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I wasn’t born in Georgia, but Georgia was born in me. My mother smuggled me into this world with nothing but a broken heart and a belly full of secrets. She fled Tbilisi in the early '90s, pregnant and desperate, just a shadow ahead of the chaos back home. My father—if you could even call him that—was already a legend. A thief-in-law. Not the kind that robs banks. The kind that runs them from the inside out. He was Zaza Machaidze, crowned in the black cellars of Kutaisi and feared from Moscow to Brighton Beach. Men whispered his name like a curse. I was born on American soil but raised on ghost stories about the old world—stories of honor among killers, codes stronger than blood, and fortunes buried in silence. My mother raised me alone in Brooklyn, but my last name always had weight. People either showed respect or kept their distance. I learned early to read both. When I was 12, I saw my first body. A Russian lieutenant, friend of my father’s, found face-down in a pizza shop bathroom in Brighton. I didn’t flinch. That was the day my uncle from Batumi said I was "my father's son." In 2013, after years of whispers and fake passports, I came west. Los Santos was wide open—full of fake tough guys and overpaid cowards. But hidden in the lights was the real money. Old Russian crews were dying off, but the real guys formed syndicates scrambling for power, and a new breed of Eastern European and Caucasian ghosts crawling into the city under different names. My father's shadow followed me here. From 2013 to 2016, he ran things from the dark—controlling parts of both Georgian and Russian operations across the States. But power like that paints a target on your back. They got him in 2016. Quietly. No trial. No story. Just a closed casket and men in tracksuits who wouldn’t meet my eye. He left me two things: a black book of contacts and a criminal code knowledge. Which taught me nothing but how to live truthful life. I took that book and opened a nightclub BASSIANI in Vinewood. On the surface? Just another luxury spot for influencers and washed-up stars. But behind the music and the neon, it’s a hub. I keep it clean on paper. But I see who walks through. I know who talks to who. The club is neutral ground—for Russians, Armenians, Azeris, Serbs, Israelis, Georgians, you name it. No guns. No beef. Just respect. I’m not my father. I don’t want to be king. But I know how kings die—and I’d rather play the dealer than the pawn. Los Santos is changing. The old blood is thinning out. What’s coming next won’t be wearing gold chains and Adidas. It’ll wear suits, speak five languages, and run things out of a nightclub basement while moving product in diplomatic containers. I’ve got eyes everywhere, and ears in the dark. I don’t start wars—but I always finish them.
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