Epilogue

Brutus was a fat bastard. He knew it. He embraced it. He liked food, expensive cars and women. More importantly, he liked having it all to himself.

In fact, it could be said that Brutus was the most gluttonous man on Earth. And that was just the way he wanted it. Wealth, indulgence, pleasure, all of it. He wasn't just rich. He was a billionaire, damn it. Yet that wasn’t enough.

No one could have more money than him. No one could throw better parties. No one could live like Brutus.

He was a greedy, gluttonous bastard, and he wore it like a badge of honor, for he came from a long line of greedy, gluttonous bastards. Brutus had traveled the world. Owned property on every continent. Dined in the finest places, slept with royalty and rebels alike. No place felt like home quite like Greece. This was his kingdom. He was born here on the water, on a massive yacht. Here, he had his legacy. 14 children by 14 different women.

So it came as a surprise when, during a simple stroll to his usual bodega in downtown Athens, something managed to rattle him. He wasn’t expecting it. But there it was in bold black ink on cheap paper, punching his ego in the liver.

Standing there on the sidewalk, reading a headline, he felt like the smallest, most pathetic, most invisible man in the world.

All because of a single newspaper article.

His towering bodyguard, George, stood behind him like a silent monolith. Brutus, at only five-foot-three, didn’t appreciate being overshadowed, literally or metaphorically, so George always stood one step behind, carefully extending a black umbrella over his boss, shielding him from the sun he otherwise adored.

George didn’t care for the sun. He cared for Brutus. Because Brutus wasn’t just any billionaire. He was the kind of man who murdered employees for underperforming. Who burned down the homes of traitors, murdered their families, friends and even the stores they frequented. He even erased people from photos like it was a hobby.

George didn’t want to be erased. So he was very, very good at his job. However, he felt nervous when he saw how instantly infuriated he was. Brutus snarled at the front page of the newspaper, his lips curling into a sneer. He stomped up to the stand, shoving pedestrians aside with the air of royalty.

“You the one who owns this piece of shit?” he snapped at the newspaper vendor.

The man blinked, looked up at George, then down at Brutus and was caught off guard by the odd size dynamic.

“Excuse me?” the vendor asked.

“This,” Brutus growled, ripping a copy of the paper off the rack and waving it around as if shaking it would make the words fall off.

The headline read:

“World’s Greatest Threat Finally Silenced.” Beneath it was an image: the shattered pieces of the destroyed satellite falling from the sky like cosmic ash.

“This is the biggest threat?” Brutus barked. “Don’t make me laugh.”

He crumpled the paper in his hands. “Don’t they know who I am?!”

The vendor shrugged. “I’m sorry, sir. I just sell the newspapers. I don’t write them.”

Brutus then paused. He looked up at him with beady eyes and leaned in, eyes flashing with contempt. “But it’s your stand, isn’t it? You’re okay letting people print lies on your property? You’re fine with spreading fake news?!”

The vendor could see Brutus turning red. He was steaming from his ears.

“I–I don’t like it either,” the man stammered. “But I’m just trying to make a living, you know?”

Brutus exhaled through his nostrils like a bull. He suddenly remembered what his doctor had said about his blood pressure. He needed to stay calm. No more public outbursts. Or at least fewer of them.

“You’re right,” said Brutus. “I guess you are an insignificant man.” He took a deep breath, then turned toward George.

“George…” Brutus said with forced calm.

“Yes, sir?” George replied.

“Who runs this newspaper?”

George looked over the paper once, then twice. “Excuse me, sir. May I see the article?” he asked.

“Fine! But make it quick!” Brutus snarled, reluctantly handing it over. George unfolded it, his brow furrowing as he scanned the page.

“This one belongs to Luigi,” he said.

“Luigi?” Brutus raised an eyebrow. “What makes you think that?”

“Well,” George replied, “the formatting, the tone, the way the headline spins it like it was some freak accident… It screams Luigi’s handiwork.”

Brutus cracked his knuckles. “Then I guess it’s time we paid Luigi a visit.”

“Right away, sir,” George said.

Brutus turned sharply and stomped off, newspaper in hand. Behind him, the vendor hesitantly called out, “Hey! You have to pay for that!”

Brutus froze mid-step. Slowly, ominously, he turned around and stormed back to the stand. The vendor immediately shrank into his seat, the intensity of Brutus’s stare draining the color from his face. Though Brutus was small, the vendor somehow felt like Brutus was now the one towering over him. He grabbed the man by his collar and pulled him in, face to face.

Brutus attempted to speak calmly, though his reddened face betrayed his rising fury. “Are you trying to say I’m poor?”

“N-no, sir,” the vendor stammered.

“Are you saying I can’t afford this newspaper?”

“No, I just—”

“Just what? Just saying I can’t afford this rickety little excuse for a stand?”

The vendor’s face drained further pale. “I’m just trying to run a business…”

Brutus paused, took a deep breath. He’d been warned about his stress levels. He quickly released the vendor’s shirt. “Sorry,” Brutus muttered, exhaling. “It’s not really your fault.”

Then he turned to George. “How much do you think this stand is worth?”

George stepped back, sized up the stall with a trained eye.

“Maybe ten thousand euros. Honestly, sir, it’s a pretty shitty newspaper stand.”

