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Coruscant, 147 ABY
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The Corellian whiskey didn't burn in his throat anymore. Calamari Seafood hadn't changed in three years, neither had the spice business in the back. Some time ago the Crymorah Syndicate figured owning the three-hundred levels below them wasn't enough, so they made moves on level 1313, too. Beto's place was too small a fish to catch their notice, though, and that was definitely a good thing. Something had happened to the mighty Zaa Fenn Crime Family and overnight it went from one of the dominant crime families on an intergalactic stage, to not even being around enough on a single planet to exert any of its former influence. That's what he always said, wasn't it? Become a fat fish, but never grow so big to get the fisherman's attention. Before you know it you're out of the pond completely.
And some smuck's dinner.
The ledgers on his datapad were all a light shade of green. Business was still good. Well, it was okay. Expansion hadn't really worked out. Neither Beto nor his brother's heart was really in it. Their cousin, Frantz, was perfectly content being a lawyer for the Coruscant downtrodden. He had ill-luck getting the attention of the politicians on the upper levels, though. He was always down here filing complaints with the local CSF chief because the slums got raided once every month on average. Those raids were soon to be something of the past. With most of the CSF officers being drafted into the Coruscant and Republic militaries and all. Life would get easier for Beto's ilk, too. Less CSF, less underworld police, meant gangsters like them could walk around that more freely.
A message from K popped up on his screen. She wrote a simple "That Cathar ain't a problem no more," but it made Beto breathe a heavy sigh of relief. Some spiced-up Cathar -not Calamari produced spice- had gone full psychosis and scratched several girls of a nearby Dance Studio that Beto had a good relationship with. One of them wasn't going to survive her wounds, most likely. She had a kid, too. Young Zeltron boy, Adrian, barely six years old and soon to be an orphan. It wasn't good to be a bleeding heart in this world, but Beto couldn't help but try and drown the little boy's sorrows for him anyway.
Maybe that's why the whiskey stopped burning. Too many kriffing sorrows in this life.
The bartender placed a small cup of extra strong caf near him on the bar. Beto hadn't touched the now lukewarm bowl of Seafood noodles in front of him, but his bartender knew what time it way. "Wouldn't want to be late, Beto-" she said in a strange apologetic tone. The mobster sighed, took the cup in his left hand and poured its contents down his throat. Cafeïne would cancel out some of the whiskey. At least, that was the idea, anyway. "It ain't even my kid," he shook his head as he stepped off the stool and pocketed his datapad. "Then why did you say you'd take him in?" she asked, knowing the reason just as much as he did. Loneliness, probably. Make up for his regrets, most likely. Because he was a bleeding heart who couldn't imagine a young Zeltron thrown out on the streets of this despicable cesspit of a level? Most definitely. As he also took a takeaway package of two seafood noodle dinners in his hand, he still didn't seem able to talk about it, though. "I don't know," was the answer that didn't quite sync up with the meaningful look they both shared. "Need little hands to clean those cups," he smiled softly as he placed the small cup back on the bar, "Besides, it's only temporary. Until his mother recovers." They both knew she wouldn't. He had signed up to become the legal guardian of a little Zeltron kid, soon to be orphan, and ordered his enforcer to murder the mother's killer.
Coruscant, 147 ABY
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The Corellian whiskey didn't burn in his throat anymore. Calamari Seafood hadn't changed in three years, neither had the spice business in the back. Some time ago the Crymorah Syndicate figured owning the three-hundred levels below them wasn't enough, so they made moves on level 1313, too. Beto's place was too small a fish to catch their notice, though, and that was definitely a good thing. Something had happened to the mighty Zaa Fenn Crime Family and overnight it went from one of the dominant crime families on an intergalactic stage, to not even being around enough on a single planet to exert any of its former influence. That's what he always said, wasn't it? Become a fat fish, but never grow so big to get the fisherman's attention. Before you know it you're out of the pond completely.
And some smuck's dinner.
The ledgers on his datapad were all a light shade of green. Business was still good. Well, it was okay. Expansion hadn't really worked out. Neither Beto nor his brother's heart was really in it. Their cousin, Frantz, was perfectly content being a lawyer for the Coruscant downtrodden. He had ill-luck getting the attention of the politicians on the upper levels, though. He was always down here filing complaints with the local CSF chief because the slums got raided once every month on average. Those raids were soon to be something of the past. With most of the CSF officers being drafted into the Coruscant and Republic militaries and all. Life would get easier for Beto's ilk, too. Less CSF, less underworld police, meant gangsters like them could walk around that more freely.
A message from K popped up on his screen. She wrote a simple "That Cathar ain't a problem no more," but it made Beto breathe a heavy sigh of relief. Some spiced-up Cathar -not Calamari produced spice- had gone full psychosis and scratched several girls of a nearby Dance Studio that Beto had a good relationship with. One of them wasn't going to survive her wounds, most likely. She had a kid, too. Young Zeltron boy, Adrian, barely six years old and soon to be an orphan. It wasn't good to be a bleeding heart in this world, but Beto couldn't help but try and drown the little boy's sorrows for him anyway.
Maybe that's why the whiskey stopped burning. Too many kriffing sorrows in this life.
The bartender placed a small cup of extra strong caf near him on the bar. Beto hadn't touched the now lukewarm bowl of Seafood noodles in front of him, but his bartender knew what time it way. "Wouldn't want to be late, Beto-" she said in a strange apologetic tone. The mobster sighed, took the cup in his left hand and poured its contents down his throat. Cafeïne would cancel out some of the whiskey. At least, that was the idea, anyway. "It ain't even my kid," he shook his head as he stepped off the stool and pocketed his datapad. "Then why did you say you'd take him in?" she asked, knowing the reason just as much as he did. Loneliness, probably. Make up for his regrets, most likely. Because he was a bleeding heart who couldn't imagine a young Zeltron thrown out on the streets of this despicable cesspit of a level? Most definitely. As he also took a takeaway package of two seafood noodle dinners in his hand, he still didn't seem able to talk about it, though. "I don't know," was the answer that didn't quite sync up with the meaningful look they both shared. "Need little hands to clean those cups," he smiled softly as he placed the small cup back on the bar, "Besides, it's only temporary. Until his mother recovers." They both knew she wouldn't. He had signed up to become the legal guardian of a little Zeltron kid, soon to be orphan, and ordered his enforcer to murder the mother's killer.