cursedgamer1
patreon
Chapter 21: La Madrina
🕑 Added 2025-08-02 21:33:31 +0000 UTCA month had passed since the alley fight. We never saw Vince again. Even Marko assured that Vince didn’t bother him again. For now, this chapter was considered closed.
Nothing major happened since, but I wasn’t sitting idle either. Missions were moving along. Some were faster than others.
Vigilante (13/100)
Paramedic (56/100)
Delivery (22/100)
Burglary (19/100)
Art of Persuasion (60/100)
The [Vigilante] mission had made the least progress, with only five. I didn’t go out of my way to find criminals to kill. But when I came across any opportunity to increase the count for this mission, I was all in.
One night, I was cruising a quiet street, and I spotted a man forcibly pulling a girl into an alley. I parked some distance away and followed inside.
By the time I got there, he’d already yanked half her clothes off. She was crying, resisting, the usual horror show. So yeah, I figured it was time to play Batman.
Since it was fashionable to wear masks as a vigilante, I also decided to wear one. Unfortunately, I didn’t have one, so I had to tie my handkerchief around my face, covering my nose and mouth.
I looked less like a fucking vigilante and more like a wannabe thug.
Anyways.
Since it was considerably dark in the alley, I took advantage of that. I first attacked the rapist from behind because I was not a righteous fool who would yell, “Leave that girl alone, you scum.”
But I didn’t kill him in that strike, as I didn’t want the girl to see that—no need to kill an unrelated person for no reason.
“Leave,” I growled, trying my best Batman voice.
She couldn’t see my face because of the cover on my face and the relative darkness in the alley. With a teary-eyed face, she mouthed, “Thank you,” and ran away after quickly fixing her clothes.
After that, the expected happened, and I killed that rapist in cold blood. Earning a +1 for my mission.
I usually didn’t drive too late at night, but after that, I sometimes went out at late hours to find more targets. I killed two more rapists and five muggers. Unfortunately, only two of the muggers earned me a point; it might be that the other three were mere junkies or small-time crooks, not considered criminal enough to grant a point for the mission.
The [Paramedic] mission became significantly easier after my [First Aid] skill reached the Apprentice stage. I gained more fame among Uncle Niko's old pals. Even if not comparable to an actual doctor, I could still tape up a bleeding man without making it worse.
Not only that, I completed the second objective of the mission, so I earned the [Health Regen Increase (100%)] reward. Although it didn’t give me Wolverine’s healing factor, it still made my recovery much faster.
The [Delivery] mission was utterly dependent on Robert, so the number of deliveries I could complete would depend on how many he would give me.
At least, I completed the first objective of the mission and upgraded my Endurance from F1 to F3. My stamina had increased drastically compared to before.
The [Burglary] mission also made steady progress—14 burglaries in the past month, which was almost one burglary every two days. But even if I targeted completely different areas and switched neighborhoods, the cops were starting to sniff around—time to lay low before I got flagged.
Lastly, the [Art of Persuasion] mission. I had made the most progress in this mission, completing both first and second objectives, which increased my Charisma to F3 and granted me the [Solver Tongue] skill, respectively—smooth talker upgrade acquired.
All in all? A productive month. I was still far from strong, but I wasn’t the same rookie I was at the start.
Attributes:
Strength: F1
Agility: F1
Constitution: F1
Endurance: F3
Vitality: F3
Intelligence: F2
Wisdom: F2
Perception: F2
Willpower: F3
Charisma: F3
The grind was slow, but the numbers were moving. That’s what mattered.
I’d finally leveled up enough to start putting a few plans into motion—specifically, following my old man’s footsteps into the wonderful world of organized crime.
But I couldn’t just slap together a gang and start carving up the territories. I had no reputation or skills for that.
Even with a fluke, if I somehow gathered a small gang and made a little noise, I might end up like Vince or worse, the Black Dog gang: splattered across the walls.
