With Money I Can Do It All 1 (Patreon)

[center]<<Vicenzo Agnelli>>[/center]

It was the pothole that woke me up. The jarring dip breaking the otherwise smooth ride. My eyes blinked open, and I reached up to rub the sleep out of them with a yawn. I braced for the muscle pulling in my shoulder from the toothbrush stab last year, only for nothing to happen. Pushing away the last traces of sleep, I looked down at my shoulder in confusion.

… I’m wearing a suit. I haven’t worn a suit in three years. The last con I needed a suit for was a year before my arrest. And I’m in a car, scratch that I’m in the back seat of a freaking limo. That’s when the memories started to trickle in. Memories of a life in a dying city, in a dying world.

I glanced around the back of the limo, the only other occupant, my old bodyguard, was reading a book as the driver took us to a will reading. My… father’s will reading. He’d died, two days ago, in a car accident. Investigation still ongoing, but from what I’d heard, it wasn’t a hit or anything like that, just him being in the wrong place and the wrong time. The sort of thing you read about in the paper, then brush off.

I’d been isekai’d. Into one of the shittiest settings out there. Without any sort of powers. Or cheats. Fuck!

Alright, let’s take stock of my resources. I’m eighteen again, I’m out of prison, I have no criminal record, and the sole relative of one of the wealthiest men in the city, who just died. What was it that rich piece of shit that locked me up said? ‘Laws are for the poor.’ I might have been tangentially connected to his son’s death, but I had nothing to do with it. Though his wife was fun in the sack before we got caught.

Okay, I’m off to a decent financial start, even with just my trust fund. A brief mental look at the memories I’d been provided told me that it should hold… more than I made in a year before lockup. Huh… what exactly did my now deceased new parent/caretaker do? There was no way a small chain of flower shops made that much.

Feeling the limo come to a stop, it seemed that I was about to get an answer, hopefully. The driver got out and opened the door so I could get out. So that’s what being this stupid rich felt like, weird, but something I could get used to.

“Mr. Agnelli, apologies if the drive was bumpy,” the driver said as my bodyguard exited, a glare on his face for leaving the vehicle first.

I waved the driver off, before straightening my suit and making my way into the office building. Time to get this will reading over with, and find out how much of what I got left for this new lease on life.

[hr][/hr]

“Mr. Vicenzo Agnelli?” the balding lawyer asked as I walked into his office.

“That’s me,” I said as I shook his hand.

“Good, I’m sure you’ll tire of hearing this if you haven’t already, but you have my condolences.”

I made a noncommittal noise while looking over the office. The walls were covered in pictures of the lawyer and what must have been his family. A woman that looked tiny next to him, and a gaggle of brats. The background was different in each one, though none looked like they were taken on particularly expensive vacations.

“Anyway, regarding the details of your father’s estate,” the lawyer drew my attention. The next few hours were spent boiling down the convoluted legalese into something I could understand. In the end, he’d left me everything, as any other relatives had died of old age, some strange illness, or a fatal accident over the last five to ten years.

I could read between the lines, even if the lawyer couldn’t. Apparently daddy dearest for my new life wasn’t the biggest on ‘family’. Either I was the exception, or he’d died before I could have a “mysterious accident.” Whichever, I was glad for it. He apparently had a letter with his will for me, so I took it to read later.

In the end, that was pretty much it. Shit load of money, some businesses (mostly flower shops from his Andean Sicily Chain, but also around a dozen restaurants), the house (fully paid off), an investment portfolio, half a dozen cars (of which I’d only known about the Lamborghini), and an office overlooking Lord’s Market. I hope this letter explained where the money was coming from, because for the life of me I could not figure out just how he’d paid for all this. Heading back to the limo, I all but tore open the letter as soon as the door closed.

Vic,

I’d initially tried to keep you separate from this life. But, in the end, I came to the realization that you were the only one I could trust as my heir. My uncle was too greedy, my brother too naive, my sister would sell us out to Kaiser, over and over, each other potential heir would doom the enterprise I’d spent my life building.

You already know that I came to America from Sicily when I was barely your age. That the surviving members of my family joined me when Leviathan ravaged the Mediterranean. What you don’t know is how I built my fortune from the rags on my back.

When I arrived in Brockton Bay, the bay was still clear, and the largest faction in the city was Marquis. The Empire was just rising up, and the Teeth, while strong, weren’t the threat they’d become in later years. I was a young man only capable of broken English in a city whose “Italian” population hadn’t left North America since World War II.

I managed to find a job in a flower shop, one that was owned by Marquis. It’s main purpose was to launder money, but I’d had an idea that earned me the attention of the higher ups. The fertilizer packets that are included with bouquets, the ones that everyone throws away. They are the reason our Andean Premium Bouquets are so expensive. The fertilizer packets aren’t carrying fertilizer, but one of a dozen different drugs.

That idea, hiding drugs with flower bouquets, gave me a leg up into a possible leadership position. I was opposed by a rival that was based on the Docks. Unfortunately, said rival managed to overdose on 700mg of heroin. Such a shame.

I paused reading for a moment. Wasn’t the OD amount for heroin something like 50-70mg? Man, talk about wanting someone dead.

After a few years, I met with Marquis with a request. I had several ideas for expanding the drug smuggling rings, but the oversight and constant need for approval from those above me was limiting how quickly I could take advantage of openings and opportunities. Several times I’d been forced to let an opportunity go because of short sighted fools above me. My request was simple: let me operate independently. I’d still send Marquis his cut, but I could do more as the head of an organization instead of just another manager.

Marquis granted my request, and within a year, my fortune grew five fold. It was at this time that Leviathan ravaged Italy. I of course provided passage for my kin, much to my later frustration. Because of them, I was forced to spend far too much yearly on bribes, bail, and payoffs to keep them out of trouble. Had I let them die in Europe, I imagine that by this point I’d own the entirety of Brockton Bay and a significant portion of Boston.

Regardless, I leave you everything. It isn’t as much as it could be, nor do I have any capes on my payroll, but if you’re half as cunning as I think you are, I have no doubt that by the time you’re twenty you’ll have the city in the palm of your hand.

Your father,

Anton Agnelli

Well, that letter certainly explained how a fancy flower chain paid for so much. Just in time too, the limo was pulling up to the house. Despite the limo, the house itself was a simple townhouse. The Lamborghini was kept in the garage, that and the occasional limo rentals (though why they’d been rented for a trip to the lawyer and back I had no idea) were the only extravagant displays of wealth.

Letting out a sigh, I tucked the letter into my pocket and made my way inside. I remember one of my father’s “friends” (underlings most likely) talking about getting me a permanent bodyguard, and from the car parked on the curb, I’d guess they’d arrived. Sure enough, upon entering, there was a guy a bit older than me waiting. Clad in a suit, with what I suspected was the bulge of a concealed holster, he looked like a classic bodyguard.

“Mr. Agnelli, my name’s Marcus. I’m your new bodyguard,” he said as we shook hands.

He had a firm grip, but not overpowering. His fingers were calloused and a glance let me see the telltale signs of thicker bones in his fingers and knuckles. He’d done a lot of material arts training.

“Good to meet you Marcus. I’ll endeavor not to make your job more difficult than it needs to be,” I told him. “Mind if I see how good you are?”

“Sir?” he asked, with a note of hesitance.

“There’s a gym in the basement, I want to see how good a fighter you are. If I get the sense you’re holding back in our spar, you’re fired.”