Ch.36Ch.4 – The Perfect Human Image (2)

Torio’s hitman resembled a ferret, but his driving was nothing short of gentlemanly.

When he spotted an obstacle, he would brake early to reduce speed, then pass through smoothly.

When turning corners, he would adjust the steering wheel slightly in advance to make the angle more gradual.

Rather than pressing the accelerator, he would subtly shift his weight to apply pressure.

He was a driver worthy of the delicate and sensitive luxury car.

The long engine compartment reminiscent of a sleek fighter jet, a driver’s seat resembling a coachman’s perch on a noble carriage, and a comfortable, spacious passenger seat.

The Lincoln Model L Town Car series truly deserved to be called a classic.

Whether driving through mud, on paved roads, or over gravel-filled paths, it remained quiet, silent, and elegant.

Like a tree with deep roots.

No matter how fierce the storm, it not only refuses to break but turns the challenge into something that makes it stand out even more.

It was a car befitting the right hand of the ruler of the night who dominated not only Pollard Island but the eastern part of Massachusetts.

Power that doesn’t subjugate others through force, but overwhelms them simply by its presence.

The reason I felt uncomfortable sitting with Joe Torio wasn’t because of his unpleasant pronunciation.

Nor was it because of the wheezing sound he made with each breath—whether from respiratory problems, high blood pressure, or both.

It was simply that even though I was just riding in a different car than usual, other vehicles kept their distance.

As if they were afraid to even approach.

That position of unintentionally looking down on others, something I had never experienced before, made me deeply uncomfortable.

“Are you experiencing discomfort?”

Torio asked. Unlike his awkward pronunciation, his eyes were already those of a hunter.

Like a true predator, he could read the emotions and feelings of others.

Pretending would be an insult to his intelligence. So I answered honestly. I said I felt burdened by riding in such a nice car.

Torio laughed, then coughed. Hic. Hic, hic! His deflated lungs laughed for him in his discomfort.

If this were a comic book, his lungs would have popped out in that exaggerated style and burst into laughter.

“You are not being used, therefore, you are an example of a friend.”

My words seemed to have earned Torio’s favor. The journey to the southern dock was quite long, and during that time, he tried to share stories that might help with my investigation with Abashina.

I already knew the basic framework from Crayfield, but Torio’s account was much more detailed and specific.

Of course, Joe Torio is an adult man who has crossed the threshold of success.

That means he’s someone who can be forgiven for sprinkling a little gold dust on his achievements.

Regardless of whether they were built on morality or on someone else’s corpse.

But since you readers probably didn’t come here to hear about Joe Torio’s life journey, I’ll only relay the parts from Crayfield and Torio’s statements that can be cross-verified.

Joe Torio is the “right hand” of the “White Hand Mafia.” That’s also why he wears a white glove only on his right hand.

Similarly, there’s someone who wears a glove only on their left hand, and from the clues Torio inadvertently dropped, I could deduce that the current “left hand” is Aurora Savio, the eldest daughter of the “Father.”

Right hand and left hand.

While the Irish mafia, the “Red-Headed O’Mellys,” operates as a cell organization with street gang characteristics, the Italian mafia, the “White Hand Family,” is structured like a family business.

The family is at the center, and those with long-standing relationships with them are placed in key positions.

This shouldn’t be misunderstood. For the mafia, a long-standing relationship means being a survivor who has endured periodic purges, loyalty tests, and competition for survival against other members.

The mafia is rational. And they don’t abide by society’s laws. There’s no forgiveness for traitors, and no mercy for the incompetent.

At the very least, society doesn’t put a bullet in your head for being incompetent and stupid, but the mafia does.

Yet they never get involved unless money and profit are at stake. That’s their law and rule.

This doesn’t mean they’re disorderly. They simply prioritize the internal logic of the organization over the logic of society as a whole. And they gradually work to bring society under the organization’s control.

Out of greed? That’s one way to look at it. Blinded by power? Not entirely wrong. After all, power is something you either have completely or not at all.

But at the most fundamental level, the motive is survival.

There are many theories and hypotheses about where and how the mafia originated.

But the content is similar.

Society as a whole oppressed, exploited, and insulted the ancestors of the mafia, and the outraged ancestors united and took up arms.

It’s true they resisted unjust violence. But there’s no reason they should be heroized. At least the Resistance, the guerrillas, tried to avoid causing trouble with civilians.

The mafia lacks even such a pretext. What they had was a very straightforward logic.

Someone slapped my cheek, so you should be prepared to be hit too.

Violence for violence. Resistance to oppression. They didn’t turn the other cheek. They shot the oppressors with guns and threw severed horse heads into their beds.