“Good,” Brutus said. Brutus quickly pulled out a long chain of six wallets. He quickly studied until he found one with an “E” on it. He then pulled out 10,000 euros and stuffed them into the vendor's pocket. He backed far away and then he pointed to the vendor. “You. Stand over here.”

“What?” the vendor asked, confused and in shock.

“Over here,” Brutus repeated firmly, pointing next to himself. “I won’t ask again.”

The man hesitated, then stepped beside Brutus.

Brutus nodded at George. “Okay. Get started.”

Without hesitation, George pulled a submachine gun from inside his coat and opened fire on the newspaper stand. The vendor screamed and hit the floor. Bullets shredded paper, candy, wood, and glass. Candy spilled on the road. Soda leaked from the wreckage like blood. All the while, Brutus laughed with a crooked smile. His laugh sounded like a pig's squeal. The stand was reduced to splinters within seconds.

Brutus laughed maniacally… but the joy faded as fast as it came.

“Hmm,” Brutus said, frowning. “Still pissed.”

“What would you like to do, sir?” George asked.

“That’s a good question,” Brutus muttered. He put away his wallets and rubbed his chin. What to do, what to do…

“My stand…” the vendor quivered from the ground, “it’s gone…” He crawled forward, groveling at Brutus’s feet. “Please… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. Spare me.”

Brutus snapped his fingers. “Ah! That’s what I was missing.”

He pulled out a pistol and shot the man in the head. Just. Like. That. His brains splattered on the pavement. Blood pooled out into the grooves.

“Now I feel satisfied,” Brutus said with a grin.

“You do love your blood, sir,” George said.

“I do,” Brutus replied. “Now… about Luigi.”

“What would you like me to do?”

“First, let’s see if any of these other stands are printing lies,” Brutus said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then we will find out where that salamander Luigi is hiding these days.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And second, we need to call our old friend. The coldest heart outside of my own…”

George gulped. “You mean Chillers?”

“Yes,” Brutus confirmed.

“Or should I say… Doctor Chillers?”

“Dr. Chillers?”

“Ah, yes, sir,” George nodded. “He recently earned his doctorate. Thought you should know.”

Brutus raised an eyebrow. “Really? Well then… I’ll call him Dr. Chillers. Out of respect.”

He had a soft spot for Chillers. The man was one of the few who had never asked for a thing in return. A minimalist. A thunderstorm in human form, who created chaos and handed Brutus the spoils without asking for a cut.

“I miss Chillers,” Brutus muttered. “He caused chaos. Burned the world. And gave me everything.”

“Yes, sir,” George agreed. “I remember when you tried to give him ten dollars once. He questioned whether you were really Brutus and called an ambulance to have your mental health checked. Afterwards, he suggested you separate your money into different wallets.”

Brutus chuckled. “Yes. That’s him.”

He paused, his expression growing serious. “And now that he’s got his doctorate… I wonder what else he’s finished.”

George grew nervous. “You know that satellite? It belonged to the Neros. There’s a rumor going around. Some family scuffle, and one of the Nero kids got murdered. One of Michael’s. Could it be that the Neros are weak now?”

“You idiot,” Brutus snapped. “I’m ten steps ahead, like always. That’s exactly what Chillers is for. Chillers is one of the greatest weapons engineers in the world! In fact, Chillers used to work for the Neros in their experimental labs. I’d bet money he’s got something stronger than that toy satellite. And if that’s true, I need to have it!”

George’s jaw dropped. “Stronger than that laser?”

Brutus squealed. “Oh yes. Chillers always had a thing for controlling the weather. If he’s heard about this mess, he’s gone ballistic. Just like me. Men like me and Chillers don’t like to be outdone.”

“I should go find Dr. Chillers,” said George.

Brutus waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t bother,” he said. “Chillers will come to us once I put out the right motivation.”

He turned his gaze toward the horizon. “And if,” Brutus added, “if it's true this was caused by some kind of internal struggle... then that means the Neros are due for a change in management.”

George nodded. “That opens the gates for the rest of us.”

“I remember watching Peter destroy Tokyo,” Brutus said. “Then he went silent. I heard Jade threatened another underworld organization, and then she went silent.”

“That just leaves one,” said George. “The youngest.”

Brutus scratched his head. He hadn’t thought about the third one in a long time.

“Oh yeah,” Brutus said. “I forgot there was another one. I think his name was... John, or something? But he’s long dead. Died six years ago.”

George swallowed hard and adjusted his collar nervously.

Brutus squinted at him. “Is there something wrong?”

“Well…” George hesitated. “It’s just a rumor. I can’t confirm if it’s true, and I know how you hate false information…”

“But?” Brutus pressed, voice growing dark.

“But there’s a rumor going around,” George said slowly. “That it was John who took down his siblings. That he’s... back from the dead.”

Brutus looked down at the man he'd just executed. The newspaper vendor, now lying in a pool of blood, lifeless. A man who would never see his family again.

Brutus pressed his foot down on the corpse’s head.

“A ghost, huh?” he said with amusement. “A killer ghost.” He chuckled, dark and low. “How interesting.”

Then his expression twisted into a cruel smile with a wrinkled nose. “I wonder how many men can come back from the dead...”

He stepped back, cracking his neck.

“…and if a man can come back from the dead,” Brutus continued, “I wonder how a ghost like him will fare against a man who has no soul... One who lost it many years ago. No one can resist the cold for long.”

Next Time: Cold Under The Collar