"Muffliato!"
I whispered just to be safe, even before reaching for the doorknob, and immediately after, I stepped resolutely into the office.
Right opposite me, sitting behind a massive desk, was an older gentleman in a perfectly tailored dark blue suit. As soon as the door gave a quiet creak, he calmly raised his head. But I didn't wait. With a lightning-fast flick of my hand, I shouted, "Petrificus Totalus!"
A bright white jet of light shot from my yew wand. But Jonathan reacted with almost superhuman reflexes—he managed to throw himself to the side, and the spell fizzled out harmlessly against the wall behind him with a soft hiss. In that same split second, he grabbed the heavy office desk with both hands, flipped it over in front of him, and turned it into a barricade with a deafening crash that shook the floorboards.
"Who are you? What do you want from me?" he asked in a surprisingly calm, cold voice, as if this kind of ambush were entirely routine for him.
I was about to answer, but then I heard the sharp sound of a drawer opening behind the desk. The bastard was just trying to buy time.
"Accio weapons!" I barked, jerking my wand backward.
Instantly, two identical-looking pistols and a hunting knife flew out from behind the overturned desk. They clattered to the floor right at my feet.
"What the fuck is this supposed to mean?" Jonathan cursed as he watched his firepower levitate through the air toward me.
"Come out, or I'll blast that desk straight into your face," I suggested pragmatically, kicking the weapons aside with my foot.
"If you want me alive, come closer, kid," he shot back, with the poise of a true Englishman.
I was a hundred percent sure he didn't have any more weapons up his sleeve. Besides, the barmaid could arrive with my apple pie any minute—I had to move.
"Accio desk!" I shouted, sending a short but intense pulse of magic from my wand.
The massive desk flew up into the air. It hovered a few inches off the ground, then dropped heavily, sliding across the wooden floor with a screeching scrape right up to my feet.
I immediately lunged forward. With a smug smirk, I vaulted over the desk in one fluid motion, landing right in front of Jonathan. He had nowhere left to hide.
"What are you, exactly?" Reeves asked, but instead of panicking, he immediately dropped into a textbook, solid boxing stance.
The dark blue suit hugged his broad shoulders and athletic build. It was clearly made of exceptionally high-quality stretch fabric, as it didn't look wrinkled or stretched at all after his dodge. The only visible sign of nervousness was a thin trickle of sweat slowly running down his temple.
He stared directly into my eyes, chin tucked in, elbows tight against his body. He didn't look like he had any intention of surrendering.
"Old man, how about you just give up?" I suggested appreciatively, taking two casual steps toward him. My yew wand was pointed dead at the center of his chest.
Jonathan only let out a contemptuous snort. "How about you put away that toy of yours instead and face me like a man?"
"Hmm, hmm," I rubbed my chin theatrically.
I could feel my Black blood starting to boil in my veins. For a moment, cold stoicism gave way to pure adrenaline.
"I haven't had this much fun in a long time," I mused aloud with a predatory smirk, nodding appreciatively.
Jonathan was shorter than me, likely at a weight disadvantage too, and besides—if push came to shove—I could cast a spell at any moment.
"Colloportus!" I aimed my wand behind me. The office door locked with a click.
With a thought, I slid my wand back into its holster and adopted a relaxed yet firm fighting stance.
"That's more like it," the old man smirked, nodding and stepping confidently toward me.
As soon as he got close enough, I closed the distance in a flash and threw a testing lead jab. Jonathan absorbed it beautifully with a tight double guard. He immediately countered with a textbook combination: jab, cross, hook.
I didn't even need to raise my hands to block. His technique was great, but he lacked speed. I simply slipped his first jab with an effortless shoulder roll, parried his cross downward, and before his hook could connect, I launched a vicious uppercut right to his chin.
"Argh!" Jonathan's teeth gritted together.
A thin trickle of blood immediately leaked from the corner of his tightly pressed lips. He staggered and began to retreat.
"Keep your tongue behind your teeth, Jonathan. Didn't they teach you that?" I smirked, pressing him back.
I neutralized every punch, combination, or desperate counter-attempt with ease—whether by clean dodging, parrying his hands, or occasionally catching them on my guard. Honestly, I'd expected a bit more from him. After a few short exchanges, he was already starting to pant, failing to breathe out properly on his punches, and his shoulders were visibly dropping.
I was starting to get bored.
Lunging forward, I easily parried his tired jab aside and threw my own. In a panic, he raised his hands to protect his head—a fatal mistake. With my rear hand, I instantly landed a brutal blow straight to his solar plexus. The air rushed out of his lungs with a loud gasp, and his hands dropped instantly to protect his body out of instinct.
That was exactly what I was waiting for.
