Black Moth

Between Park Jiseung and his deceased wife, Yongmi, they had three children. Sungwoong was the oldest and heir to the Seven Star throne once his father found him suitable enough for it—or died. The only child that would give him a run for his money was the middle child, Junseong, and only girl of the three children.

Park Junseong was just as business savvy as her father and older brother and perhaps twice as ruthless. She used her intoxicating eyes and flirtatious acts to nab six husbands—all rich and all dead. Junseong was thirty-nine, having married her earliest at nineteen. The husbands died in usual ways, nothing should have been taken out of context, but the second Park child was still dubbed the “Black Widow” for obvious reasons.

Sungwoong and Junseong grew up close. They were a typical brother-sister duo, causing mayhem at young ages and causing their mother to grey young. Junseong took Yongmi’s death the hardest and Sungwoong was the one to comfort her the most; it was in his nature as oldest to care for both his younger siblings, even if Songyeong tried his patience time and time again.

Songyeong was the obvious baby, always getting what he wanted from his mother when he was young. A simple mistake on his part was the reason she was dead. He would never take the blame, however. Songyeong displayed signs of rebellion and hatred towards his family life at an early age. He thought the strict rules and regulations set for his safety were dumb. He thought the use of his family’s money was unlimited. He thought the fact that his brother got an all-access pass to Seven Star leader was unfair. His jealously for Sungwoong, spoiled nature, and no respect for authority made him a dangerous asset to Seven Star. It was holding a match to a fuse.

It was only because of his older brother’s protection that Songyeong had not been sniped leaving his one of many mistresses’ places or been slipped poison in his drink by his father’s own men. Sungwoong had talked his father down multiple times from killing his own son. “He’ll change,” Sungwoong promised. “We just have to get him out of his teens”. Then, came his twenties. Now his thirties. Park Jiseung was losing patience with his youngest son.

“I don’t know what to do with him,” said Sungwoong, sighing heavily as he and his sister shared a corner table at their favorite Italian restaurant.

In the late evening hours, it was dimly lit and very few customers still remained. They had finished their pasta dishes and were now sipping on the restaurant’s best—and most expensive—wine. It was a treat to themselves after another harrowing month surviving as mob children.

Junseong was truly beautiful with pale skin that hid her age marvelously. Her eyes were black as coal and lips painted a deep red color that made her seem even more like she was made of ivory. Black hair fell down to her tailbone in a straight, lush line. Her figure was well-formed, athletic. Men stopped to openly gawk at the deity and Sungwoong had trained himself to stop glaring at them over the years. Junseong wanted them to fall for her and into her trap.

“I think you need to quit babying him and tell him time’s up,” she said after a bout of silence. “Songyeong has to learn his place or else soon he’s going to die at someone else’s hands rather than ours.”

“And is that really worse?” asked Sungwoong. “Knowing that my own family killed my brother? I couldn’t live with it.”

Junseong’s giggle had his eyes turned back to her in confusion. “How many men have you killed for Dad since you were seventeen? Over a hundred, clearly. And you’re worried about our snot-nosed brother who undermines everything we tell him and burns our money like its going out of style.”

“He’s family. Those people I kill threaten this family.”

Junseong shrugged. “Fine. I’m not going to ask you to explain yourself further. Just know something has to be done.”

“I know,” Sungwoong growled, laying his forehead against clasped hands. “I wanted to talk to him before we ate, but he had already went out.”

“Of course he did. He starts gambling at about four and it just becomes a train wreck from there.”

“Your cynicism is not helping.”

Junseong smiled coyly. “Sorry.” She peered over her brother’s shoulder. “There is a man that has been looking over here all night. He’s either the law or looking to be Hubby Number Seven. Do you want to take a bet?”

“Aren’t you tired of that game yet? You’re almost richer than me just by your husbands’ inheritance.” Junseong bit at her lip. “You are tired, aren’t you? Then, find someone worth your time rather than some old perv you’re going to lay off six months later.”

“Its hard to do that now,” said his sister. “I have never been committed to anyone; you think I can retrain my brain to start now? Doubted.”

Sungwoong sighed and finished downing his last glass of wine. “I’m sure you can find a handsome man who you don’t have to kill. But we can discuss this later. The Sahas are coming in the late morning and I’m escorting them back to the house.” He rose from his seat and threw on his suit jacket. “Will you join us for lunch?”

Junseong had rose herself, her heels making her almost as tall as her brother. She was very lengthy for a Korean woman, another reason she was so sought after. “Unfortunately, no. I have a meeting with the CFO of the salon and we need to go over some financial matters. Otherwise, I’d be more than happy to sit in and listen to Dad brag about his empire.”