Hell, Jessica might be the one sent to put me down. Just the thought of her folding me like a lawn chair made me shudder. I became strong, but I was nowhere near her.
With our previous meeting, she might hold back herself with all her might to not kill me, but in the end, it would be futile against Zebediah’s orders.
Bottom line: starting a gang now would be suicide with extra steps.
I had a better alternative for that.
Starting a gang and starting a company are similar. Before establishing a company, consider gaining relevant experience by working in a related field. Only after that would it be best to start your own company.
I decided something similar. Before starting my own gang, I think it would be a good idea to work with other gangs to gain experience and build a reputation.
The problem was picking the right gang. I didn’t want to work with anyone in NYC. Too close to home. Too risky. I needed to keep my student life and my criminal internship from overlapping.
Nearby cities were a better bet. But this wasn’t the comics. There were way more gangs out there than the ones Marvel cared to name. And I didn’t exactly have Yelp reviews for criminal organizations.
Fortunately, I didn’t have to do much research into that. One of Uncle Niko’s old pals, who also worked with my father, proved helpful. He knew someone in Newark and put in a good word for me. Of course, whether they would hire me or not would depend totally on my performance.
I told him not to mention that I was Desmond’s son, just some kid in need of work. There was only far enough I could go with my father’s name, and any reputation earned in his name would never be truly mine.
Which brings me to now—standing outside the El Grito de Cortez bar. My first interview. For my first real job.
Let’s see if I make it past orientation.
From the outside, the bar didn’t look like much—just a sharp, square building pressed between a shuttered pawn shop and a Dominican bakery. No neon sign. Just a small brass plaque above a heavy wooden door: El Grito de Cortez.
But the moment I stepped inside, the temperature shifted.
The lighting dipped low, glowing a warm, ember-red. Soft jazz and bolero played at a low volume. Glass chandeliers hung overhead. The air smelled of tobacco, aged wood, and expensive wine.
There was a guard just inside the entrance. He was dressed in a form-fitting black suit. I could faintly see the outline of a gun at his waist.
He gave me a once-over as his eyes scanned for any visible weapons. His face stayed blank, but I could feel the silent “you don’t belong here” radiating off him.
“You lost, kid?” the guard asked. His voice was neither hostile nor welcoming, just plain dismissive.
“Depends. Is the music any good, or should I ask for directions?” I asked with a smirk.
He gave me a look for a few seconds, maybe contemplating whether he should throw me out or not. Finally, he welcomed me with a nod. “Don’t go near the stairs,” he warned, and then ignored me.
I shrugged and went inside.
The floor was polished black stone tiles with a marble finish, with subtle gold and crimson inlays. Multiple round tables dotted the floor, each with four chairs. There were a few sofas with smaller tables near the walls. 4-5 waiters moved busily on the floor.
In the front, a polished mahogany bar front ran across the wall. Two bartenders, a male and a female, handled the crowd with practiced ease. Ten high-backed stools stood in front of the bar. The shelf behind the bar housed many bottles, some labeled, and some unlabeled; home brews, cartel imports, and things you couldn’t buy legally.
The patrons were a mixed bag—scarred-up thugs, tired corporate slaves, drunkards, maybe even a few feds playing dumb.
There was a set of stairs leading up, with a guard standing in front of them. I looked up and found VIP lounges with some rich or powerful-looking men and women enjoying the atmosphere.
Another guard stood near the end of the bar front, a door leading to the kitchen beside him, where waiters moved to and from. A fourth guard occasionally walked on the floor or leaned against the wall at one side.
All of the guards had a few things in common; they all wore black suits, and each carried a piece.
The guard leaning against the wall stared at me sharply. His gaze conveyed, “You better not try anything funny.”
I smiled and waved at him. Rude fucker didn’t even return it. Whatever. I shrugged and went to the bar.
I claimed the only stool available in front of the bar.
“One orange juice,” I said to the male bartender who was standing nearby me. The female one, on the other side, looked overoccupied.
