The morning after Matteo’s death, New Verona awoke as if nothing had happened.Cars honked. Vendors shouted. The air smelled of burnt oil and cheap cigarettes.But for Luca Marino, the world had ended and restarted on a darker frequency.He walked through the market district with Matteo’s blood still dried on his sleeve. The world moved in colorless motion—faces blurred, sounds muffled. He was no longer part of it; he was studying it.Every corner of New Verona pulsed with the rhythm of the Valente family—their men collected debts, guarded businesses, and ran protection rackets like clockwork. Their flag was fear. Their anthem was silence.Luca knew one thing: to avenge Matteo, he had to become one of them.To kill a wolf, you first wear its skin.He found his chance that afternoon at the Pier District, where Valente collectors were known to extort dockworkers.Rain clouds rolled low over the harbor. Ships groaned against the waves.Luca waited behind a stack of wooden crates, watchin

The night hung low over the city like a soaked shroud. Rain washed the grime from cracked pavements but could never rinse the sins that clung to them. In a corner of the South Docks, beneath a leaking roof of corrugated iron, Dario sat across from the three men who now decided his fate.Mancini stood first—the broad-shouldered enforcer whose scars told stories louder than his voice ever could. Beside him lounged Nino, sleek as an eel, his smile too sharp to trust. Between them, like a judge before sentencing, sat Don Ferreti, the district lord whose word weighed heavier than law itself.“You took care of Ramos?” the Don asked quietly, stirring the espresso cup before him.Dario nodded. “He won’t talk again.”Ferreti’s gaze flicked up, mild as a breeze but cutting deep. “Good. Loyalty is measured in silence, not words.”The Don rose, walked to a battered chest in the corner, and drew out an old revolver—nickel-plated, clean, ceremonial. He placed it on the table with reverence. “Every

Rain hadn’t stopped in three days. It drummed on rooftops and whispered through alleys like a curse. The city seemed to breathe through it—slow, heavy, suffocating.Inside the old distillery at the edge of the waterfront, Dario met with Ferreti’s captains. The building still smelled of burnt oak and whiskey, though it hadn’t produced a drop in years. Now it was a war room.Around the table sat men who could buy silence with a glance or end a life with a nod. Mancini leaned forward, hands clasped like stone. Beside him, Silvio—sharp, quiet, calculating—watched Dario the way snakes watch fire.Ferreti stood at the head, pacing. “Rosetti’s dead,” he began, his voice cold. “But that doesn’t mean peace. His men scatter like rats. We either cage them—or they regroup.”He turned to Dario. “You handled the docks. I want you to finish it. Bring every remaining Rosetti crew under our banner or burn them out. No half measures.”Dario nodded. “It’ll be done.”Ferreti’s eyes softened slightly. “Yo

The night bled into the Southbridge underpass, thick with mist and the ghostly hum of traffic overhead. Dario leaned against the hood of a black sedan, cigarette glowing between his fingers. The taste of burnt tobacco mixed with the metallic scent of the river—a place he had once called home when the streets only knew him as “Kid D.”Now, the same streets whispered his name differently.“Boss.”The title still felt foreign. Heavy. Dangerous.He exhaled smoke and watched it disappear into the night as Vince pulled up beside him. Vince had been his right hand since the beginning — sharp eyes, sharper tongue, and the kind of loyalty that seemed carved in stone. Tonight, though, Vince’s eyes didn’t carry the same steadiness.“Everything set?” Dario asked.Vince nodded, but too quickly. “Yeah. The crew’s waiting by the docks. We just need your word.”Dario flicked the cigarette to the ground. “Then let’s move.”The plan was simple: a money pickup from the northern docks, routine, nothing f

The war didn’t start with gunfire. It started with fear.By the end of that week, every corner of Southbridge was whispering the same name: Alvaro. The Serpents had moved in like ghosts, cutting deals, buying loyalty, twisting old friends into spies. Streets that once saluted Dario now echoed with doubt.And when fear takes root, bullets soon follow.The first night of war began at 2:17 a.m.A car bomb ripped through La Rosa’s backlot, shattering the quiet like glass. The explosion lit the skyline in orange. Flames licked the sky, and the sound of screams followed.Dario was thrown from his chair, ears ringing. The room filled with smoke and dust. Vince stormed in, pistol drawn.“They hit the club!” he shouted.Through the haze, Dario’s face was calm, almost too calm. “Get the wounded out. And tell everyone—Southbridge is closed. From tonight, it’s our city or no city.”By sunrise, the streets were barricaded.Every corner store, every alley, every rooftop became a fortress. Dario’s m