They walked towards Sungwoong’s car, a black Cadillac CT6. “A pity. I wanted you and Saha’s daughter to make friends.”

“You’ll have to do that,” said Junseong with a smirk. “I hear she’s pretty.”

Sungwoong slipped into the driver’s seat and his sister in the passenger. “That’s what they keep telling me for some reason.”

--

A plush jet of stainless steel, mahogany wood and gold embroidery had been Nikita Saha’s home since she was very little—updated every year or so when her father decided it needed to be traded for a newer version. Nikita carried after her father’s exquisite tastes, always getting the newest fashions and keeping her personal hygiene at a perfectionist’s level. There was hardly a flaw on her face with arched eyebrows and flowing black silk for hair.

Her hair was pulled over one shoulder; a hand with perfectly tended nails painted black grasped a pencil that scribbled across a leather-bound journal. She sat with one leg crossed over the other, a black dress with a white cross striping down the front of her body. The poetry flowing onto her paper described the feelings of captivity and being ignored like a pesky fly.

Her densely pierced ears hardly picked up the statistics and statuses of the recent stock market update. She hummed along when she felt it was needed, but otherwise carried on with her own project. Nikita always made it a goal to check economical balances as soon as she rose in the morning so as to be ahead of her father when he tried to drawl on and on about such nonsense.

Nikita was Naagpathi and Paarul Saha’s only child, a true blessing bestowed upon them when they had nearly given up hope. Both had come from the poorest of backgrounds and both promised themselves they would never let their offspring struggle as much as they had. They met at the textile factory they both slaved away in at the tender age of sixteen. They married and Naagpathi began to rise from a little assembly boy, to manager, to financial assisting, to opening his own clothing factory—the largest in Bangladesh. Saha & Company’s face was Naagpathi’s younger and negligent brother who knew little how to run a business, but had the charm and people skills to get anyone on their side. Naagpathi was the brain and the heart; he ran everything behind the scenes from investments and balance sheets to the drug and human trafficking that happened under the table. Naagpathi Saha rose to the developing country’s number one kingpin with the mob Black Moth after decades of struggle—which included the death of his wife.

Nikita looked just like Paarul, nearly identical and just as beautiful. However, her heart was harder than her mother’s. Paarul never acted like a mob boss’ wife; she was too kind-hearted and nurturing to ever do anyone harm. Nikita placed her first hit on a client at the age of seventeen and did so without a blink. She could deal with some of Naagpathi’s most radical lieutenants and never faulter. Her hazel eyes were large and—at first—may appear innocent like a doe’s, but further inspection would run an icy chill through anyone’s heart. She was Naagpathi’s predecessor and he raised her from the time her mother died to become the next head of Black Moth.

Naagpathi looked up from the tablet he had set on the arm of the leather couch and watched his daughter write for some time. Finally, he asked, “What’s your fairy tale about this time?”

“I quit writing fairy tales a long time ago,” Nikita answered, glancing up at her father. “It’s a poem.” Her father hummed to himself. “Just so you’re aware, my second book of poetry will be published next month. So this isn’t completely pointless like I know you’re thinking.”

“I don’t find it pointless,” said Naagpathi, looking genuinely intrigued as he rubbed his bearded chin. “Its good to have an outlet for a job as stressful as ours. Were you even listening to what I was saying?”

“Yes,” said Nikita sharply. “Saha and Co. is currently sitting highest on the market as far as textile and clothing; you’re expecting to get more customers in the next couple days, mostly from the U.S. and Canada. You also threw in that one of Brazil’s cartel leaders wanted to discuss business, but you figured he was too generous with his investments in racehorses and wouldn’t make for a good ally.” Hazel eyes looked up at Black Moth’s head, a glimmer of triumph on pouted lips. “Anything else?”

Naagpathi’s white teeth flashed from underneath his well-maintained beard. He sat back on the couch, adjusting his blue Armani suit and admiring his grown daughter. She had inherited his expensive taste, his perfectionist needs, and lack of empathy. He was not a very tall man—under six feet—and had growing weight with age and the amount of alcohol he liked to consume during celebratory occasions. His full head of hair was dark, but greying at the sideburns and his beard showed flecks of snow. Eyes remained darker than his daughter’s, but colder.

“You’ll make for an excellent head,” he finally said after some silence.

Nikita snorted. “Why? Because I can repeat everything that comes out of your mouth while I’m only partially listening?”