Pivoting on the ball of my foot, I turned my hips and hooked a left hand onto his unguarded chin. The impact rattled his entire frame, sending him stumbling to the right as he doubled over in pain. Immediately after, I spun smoothly on my feet again and finished the combination with a fierce right high kick.
"Tssss," I hissed through my teeth as Jonathan collapsed limply to the floor. The high kick had knocked him out cold.
He clearly had some training, but his punches and combinations were mechanical and repetitive. He even blatantly telegraphed some of them with his entire body before throwing them. I was a bit disappointed by the old boxer.
"Fuck, I just beat up an almost-grandpa," I muttered under my breath, shrugged, and immediately summoned my wand back into my hand.
While Jonathan lay unconscious on the floor, sweaty and with a bloody mouth, I set to work on the mending spells without delay. After all, the office needed to be put back together before the pie arrived. It took me less than two minutes to restore the room to its original, flawless state using Reparo.
"Enervate!" I waved my wand over the limp Jonathan.
The local boss groaned quietly, propped himself up, and began looking around the perfectly tidy office with deep confusion in his eyes.
"What the... fuck are you?" he growled at me hoarsely.
"You really bit your tongue," I smirked down at him, crossing my arms over my chest. "On paper, your technique is textbook for a Muggle. You've probably spent a lot of time on the heavy bag, but not enough sparring. After taking the first clean hit, you immediately panicked; you need to change that. Your eyes and body movement also give you away completely every time you try to attack... And don't forget to breathe. You have to exhale when you punch. You can't fuck up like that, otherwise you run out of oxygen instantly, and in no time, you won't even be able to keep your hands up," I tutted in disapproval. "You should definitely work on that."
"What the fuck do you want from me?!" he growled again, completely ignoring my well-intentioned fight analysis.
Well, it was just an old habit from the gym—debriefing a sparring session with your opponent afterward... But so be it.
"Imperio!"
A bright yellow jet of light shot from my wand, hitting him square in the chest. In that very second, I felt his consciousness.
Jonathan's mind resisted desperately, fighting with the instincts of an old brawler. With immense interest, I felt the pressure and exerted just enough magical influence to keep it an even match. It felt like arm-wrestling a two-year-old child who stubbornly refuses to give up but doesn't stand a chance.
"Jonathan, you've got guts, I'll give you that," I hummed appreciatively. But immediately after, I mercilessly crushed all of his inner resistance.
Jonathan's aggressive glare instantly softened into calmness. Completely ignoring his battered and aching body, he stood up and began to diligently dust off his sleeves and adjust his clothes to look presentable again.
With a wordless wave of my wand, I undid the locked door and the Muffliato spell, then made myself comfortable in the visitor's chair. Without a single word, Reeves obediently walked out of the office; I had sent him to the restroom to wash the blood off his face.
Not even thirty seconds had passed when the doorknob turned again and the door opened. But instead of Jonathan, a blonde barmaid walked in carrying a tray.
"I knocked, sweetheart, but there was no answer. Then I saw your father heading into the restroom, so I tried again," she said sweetly, placing the plate in front of me with a smile. "I brought you a cold Coca-Cola to go with the apple pie. If Mr. Reeves would like anything, just let me know."
"Thank you," I gave her my most charming smile and immediately reached for my fork. "You are very kind."
"Enjoy your meal!" she called out from the doorway before heading back out to the floor.
After a short while, Jonathan returned from the restroom. There was no trace of blood left on his face. At my mental command, he obediently sat on the chair opposite me and began to speak calmly.
"On average, I net about forty to sixty thousand pounds a month, depending on how business is going. That is, of course, after deducting all expenses and losses. Some product always goes missing, occasionally someone steals, and then there are the issues with debt collection, police bribes, and so on. Outside of the drug business, I own this cafe, a few warehouses, and I'm paying off some mortgages and leases. I also pay for my own lawyers and an accountant to keep everything on the up and up on paper."
I sent another mental command, and Jonathan continued with absolute composure.
"I have about three hundred thousand pounds in cash scattered across various safe houses. Right here in the safe, I keep around fifty thousand. I can gather the entire cash sum within three days. If I were to completely liquidate my investment portfolio and sell off my real estate, I could reach approximately six million pounds. However, I would need to discuss the exact figures with my financial advisor."
Once again, I sent another mental command, and Jonathan went on.
"I only control Brixton and some of the surrounding area. The London mafia is more of a mosaic—every boss runs their own neighborhood, and there are currently about twenty-five others like me. Above us stands only the syndicate, which entirely oversees and manages the imports."
"And what about the syndicate? How easy is it to get to them?" I asked with curious interest.
