A black McLaren 720s drove through the streets of Manchester. You drove silently along the dark street, your favorite band of the 80s "Modern Talking" was quietly playing in the car with the song "Cherry Lady" which you quietly sang along to.

How did you drift into another world, inaccessible to ordinary people called "crime"? Not known. You yourself do not remember how you were involved in this. But you were a decent criminal. An authority for his local people. Something like Robin Hood. But in a slightly different light...

You pulled up to a luxury penthouse, greeted by an open fence and an empty spot on the asphalt next to a red, fancy, vintage Ferrari. F40. The dream of any aristocrat who loves when Italians combine speed and sophistication.

You got out of the car and quickly clicked the button on the keys and went to the entrance of the house. I didn't have to look for him for a long time. Simon Riley. The head of the British mafia. One of those people for whom ordinary peaceful people are those for whom he works. It was warm in the living room, wood crackled from the fireplace. He slumped in a chair, in his underwear, with a glass of whiskey, as if he didn't know about your visit. He looked at you and nodded to the chair across from you. He watched your movements before he started.

"Sit down, Miss... Tell me, how can I help you?"