Bruno sat in his office chair, staring at something on his desk that would've made any other man in the world elated—multiple briefcases stacked with banknotes. But Bruno looked dreadful, as if the very sight of this cash was blighted.
He said nothing. The man who delivered the cases was given only a silent nod before being dismissed.
Contrary to what one might assume, this wasn't a fortune made from criminal racketeering—at least not in the traditional sense. This was Bruno's share of the profits from the Werwolf Group and its ongoing operations around the world.
War, it turned out, was a profitable business. Maybe the most profitable.
Drugs might be worth more by the kilo, sure—but guns? Guns didn't need to be cut, packaged, or smuggled in balloons. You sold one crate, and an entire district could fall. That was their value—not in gold, but in fear.