"We, the smaller bosses, operate more anonymously, disguised as modest local business owners. They are surrounded by professional security and serious security measures. Reaching them would not be nearly as easy as reaching me."
"Hmm, hmm," I nodded in agreement, finishing the last bite of my pie. "You've already surprised me quite pleasantly, Jonathan. I'll leave the syndicate for later. Keep the drug operations in Brixton running exactly as they are. From now on, though, you will set aside the money for me—straight after paying all operational costs. You can keep ten percent of the net profit for your own expenses. Liquidate your investment portfolio immediately and start getting rid of all unnecessary real estate as quickly as possible," I commanded coldly.
Jonathan nodded quite calmly. For a brief moment, his consciousness rebelled wildly again under the weight of an alien will, but I crushed it again without mercy.
"I'll be back for the cash in a few days, so have everything ready that you can," I added, slowly standing up to leave.
Jonathan remained under my active Imperio. This would be an excellent test, I thought with satisfaction. Maintaining the Imperius Curse over this kind of distance and for a long period... At least I'd find out in practice where the limits lie.
Under the influence of the mental command, the local boss willingly escorted me out of the cafe. As we stopped on the street, a spontaneous idea popped into my head.
"You know what, Jonathan? You might as well just drive me."
Jonathan nodded instantly and pulled a set of keys with the logo of a German car manufacturer from his suit pocket. "Where to?"
"Grimmauld Place," I replied, and with a smile, followed him to a luxurious-looking, dark-blue BMW that sparkled with cleanliness, parked right in front of the cafe.
"Nice car," I complimented him as I settled comfortably into the grey leather passenger seat.
"Thank you. I have it on lease, it's a 750iL," he boasted with a proud smile. "Listen to that sound."
He turned the key in the ignition. The massive engine fired up instantly, and a muffled, perfectly smooth V12 purr filled the cabin. The entire car hummed seamlessly.
"Three hundred horsepower," he hummed appreciatively, and we merged into the London traffic. Jonathan was visibly enjoying the drive, even though he drove strictly by the book under the influence of my command. It was fascinating to see that he was still completely himself—his gestures, his speech, his driving style—just with that artificially grafted absolute loyalty and literal execution of my commands.
The journey to Grimmauld Place took us about twenty-five minutes. Being a passenger in a Muggle car was rather boring, so I passed the time by extracting details of Jonathan's past from him.
He was actually just an ordinary, aging workaholic with no family or commitments. He had started out years ago with a legitimate logistics company but ran into serious financial trouble. That was when the offer came from the drug syndicate to use his warehouse space. Since the foundation of his logistical infrastructure was already built, the illegal business took off with unbelievable ease.
The drug money pulled him out of the gutter. And although he had originally planned it as just a temporary lifeline, you simply don't just walk away from this kind of world, so he took up boxing and gun training. Over time, he bought this cafe to go with the warehouses and began investing heavily to appear on the surface as an esteemed, legitimate businessman. As a cover, it served him perfectly. Since he lived only for his work, his only personal vice was occasionally booking young, high-end escort girls.
"Quite a sad life, Jonathan," I remarked half-aloud as the car came to a smooth stop on Grimmauld Place and I opened the heavy door. "But at least I won't have any unnecessary pangs of conscience if something should happen to you," I shrugged carelessly.
"Get to work on that money. You can go!" I patted the polished hood of the Beemer and turned toward the row of terraced houses.
As I stepped toward number twelve, I felt it instantly. The ancient magic of the House of Black was like a drooling, dangerous dog on a chain that had sensed its master's presence, watching me wildly from behind the bars of its cage. It couldn't wait for me.
I knocked politely but firmly three times on the massive door. But I didn't wait—I immediately grabbed the cold silver handle shaped like a coiled serpent and stepped without any hesitation straight into the dimness of the long, narrow hallway.
The moment the heavy door shut behind me with a soft click, the air around me thickened, and the ancient, heavy magic of the house wrapped itself around my shoulders with an affectionate familiarity.
***
Author's note:
Our MC has secured some starting capital to get his business off the ground. Pretty chill chapter.
***
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Upcoming Chapters – Already Written(16):
81. The Black Inheritance
82. The Frequency of Intent
83. Of Blood and Thorns
84. Thorns, Wards, and Sly Foxes
85. As Peaceful and Civilized as Always
86. The Twin in the Shadows
87. Their Addiction, Our Profit
88. Fake Smiles and Sharp Instincts
89. The Path to Invincibility
90. AD: Piña Coladas and Rainbow Thongs
91. Blood Traitors
92. Before the Storm
93. Arania Exumai
94. Favors and Frustrations
95. Power and Glory
96. Morning Drills and Slytherin Deals
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