The morning sun shone brightly through the windows, casting long beams of light onto the floor and illuminating the otherwise minimalistic room. The air conditioner hummed softly, keeping the space cool and comfortable. There were five people in the room, but my attention was on the man sitting in front of me—Douglas, the boss of Number 10 in the Clover Group.
Earlier this morning, I received a text from Tyler, informing me that I would be getting my first assignment as a new member of the group. I had assumed it would be a one-on-one meeting, but two other recruits stood beside me.
To my right was a man who looked about my age but was taller and noticeably more muscular. His red-dyed hair was cut in a low taper style, and his cold expression made him look like he had been in the mafia for years. A new member? He already looks like he belongs here. I thought to myself.
On my left was a shorter guy with a nervous posture and messy hair—kind of reminded me of Zack. His fingers gripped the straps of the backpack slung over his shoulders. How did he even become a new member? And what's with the backpack?
Douglas leaned forward and looked at us. "Alright, kids. I assume you know why you're here?"
We nodded in response.
"Good. Ty here will be your supervisor. I'm leaving this to you, Ty. I have somewhere to be." He stood up, ready to leave, but was interrupted when the timid guy next to me raised his hand.
"Uhm, excuse me?" he said, catching all of us off guard. Even Douglas hesitated before nodding at him to continue.
"I have a question," the boy said nervously.
Douglas exchanged a glance with Tyler before responding, "Uh, yeah. Go ahead."
"Why is the group named Clover? If it's based on tarot, shouldn't it be called Clubs?"
Silence.
I blinked. He was right. It had never occurred to me before—I'd been too preoccupied with the mafia itself and Ashley to notice. Douglas rubbed the back of his neck, looking a little embarrassed.
"Uh… It was King's decision. He thought the Clubs symbol looked like a clover, and he didn't like how 'Clubs Group' sounded. Said it felt off. 'Clover Group' had a better ring to it."
...
...
That's it? That's the reason?
I had expected some grand meaning, but instead, it was just a naming preference. The timid guy and I were dumbfounded by the explanation. The red-haired guy scoffed, muttering, "Tch, ridiculous…" under his breath. I didn't blame him. The reason didn't sound like mafia at all. Even Douglas and Tyler looked a little ashamed.
"Alright! No more questions. I'm off." Douglas practically bolted out of the room, clearly eager to escape the conversation. We turned back to Tyler, who sighed before addressing us.
"Alright, I've been assigned as your supervisor for your first assignment. Follow me. I'll explain in the car."
We piled into a hatchback, with me in the front passenger seat and the other two in the back. As Tyler drove, he spoke, "I've sent your first assignment to your phones. Check it."
I pulled out my phone and saw the notification. Opening it, I found the details of my target: a 31-year-old unemployed man who lived alone, was despised by his neighbors, and hadn't paid his $1,500 debt in over four months. No wonder he hadn't paid—he had no job.
"All the people on the list live in the same apartment building, so it makes our job easier," Tyler continued.
The nervous guy—Elliot, as Tyler called him—hesitated before speaking. "Uh, I have a question…"
"What is it?"
"The assignment says we need to collect money from the debtors. How exactly do we do that? What are the rules?"
Tyler shrugged. "It's up to you as long as you don't kill or torture them."
Elliot kept asking questions, and Tyler answered as best he could. I half-listened while the red-haired guy, apparently named Darius, scrolled through his phone, uninterested.
After a short drive, we arrived at the apartment complex. The building was rundown—cracked paint, overflowing waste bins, trash on the ground, flickering hallway lights. As we walked up the stairs to the third floor, I felt eyes watching us, filled with caution and resentment. Clover Group clearly had a reputation here.
We stopped in front of our first target's door—Darius's assignment. Tyler stepped aside. "Alright, Darius. It's all yours."
Darius knocked. Heavy footsteps approached, and the door creaked open just enough to reveal a frightened face. "Hey," Darius said in a low, menacing tone. "You owe us money. Pay up, or I'll come inside and we'll see if you can still walk after."
The man scrambled to hand over an envelope, but as he tried to shut the door, Darius blocked it with his foot. "Hold on. Let me count."
The target's face turned pale as Darius flipped through the bills. Then, without warning, he shoved the door open, causing the man to stumble backward onto the floor.
"You're short five hundred, old man," Darius growled. "You screwing with me? Want to spend the rest of your life in a wheelchair? Where's the rest of it?"
Shaking, the man fumbled for more cash before handing it over and scrambling deeper into his apartment. The man didn't seem that old to be called 'old man', but I guess anyone who is older than him can be considered old. Darius walked out, tossing the full amount to Tyler. "Done."
Next was my turn.
Standing in front of the door, I took a deep breath before ringing the bell. The sound of slow, heavy footsteps approached. The locks clicked—one, two, three, four. How many locks does he need?
The door finally opened, revealing a fat, sweaty man in a stained shirt, holding a paper cup of Coke. He reeked. "What?" he grunted before burping.
I kept my tone polite, "Sir, you're four months behind on your $1,500 debt. We need you to—"
"Yeah? So what?" He cut me off. "I ain't got the money."
Then he spat on my face.
Disgusting.
My face burned with anger. Veins tensed in my arms. He smirked, taking another sip.
That was it. I snapped.
With a swift kick to his gut, I sent him tumbling into his filthy apartment, spilling Coke everywhere. I stepped inside, my eyes locked onto him. The room was a mess—rotting food, trash, beer cans and... was that... a sex doll? Disgusting.
"Oi, fatty," I said coldly. "You think spitting on people's funny?" I kicked his leg, making him scream. "Pay up, asshole." I pressed my foot into his stomach, making him groan in pain.
"I-it's in the drawer!" he stammered, pointing weakly.
I found the cash, counted it, then made sure to stomp on him once more before leaving.
Then it was Elliot's turn. He nervously rang the doorbell. A normal-looking man answered. "Yes? How can I help you?"
Elliot showed him something on his phone. The man's face instantly drained of color. Sweat started to form on his forehead.
"I-I'll get the money! Just don't send it!" he begged, dashing inside.
"Honey, who's at the door?" a woman's voice called from within. Probably his wife.
Moments later, the man returned, panting, with the full amount. "Here! Please keep your end of the deal."
Elliot nodded. As we walked away, Tyler asked, "What did you show him?"
Elliot hesitated. "Uhm, it was a screenshot of his secret bank account… the one he's hiding from his wife."
Silence. Then, all three of us had the same thought:
This kid is more dangerous than we thought.