The bartender and the guests nearby looked at me, stunned for a second.
“Hey, kid,” said the tattooed musclehead next to me, voice booming with laughter. “This place ain’t for babies. Go back to your momma.”
The other patrons also laughed with him, but the bartender maintained a professional smile.
I immediately increased the bar’s rating by one star for good staff behaviour.
“So… is there a policy against punching guests?” I casually asked the bartender as he handed me my juice.
The buff man’s brows furrowed, and he growled, “You got a death wish, kid?”
“Unfortunately, sir,” the bartender said calmly, “violence is prohibited inside the premises.”
Translation: back off, or get bounced.
“Really? Damn. That’s a shame,” I sighed, sipping my juice.
“You little shit—”
The guy was mid-threat when he suddenly looked over my shoulder and clammed up.
Curious, I glanced back. The guard leaning against the wall was glaring at us. I once again smiled and waved at him. Rude fucker, once again ignored me.
“You new here?” the bartender asked, polishing a glass like some noir movie extra.
“Yep,” I answered. “Any cool places to visit?”
The guest sitting on the other side of me laughed, “Try NYC. You might spot a hero in tights if you’re lucky.”
He had white-streaked hair, a cigar, and the kind of drink that smelled like gasoline.
“Nah, that sounds dangerous,” I laughed.
“You don’t think this place is dangerous?” the musclehead from before scoffed.
“How can it be dangerous?” I asked, looking incredulous like an innocent idiot. “The nice gentleman here just said that violence is against the rules.”
“Hahaha.”
That got the biggest laugh yet. Even the bartender cracked a smile.
Careful, buddy. I can still take that star away.
“You know what the name of this place means?” the old guy asked, voice a touch more serious.
“El Grito de Cortez? Something about revolution, right? My Spanish sucks.”
He nodded. “That’s what everyone thinks at first.”
He took a long drag of his cigar. The smoke curled around his words.
“But here, the ‘scream’ means something else.”
I leaned in curiously. “Oh? Do tell.”
His eyes flicked around the room. Paused a beat on the wall-guard, who now strolled casually across the floor.
He even took a longer look, this time, at our smiling bartender, who pretended not to listen while mixing a drink for another customer.
Interesting. Looks like mixology wasn’t the only skill in the bartender’s resume.
“Well… It’s kind of an open secret around here,” the old man said, voice dropping low like he was about to share a ghost story.
“They say that the owner named the bar after her father’s last scream that he made while she killed him in cold blood and took over his empire,” he said, like telling a conspiracy theory.
“The name signifies the last scream of Ignacio Cortez, her father,” he continued.
“Was her father someone big?” I asked, just as quietly, already hooked.
“Ignacio Cortez was the previous head of the cartel and ruled a big area of the Newark underworld,” he chuckled.
Huh. Philip really hooked me up with someone interesting.
Oh well, I'd better take this opportunity to gather as much intel as possible about my temporary employer.
“So… is she as powerful as he was?” I asked.
“Powerful?” He asked. His eyes showed fear, eyes darting like he was expecting her to materialize around him suddenly. “She is one of the three rulers of Newark's underworld. Do you think that is powerful?”
I gave a slight nod. Yeah. That was powerful.
He continued, fear still strong in his eyes, “Fifteen years ago, she was merely a teenage girl. At that age, she ruthlessly killed her father and took over the cartel. She eliminated any opposition against her within the cartel. The cartel didn’t get weak with her father’s death; instead, it got stronger and stronger under her lead.”
His face showed both fear and admiration. “Her father ruled the cartel for so long, but he never earned the title of El Padrino. But with her decisive and ruthless actions, she earned the title of–”
He took a short dramatic pause, then continued in a low, heavy voice. His face filled with both awe and fear.
“La Madrina.”
Damn. Looks like my employer is a local legend.
I downed the last of my orange juice. “Thanks for the story, old man. Time for me to handle business.”
