"I don't care if the font looks ugly!" Robert bellowed, his spit flying onto his mahogany desk—which, ironically, cost more than the quarterly bonus of everyone in this room combined. "Change everything to size 10! Garamond! It uses less ink than Arial! Do I have to teach you idiots everything?"
I sat in my cubicle, staring at a spreadsheet that detailed the company's Q3 projections. My name is Solomon Gats. I am a Senior Financial Analyst, though my paycheck suggests I am a janitor with a calculator.
In the last six months, I had saved this firm 2.4 million dollars by restructuring their offshore tax liabilities. My reward? A twenty-five dollar gift card to Applebee’s and a pat on the back from a man who thought ‘Cloud Computing’ had something to do with the weather.
"Gats!" Robert shouted, slamming the phone down. "Why are you staring at the screen like a dead fish? Where is my report on the janitorial staff cuts?"
I slowly adjusted my glasses. I looked at the Excel sheet. Then I looked at Robert.
For years, I had believed that if I followed the rules, optimized the variables, and maximized the ROI (Return on Investment), I would rise to the top. I was wrong. The corporate world wasn't about efficiency. It was about nepotism, ass-kissing, and incompetence masked by expensive suits.
"I didn't write it, Robert," I said calmly, standing up.
The office went silent. Heads peeked over cubicle walls.
"Excuse me?" Robert’s face turned a shade of purple usually reserved for bruised plums."
"I didn't write it because cutting the janitorial staff saves you $40,000 a year, but the resulting decline in hygiene will increase sick leave by 15%, costing the company $120,000 in lost productivity," I explained, picking up my briefcase. "It’s a net loss. But you wouldn't understand that, because you don't look at the data. You only look at the immediate quarterly expense."
"Are you lecturing me?" Robert stood up, trembling with rage. "You’re fired! Get out! You’ll never work in this town again!"
I walked to his desk and placed a single sheet of paper on it. It wasn't my resignation letter. It was a printout of his embezzlement scheme regarding the 'Consulting Fees' for his mistress.
"I wouldn't worry about me, Robert," I smiled—a cold, calculated smile. "According to my projections, the IRS will be auditing this department in approximately three weeks. I’d start looking for a good lawyer. Their fees usually start at $500 an hour."
I walked out of the glass doors, leaving a stunned silence behind me. The elevator ride down felt like a rebirth.
I realized something important today. Wall Street and the Mafia were exactly the same. They both bullied the weak, stole from the poor, and worshipped the dollar.
The only difference? The Mafia was honest about it.
Two hours later, I was breathing in the scent of stale beer, urine, and cheap cigarettes.
"The Lucky Shot" was a dive bar in the Bronx that looked like it hadn't been cleaned since the Nixon administration. It was the headquarters of Tommy "The Gut" Moretti.
Tommy was a low-level mob boss who ran numbers, protection rackets, and a few illegal poker games. He was currently sitting at a corner booth, struggling to count a stack of crumpled bills while eating a meatball sub. Grease dripped onto the cash.
"Who the hell are you, suit?" Tommy grunted as I approached his table. Two skinny thugs behind him reached for their waistbands, trying to look menacing. They failed. They looked like recovering addicts who hadn't slept in a week.
"My name is Solomon Gats," I said, placing my briefcase on the sticky table. "And I'm here to prevent your insolvency."
Tommy chewed slowly. "Bankrupt? Kid, I’m a crime lord. I got cash coming out of my ears."
"No, you have revenue," I corrected, opening my briefcase and pulling out a notepad. "There is a difference between revenue and profit. I’ve been watching your operation for three days. Your margins are terrible."
I pointed a pen at the skinny thug on the left. "That guy. He collects from the Laundromat on 4th Street, right?"
The thug blinked. "Uh... yeah?"
"He handed you $500 today," I said to Tommy. "But the Laundromat does $3,000 in cash business a week. The standard protection rate is 20%. That should be $600. Plus, he stopped for a pack of cigarettes and a lottery ticket on the way here using your money. I saw him."
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Tommy froze. He slowly turned his head toward the thug. "Ricky? Is that true?"
"Boss, no! This four-eyed freak is lying!" Ricky stammered, sweat beading on his forehead.
"And him," I pointed to the thug on the right. "He sells your 'vitamins' to the high school kids. He’s been cutting the product with baking soda so heavily that your customers are going to the competition. Customer retention is down 40% this month. You’re losing market share to the Albanians because your quality control is non-existent."
Silence descended upon the booth. Even the flies seemed to stop buzzing.
Tommy looked at me, then at his ledger (which was just a greasy napkin), then back at his men. The realization dawned on him. He wasn't a kingpin. He was a manager of a failing retail store being robbed by his own employees.
"Get out," Tommy whispered to his men. His voice was low and dangerous.