Because that was the simplest, most rational, and most intuitive form of resistance.

Barbaric, but therefore the most satisfying method. The oppressed joined the mafia. Why hesitate when joining meant you could strike back at anyone? We were hit first.

Even if it started as playful slapping, after a few rounds, it tends to get strong enough to turn heads.

The relationship between the mafia and Italy was like that. It’s no coincidence that after the Great War, the mafia followed new opportunities to America.

Simply because there was nothing to eat in Italy. That’s all.

So how was America? As many Italians came to America, the government and citizens hated them.

America is, of course, the land of opportunity. When that’s all you have, and even those opportunities become more competitive, life naturally gets tougher.

Whether they had citizenship and permanent residency or not, Italians faced insults and jealousy.

Just as they had from those who had more in their homeland.

The Italian mafia quickly established itself amid fervent support and backing that they had never received in their homeland.

They protected Italians, taught lessons, and collected protection fees.

Italians who weren’t protected by the U.S. government willingly paid these fees.

As they grew stronger, they began to emerge into the light.

They exerted influence in small local elections, established their own interest groups, and expanded their foothold by exploiting the weaknesses of those in power.

Why did Al Capone run a milk delivery business? Because he loved children?

No. While adults occasionally drink alcohol, everyone drinks milk, and everyone wants safe milk—that was the rational reason.

What was the problem when he had the power to put a bullet in any farmer who didn’t listen or falsified the composition?

Of course.

Of course, the White Hand Mafia is not Al Capone.

While they maintain close ties with the Black family, who have been administrators of Pollard Island for generations, this isn’t Chicago.

Massachusetts has its own ways, and Pollard Island has its own environment to adapt to.

The right hand and left hand system emerged from such considerations.

The “Father” was someone who deeply understood and could think about the cycle of violence. This doesn’t mean he was afraid to use violence.

Rather, he was more interested in the appropriate intensity of pain.

Just as a surgeon considers how much of a tumor to remove, so did he.

When there’s a special matter, the Father seeks advice from both hands.

The left hand only thinks about violence. They meticulously calculate how much violence is needed to subdue the opponent.

The right hand, on the other hand, considers all means except violence. Threats, persuasion, hostile takeovers, and even petty thefts.

The original temperaments of the two individuals don’t matter at all. They simply perform the roles of their positions.

After both report, the Father chooses the method that costs the least and has the greatest effect.

There’s one more special aspect to this system. Only those who have performed the role of the left hand for a long time and have proven their capability can become the right hand.

That’s why the right and left hands can’t be competitors, and why the right hand is treated as an elder in the organization.

Only those who have walked the pilgrimage of violence and finally returned to their place can become the right hand.

That’s also why the “right hand” directly intervened in Salvatore’s case.

The Father knows this case is different from the usual ones.

The left hand inherited more of the mother’s temperament than the Father’s, making her more hasty and violent, but sometimes the surprise attack of a silent dog is more intense than the claws of a fierce cat.

Even Joe Torio, with all his experience, couldn’t easily understand this situation.

“That’s why I sought you and Mr. John Crayfield. With John Crayfield, this person who is the left hand? Was? Had a bad relationship. Very. Very. Bad relationship. Still, this person needs teaching.”

And I couldn’t understand why Joe Torio was trying so hard to speak English. It seemed different from the reason that I didn’t know Italian. But he never revealed that reason.

* * * * *

1929. 4. 25. AM 11 : 04

Southern Harbor of Pollard City

Warehouse No. 22-4

The Lincoln smoothly parked in the warehouse’s parking lot. After a short wait, a motorcycle carrying Beatrix and Sister Abashina came to a stop. Despite having traveled quite a distance, neither of them looked tired.

“Thank you. Please wait here.”

Abashina gracefully dismounted from the back seat. The black cloth she used instead of an eye patch was tied around her left forearm.

“Shall we go in?”

“Will the Sister be entering as well?”

Torio hesitated. Abashina raised her chin.

“They would have cleaned everything up anyway.”

“Valid point.”

There wasn’t much conversation after that. The door to the warehouse in question was open. The interior was neatly organized, and there were no visible bloodstains.

“We’ll look around by ourselves. Thank you, Torio.”

Torio bowed his head slightly and left the warehouse. Abashina perched on a suitable wooden crate and swung her legs slightly.

“How did I know about this case? The rumors are already rampant in the back alleys. While the White Hand’s subordinates are tight-lipped, too many eyes had seen it to completely silence them. Not to mention Captain Zachariah’s crew.”

Zachariah. A name I hadn’t heard before. Abashina pointed to a large wooden box placed in the center of the warehouse.