“No, because you like business, but you’re a woman. That makes you lethal, intricate, and unremorseful. No one ever suspects a woman and you have the attitude of a hierarchy.” He pointed at her with a short, scarred finger. “You’re not the simpering, sensitive woman that our culture used to like. No, you’re a queen, a Joan of Ark.”

Nikita looked at her father for a few short moments before letting out a bell-like laugh that rang through the entire jet. “A Joan of Ark? No, I’m just Nikita Saha, raised by a crime lord with the intention of ruling the world and having to fight for it. No one else matters, but you and I. Nothing else matters, but Black Moth’s success. Because without Black Moth, I wouldn’t be able to buy my clothes and continue my car collection.” She offered her own cynical smile with large cheeks that increased the paradoxical look of innocence.

It was Naagpathi’s turn to laugh. “You are my daughter.”

“Since I am, will you listen to my thoughts on this Seven Star situation?” Nikita asked, tucking a stray hair as she straightened fully in her seat.

A thick eyebrow arched. “And what’s that?”

“Are you sure they’re the right choice?”

“No other gang in Korea matches their power.”

“But why not start with the Yakuza as a start to our eastern Asia branching?” Nikita reasoned. “They’re larger than Seven Star and have stronger branches in North America. Besides is Black Moth ready to make such an alliance? Are we strong enough at the base to try and entrust another gang with our business?”

“The Yakuza are too spread out; that’s their problem. Adding our men and services to their ranks will make them too large and I’m not willing to begin organizing a group that won’t take me seriously. That’s the beauty of Seven Star. They’re smaller, but far more organized and steadier with their branches. With each other’s help, we’ll both grow into something bigger than the Yakuza. By the time I’m dead and gone, you’ll have an empire.”

Nikki fiddled with the ends of her raven hair. Naagpathi expected her to see things his way and agree, but when she spoke, all she said was “I need to use the bathroom,” and rose from her seat for the front of the jet.

The mirror was too clear, too easy to see the doubt flooding Nikki’s eyes. She washed her hands thoroughly before opening the door of the roomy lavatory. Her father made sure it was more than just a closet so in case he needed to sit and think about business strategies, he wouldn’t become claustrophobic.

Outside the bathroom, Nikki came face to face with the head of the Saha’s personal guard, Solum. Solum had to be nearing fifty, but he did not look a day over thirty. Perhaps it was because his expression rarely changed beyond its blank, but surveying expression. His dark eyes caught everything, scanning every corner of every room the Saha’s entered since Nikita was six years old. Solum was forever constant beside either her or her father, in his dark suits and dark complexion. He spoke eight languages: Bangla, English, Korean, Arabic, Japanese, Mandarin, Hindu, and Punjabi. Over the years, he mentioned he spoke a little Cantonese and Russian just to be safe. Nikki spoke most of those—at least conversationally—thanks to Solum and her high education in the United States.

Solum held responsibility for teaching Nikita how to defend herself as she grew up. Despite her petite figure, she could throw a man twice her size and could be lethal if given a decent blade to lash out with. By the time her mother died, she could dissemble and resemble a number of hand guns. She was well practiced in judo, jujitsu, kickboxing, and taekwondo. All of this thanks to Solum.

“So what do you think of father’s plan with Seven Star?” Nikita asked quietly, peering at her father who was speaking with their personal flight attendant. Her eyes traveled back to the head guard, curiosity masking the doubt she had felt seconds prior.

“Why does my opinion matter?” Solum asked. “Obviously, you’re not very happy about it.”

“Does my opinion even matter?” she asked. “Will it ever or do I have to wait until my father is gone and buried before my opinion can really have any weight? I try to have a mind of my own and make my own decisions when it comes to Black Moth, but father often waves it off. Yet he expects me to carry on this business…” She shook her head. “I wonder about his logic sometimes.”

“When your father passes down Black Moth to you, you will be as good of a head as he was. In fact…” Solum drew nearer as to be sure no one would hear what he said. “In my mind, you will be better. You lack the drive of pure lustful greed that your father has; you’re not blinded by your greed as you could be. You look at thing more strategically than just what the numbers bring in.”

“Solum!” Naagpathi’s bark sent both heads whipping in his direction. Solum bowed to Nikita before approaching her father. “Is security ready for our arrival in Seoul?”

“Absolutely, sir,” said Solum. “They’ll be ready for arrival in the next hour.”

Naagpathi thanked his guard as Nikita took her seat across from him again. The flight attendant brought them a bottle of champagne, presenting it to them formally before pouring two glasses.

“Celebrating already?” Nikita inquired, eyebrows raising. “Isn’t it a little early?”

Naagpathi smiled and took his glass. “I suppose we’ll wait and see.”