’t exaggerating, most of North Africa was swarming with pirates, marauders, and all sorts of militias. The mass population displacement from both climate change and Chinese colonization of south and central Africa had been hard on the north.

“So Gunter, he’s in a rough spot. His daughter is being held for ransom, and he has nowhere to turn. But because I’m such a nice guy, I’m going to help him out. Or rather, you’re going to help him out, and I’m going to sponsor it.”

“And what does that mean?”

“I want you to go to Libya and find Heidi Bachmann. Save her from the pirates, and bring her to Bagnoli property on Sicily. I figure that should prove to her father that I’m not such a bad guy, and then he’ll be willing to take my offer on Hiltbrand. He gets his daughter, and I get my clock company. Everyone wins, eh?”

“Sounds pretty magnanimous.”. He’s probably bullshitting: he’s not going to hand over Heidi, he’s going to use her as a bargaining chip. That’s the Filippo Bagnoli that Enzo had told me about, the cutthroat wheeler-dealer who always found a new angle to attack a problem. “What’s it pay?”

“How’s a million sound, adjusting for expenses?”

A million credits. My eyes go wide. I stop shoveling fish in my mouth. A million fucking credits. Holy shit. That’s real, hard cash. Fuck it, if I wasn’t going to be a family man, I would still be set with that kind of money.

“Well I... I wouldn’t say no to that!”

“Excellent, very good, very good!” the old man says, practically beaming. He smiles at Enzo who smiles as well. “When we’re done here you can get a ride home from one of Enzo’s guys, figure out what expenses might look like in terms of putting a team together. We’ll call you, okay?”

“That means answering your fucking phone,” Enzo says mockingly. I fake a laugh and stealthily flip him the bird as I sip my glass of water. The old man notices this and lets out another belly laugh. It’s so contagious one. We laugh and laugh together. Filippo Bagnoli and me, both sharing a laugh right after Filippo offers me a million credits.

A million fucking credits.

Shit, I’m gonna be rich!