“He’s the one who brought that coffin. Well, there’s not much to say about Zachariah himself. He’s the captain of a small cargo ship that travels between Kingsport and Pollard Island.

Sometimes he goes to New Bedford if he feels like it, but on the day in question, he only visited Kingsport.”

For someone who claimed to have little to say, she was quite specific. Zachariah, a caring father of two and a devoted husband, had gambling debts.

To pay them off, he got involved in the mafia’s secret transportation route. He would mix boxes containing alcohol or other secretive cargo with regular freight.

“But that day, the Federal Security Bureau came to Kingsport and opened the boxes to check the cargo list.

Panicked, Zachariah grabbed any box to match the count and set sail. Among them was that grotesque box.”

The story that followed was shocking. A wax doll. Antonio Salvatore. Even letters written in blood on the wall. After telling this much, Abashina shrugged.

“When I heard about the wax doll, I couldn’t just sit still. So I conducted an investigation among my customers and did some research on my own.

But I’m just a fragile nun, not a detective. Captain Zachariah has completely lost his mind.

He’s probably in a solitary room at Arkham Asylum now. The blood here has been completely cleaned up, so we can’t look into the memories.

There’s not much to see in this warehouse, really. I don’t know more than what I heard in the bar and what I told you.

And the biggest problem is…”

Abashina pointed to her silver-gray eyes.

“I can’t see colors properly, so even reading a book is difficult. I told you that the only things I see clearly are blood and beasts, right?

And then I thought of you. Besides the other nuns, you’re the only beast I can communicate with.

A beast wearing human clothes and capable of speech. And your eyes are better than mine.”

Another statement I couldn’t understand. I remained silent. Abashina brushed her fallen bangs behind her ear.

“By the way, are you really okay?”

I told her I was fine. But Abashina still looked worried.

“To my eyes, you look like a slice of cheese that’s been torn in half and melted back together.

Something. Split your soul and then put it back together. What on earth happened in Arkham?”

I gave her a mild account of what happened at Miskatonic University.

I didn’t mention the Doomsday Clock, Chekhov, or the “protagonist.”

I simply said that an evil ritual had taken place there and that Crayfield and I had stopped it.

Abashina seemed to notice the gaps in my story and wanted to interject several times, but she kept her mouth shut.

Then she pulled out a hip flask from her back pocket and took a big gulp. The sharp smell of vodka wafted through the air.

One sip wasn’t enough, so Abashina took three more. As she was about to take a fourth, I grabbed her arm.

“What? Are you worried about me?”

Abashina sighed heavily. The smell of vodka mixed with her breath. Her eyes were slightly moist.

Thinking I might have grabbed her arm too hard, I quickly apologized. Abashina blushed.

“I. Have something I want to do. It’s okay if you refuse after hearing it. Just think about it. We’re at least that close, right?”

I told her to go ahead. Abashina gave her left arm a big shake. A small awl sprang out from her left hand. She must have had a special device on her wrist.

I stepped back in surprise, but Abashina showed me her palm with the awl, indicating she had no ill intentions.

“I want to taste just one drop of your blood.”

She didn’t seem to be joking.

“I don’t mean to make you ‘like me.’ And I don’t usually put beast blood in my mouth. To be honest… it’s disgusting. It really upsets my stomach.

But still, your blood. Just a little prick with this awl. I want to taste even just one drop.”

I’m not a beast, so there’s no reason she would find my blood disgusting. Still, I couldn’t help but feel somewhat uncomfortable.

In a positive light, it meant she was being that honest with me.

So I asked her why. Abashina took a deep breath. Her chest heaved.

“I need to know. What exactly happened to you. What… terrible things you experienced.”

I refused. I still don’t know enough about her. It’s true she saved me. It’s true we fought together.

If it weren’t for each other, we wouldn’t have made it out of that underground tomb alive.

But that’s separate from whether I can completely expose my inner self to her.

Abashina lowered her eyes, seeming to understand.

“Okay. I… I understood that would be your answer. Still, thank you. For not running away.”

I asked her why I would run away.

Abashina stood up. She threw the awl to the floor. She walked across the warehouse floor lightly, as if stepping on stepping stones.

I felt embarrassed looking into her silver-gray eyes and turned my head away, but

“Since you didn’t run away, I’ll give you a reward.”

It became meaningless as Abashina embraced me. She’s shorter than me. It’s strange. The arms I feel through her clothes are so thin.

Is she holding onto me tightly as if she’s someone drifting away? There was such desperation in her touch.

“Don’t get hurt.”

I told her I wouldn’t. Abashina asked two, three times.

Somehow feeling that what she wanted wasn’t an answer, I placed my hand on her head. And slowly stroked it down.