The musclehead once again laughed, hearing that. This man was starting to get on my nerves.
“You? Handle business? Here?” he scoffed.
“Yep,” I answered with a smile. If I hadn’t been afraid of breaking the place’s rules on my first day, I’d have left him sipping soup through a straw.
“Oh, really? Mind sharing with us what business you have?” He asked in a challenging tone.
Asking someone’s private business in a place like this can be considered taboo. It may even lead to a fight or worse.
But I didn’t really care.
“Sure,” I said casually. “I’m here to meet Reina Cortez.”
There was suddenly perfect silence in the area around me.
The musclehead’s eyes shrank.
The old man's glass slipped from his hand and shattered on the floor, liquor and shards scattering in every direction.
The bartender’s smile vanished. One hand slid under the bar.
Ok, now, that reaction was too excessive.
I stood up, dusted off my pants, and turned toward the stairs.
Time for the interview.
No pressure.
As I walked toward the stairs, I felt every guard’s eyes tracking me.
Their hands hovered near their guns. One wrong move and I’d be turned into Swiss cheese.
“VIPs only. Turn around,” the stair guard barked. He shifted his jacket just enough to flash the piece on his hip.
Unfortunately for him, given the events of the past few months, he needed to do more than that if he wanted to intimidate me.
Honestly, his F2 tier was more threatening to me than the gun, which wasn’t even in his hand. Not just him, every single guard was at F2 tier. If it had stopped at them, it would still be ok, but those damn bartenders were F2 tier too.
So yeah, these beings who could squish me like a mosquito were more intimidating to me than these guns. Unless they aimed those guns at me, I didn’t really care about some metal sticks.
“I’ve got a meeting with Ms. Reina Cortez,” I said, polite and calm. “Mind pointing me to her office?”
Best foot forward. No reason to look sloppy in front of future colleagues.
“Not just any nobody can meet with La Madriana. Leave or I will use force,” the guard threatened.
“Fair enough,” I said with a nod. “I am a nobody. But she’s expecting this particular nobody. Ask her about a call from Philip.”
“Nice try. But I was not informed of any guests that would be visiting her. So, leave,” the guard said, giving special emphasis to the word ‘guest’.
No dice. Guy wasn’t budging.
“Look, buddy. I know you are just doing your job. Hell, I appreciate such high work ethics,” I said.
I continued, “But don’t you think you are being too stubborn here. What if your boss got disappointed with you for delaying her business due to your overzealousness?”
Ok, that apparently worked in the opposite direction, as he was already pulling the gun.
“Whoa, easy there. ‘No violence’ is still the house rule, right?” I said, backing off just enough.
He didn’t draw—but his eyes stayed locked on me.
“If you know the rules,” he growled, “then shut the fuck up and walk away.”
“Okay, okay—compromise. How about you send one of your guys to check with Reina? I’ll stay right here.”
He stared. Hard.
Then gave a slight nod to the wall guard, who returned it and disappeared upstairs.
“If you’re lying,” the stair guard said, voice low and lethal, “you’ll be leaving with zero intact bones.”
I smiled.
“That’s a shame. I was really starting to like my kneecaps.”
The wall guard returned a moment later and gave a slight nod.
Stair-guard—who still looked like he wanted to rip my spine out—stepped aside, but not before glaring a final warning.
“Be extremely respectful in front of La Madrina,” he growled. “Or I’ll personally zip you up in a body bag.”
“Thanks for the advice,” I said and stepped past him.
“Stay close. Don’t wander,” the wall guard said, leading the way up the stairs. “If you do, you’ll deal with the consequences.”
The moment we reached the first floor, it was like stepping into a different world.
Half the level was a mezzanine overlooking the bar below—VIP booths lined with rich leather and low lighting. The kind of setup that let the powerful look down on everyone else.
Literal and symbolic.