"Boss?"
"GET OUT BEFORE I BREAK YOUR LEGS!" Tommy roared, throwing the meatball sub at Ricky’s head.
The two thugs scrambled out the back door like rats fleeing a sinking ship. Tommy panted heavily, wiping tomato sauce off his shirt. He looked at me with new eyes—not as an intruder, but as a lifeline.
"You... you’re good with numbers?" Tommy asked, suspicious but desperate.
"I’m a Financial Analyst, Tommy," I adjusted my glasses. "I fix broken businesses. And yours is broken. You have cash flow issues, overhead bloat, and severe personnel problems."
"What do you want?"
"20% of the net profit increase," I stated calmly. "And full autonomy over Human Resources. I do the hiring. I do the firing. You provide the muscle when I ask for it."
Tommy hesitated. He looked at the empty table where his "loyal" men used to stand. He realized he was alone.
"15%," Tommy grunted.
"Deal," I shook his hand. It was clammy. "Now, let’s conduct some interviews. We need new assets. Better assets."
The first candidate walked in ten minutes later. Or rather, he ducked to fit through the doorway.
He was a mountain of a man. At least 6'5" (1m95). Shoulders broad enough to block out the sun. He wore a dark hoodie pulled low over his face, trying to look grim and mysterious.
"Name?" I asked, not looking up from my fresh notepad.
"Daniel," the voice was deep, trying too hard to sound gravelly. "But on the streets... they call me 'The Bulldozer'."
Tommy looked impressed. "Big guy. I like him. Can you break a leg, Bulldozer?"
"I... I can break anything," Daniel growled. "I thrive on violence."
I stopped writing. I took off my glasses and polished them with a microfiber cloth.
"Daniel," I said softly. "Let’s cut the crap, shall we?"
"Huh?" The giant blinked.
"Your hoodie," I gestured with my glasses. "That’s a Balenciaga distressed cotton blend. Retail price: $1,250. Your sneakers are limited edition Air Jordans, resale value roughly $900. And that watch you’re trying to hide under your sleeve? That’s a Hublot Big Bang. $18,000, give or take."
Daniel stiffened. His tough-guy persona began to crack like cheap plaster.
"I... I stole them," he lied weakly.
"No, you didn't," I sighed, opening the calculator app on my phone. "Because if you stole them, you would have pawned them for cash. You’re wearing them because they match. You have color-coordinated your outfit for a job interview with the mafia."
I leaned forward, staring into his panicked eyes.
"You’re not a gangster, Daniel. You’re a tourist. Let me guess. Daddy cut you off?"
The giant slumped. Just like that, 'The Bulldozer' vanished, replaced by a pouting child in a giant's body.
"It’s not fair!" Daniel burst out, his voice cracking. "My dad is the CEO of Zenith Interiors, he pulls in over two million dollars a year in stock options and bonuses alone. But he froze my Black Card just because I spent $5,000 at the 'Sapphire Angels' strip club last weekend! Two nights! That's it!"
Tommy’s jaw dropped. "$2 million a year?"
"I just wanted to prove to him that I can make it on my own!" Daniel clenched his massive fists, tears forming in his eyes. "I wanted to be a self-made man! A Boss! I wanted to show him I don't need his charity!"
I looked at this man-child. Analysis:
- Physical Stats: S-Tier. Natural genetics. Intimidating frame.
- Mental Stats: F-Tier. Naive. Insecure. Daddy issues.
- Potential: High. He is desperate for validation. He doesn't need money; he needs a purpose. He is the perfect meat shield.
"You’re hired," I said.
Daniel’s eyes lit up. "Really? I’m... I’m a mobster now?"
"You are an Intern," I corrected him. "Your title is 'Junior Intimidation Associate'. Your job is to stand behind me, fold your arms, look scary, and never speak."
"What’s the pay?" Daniel asked excitedly.
"$800 a week. Flat rate."
"Eight hundred?" Daniel looked horrified. "That won't even cover my moisturizer!"
"It’s $800 more than your daddy is giving you right now," I said coldly. "Do you want to go back to him and beg? Do you want to admit you failed?"
Daniel gritted his teeth. The pride of a rich kid scorned was a powerful fuel. "No. I’ll show him. I’ll show them all."
"Good," I handed him a contract (written on the back of a placemat). "Sign here. Welcome to the family, Daniel. Try not to get blood on your Balenciaga hoodie. It’s not a deductible expense."
I looked at Tommy. The fat boss was grinning ear to ear. For the first time in my life, I felt truly productive. Wall Street had constraints. Here? The market was wide open.
"Who's next?" I asked.
End of Chapter 1
Author's Note: Solomon is just getting started. What do you think of his "audit" of Tommy's gang? Let me know in the comments!
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