Female waitresses moved gracefully across the floor—no male servers here. A second bar gleamed to the side, manned by a bartender whose hands were a blur of motion. He poured a dark red cocktail like he was casting a spell.
A waitress scooped up the drink and delivered it to a booth where an old sleazebag lounged like a rat in silk. Across from him sat two sharply dressed men. Between them sat an open suitcase overflowing with cash.
There were four guards in this area, all at the F2 tier, too. But they didn’t wander on the floor; instead, they stood at their assigned positions, like statues with loaded guns.
A fifth guard stood in front of a corridor—rugged, eyepatch over his right eye, and more muscle than most of the floor combined.
He scanned me like a hawk looking at its prey as we came near him.
“This is the guy Madrina is expecting?” he asked, unimpressed. “Doesn’t look like much.”
I smiled at him as I tried to keep my cool in front of the F3 tier guy who could defeat me like an adult beating a child.
The wall guard snapped to attention as he replied with respect, “Sí, Jefe.”
The eyepatch guy gave me one last cold look, then waved us on like I was barely worth the effort.
We moved down the corridor. A few doors lined the hall, one slightly ajar. I glimpsed inside—a meeting in progress. The conversation paused only long enough for someone to accept a drink from a waitress.
A thought came to my mind. Private Booths. High-level deals. Higher-level people.
“Keep moving,” the guard barked. And I resumed walking behind him.
Finally, we stopped at a heavy wooden door. The guard stood straighter, posture stiff with respect. He knocked twice.
“Entra.”
The voice from inside was sharp. Cold. Commanding.
The moment I stepped in, the air changed again.
If the first floor whispered “power,” this room screamed it.
Big. Luxurious. Dangerous.
Paintings hung on every wall, framed in gold. The wallpaper was a rich, blood-red with intricate patterns I didn’t recognize. A massive chandelier loomed overhead like a crown.
Two bookshelves stood near a wall filled with unknown books. A small table with two sofas sat beside it.
A woman sat on a sofa, reading a book. She wore a red check shirt with the top two buttons undone, suit pants, and shoes. Her long black hair was tied in a ponytail. She had a shoulder holster with a gun on each side.
She had a beautiful, angled face, long eyelashes, and bright eyes. Her figure was harder to make out because of the shirt she was wearing. But it should not be bad, with the faint curves visible from the shirt.
There was a minibar near another wall. A man leaned against it as he drank vodka directly from the bottle.
He was heavily built and easily more than two meters tall. His body was filled with explosive muscles easily visible under the white tank top he was wearing, which was at least two sizes too small.
He had short black hair and wore cargo pants. He looked like he could easily become friends with Tanktop Master.
On the other side of the room, there were black leather couches with a table in between. There was a bag filled with cash, some scattered papers, and a shotgun placed on the table.
On the couches sat two people facing each other.
First was another woman. She wore skinny jeans, a tank top, a leather jacket, and ankle boots. Her black hair was scattered loose behind her back. A machete was sheathed on her leg.
Her face was small and looked cute, but her clothes and makeup made her look mature. She was looking at a file in front of her in concentration.
The other man was dressed in a suit like the guards outside, but his was black with red highlights and looked more expensive.
His black hair was in a crew cut. His face was half covered in tattoos. He calmly smoked a cigar while lost in thought.
All of them looked different but had one thing in common: they were all at the fucking F3 tier.
“Vete.”
The same cold voice came. The guard who entered with me nodded and left respectfully after giving me a final warning glare. He closed the door behind him.
Such a lovely guy, making sure that his boss’s guest doesn’t run away.
This time, I followed the voice.
A massive boss table stood with a big leather chair behind it. Behind the chair, a one-way glass on the wall allowed people to look outside. Two slightly lower-quality chairs stood on the other side of the table.
The table had a stack of files, a table lamp, and a revolver. A big safe sat beside the table.
The voice came from the woman sitting in the boss's chair. A woman sat on it. Her face was cold as she read a file on her table.
She wore a fitted, deep charcoal blouse. It had a low neckline, but with her demeanour, it gave her a bold look instead. It had crimson and gold embroidery. She wore a black blazer over it and black slacks. The outfit was completed with blood-red stiletto heels.
Her black hair was tied in a flawless bun, and not a single strand of it flowed down. Her beautiful green eyes were covered with gold-rimmed glasses.
Her presence was cold, commanding, and powerful. Even her tier was F2.
She looked up calmly and said with a tone that demanded obedience, “Sit.”
Hearing her, every other occupant in the room also looked at me.
I suddenly felt I was in a wolf’s den.
I took a deep breath, held her gaze, and walked calmly to the chair in front of her, sitting down.
A voice in my head continuously told me to lower my head, but I couldn’t. This was not a case like lowering the head out of respect for the elderly or gratitude.
No, this was a power move. Reina was asserting her dominance over me. If I lowered my gaze, it would mean I considered her my superior.
It was about dominance, not respect.
I decided to work for her, but it was never the plan to join her cartel. I would be more like a freelance member—contractual villainy.
I might lower my head as a sign of respect to her, but never to show that I was below her.
If I accepted her dominance, it would mean I accepted her to be my superior. If that happened, I would be better off to kiss goodbye to all my grand plans and work for her, which would never happen.
“This chair is nice,” I said as I sat on the chair and leaned back. It felt great as I rubbed my butt on it.
The air dropped ten degrees.
Between the casual tone, the casual clothes, and my general lack of fear, I probably looked like I walked in just to piss her off.
My heart pounded in my chest, but I flashed the same practiced smile I used during interviews in my previous life.
“Philip mentioned great things about you,” she said, looking as if sizing me up. “But you don’t look like anything special.”
“Yep, heard that one before,” I said casually.
This time, even she raised an eyebrow. Her gaze contained a kind of psychological pressure.
She didn’t speak, just looked at me deeply. The silence felt suffocating. The pressure increased, but I maintained my gaze and a slight smile.
I didn’t know how long our staring match continued, but to me it felt like years.
“People have died for less disrespect.” She said, breaking the silence. She paused for a beat, then continued, “Do you think you can leave this room alive?”
I could feel the killing intent in the room. The four behind me were just waiting for a nod from her, and they would tear me apart.
“No, I don’t,” I said honestly. “But I do believe I’ll take at least one of you down with me.”
The tension was unbearable. I could barely breathe.
Then—
“You are interesting,” she said.
Silver Tongue Critical Hit
Deception Successful
I felt as if a massive weight was removed from my chest. My back was wet with sweat.
“Thanks for the compliment,” I said, still maintaining the same attitude.
“You will not get any special treatment just because Philip recommended you,” she said.
“I don’t need it,” I declared with confidence.
She studied me for another second. But this time the pressure was not intense.
“Good confidence,” she said, nodding slightly. “I have a job for you.”
“Let’s hear it.” I leaned forward slightly.
“Two months ago, a ramen shop opened on the next block. The owner refused to pay protection money. Your job is to convince him.” She introduced me to my first cartel work.
...Seriously? Extorting a ramen shop owner?
“Sure,” I agreed with a nod, masking my disappointment.
“No heavy force. I have a reputation. Don’t tarnish it,” she ordered coldly.
“Understood,” I nodded and got up from the chair.
I turned around and walked to the door, but stopped midway, hearing her frosty voice.
“If you fail... don’t come back.”
I paused, hand on the doorknob.
“Noted.”
I stepped out and shut the door behind me.
Time to intimidate a ramen shop owner.
Living the dream.
Comments
cursedgamer1
Thanks for reading. He needed to complete 20 deliveries to reach F3 endurance. I have used the same structure for mission to reduce confusion. You can check in chapter 4 for the mission description.
MadGod
How did he get F3 endurance if delivery hasn't reached 25? And what happened with Shriek?
