GREEN-WOOD CEMETERY - BROOKLYN - 10:00 AM (TWO DAYS AFTER THE INCIDENT)The Brooklyn sky was a dull gray, drizzling rain that seemed reluctant to touch the ground.On a small hill overlooking the harbor, a two-meter deep hole had been dug. Beside it, a polished black mahogany coffin was ready to be lowered.The coffin was expensive. But it was light.Because there was no body inside.Julian "Joker" Thorne had blown himself up with a grenade in a confined space. There was nothing left to bury except shreds of a purple suit and one charred clown shoe.Only a handful of people were present.Marco Rossi stood at the edge of the grave. He wore a long black trench coat, leather gloves, and dark sunglasses to cover his unnatural red eyes. He held a black umbrella but didn't open it. He let the rain wash over his face, which was stiff as a porcelain mask.Beside him, Isabella Moretti held a bouquet of wilted lilies. Her face was swollen behind her sunglasses.And in a wheelchair sat Bruno Fer

"THE SPIRE" CONSTRUCTION SITE - MANHATTAN10:00 AMThe wind at eighty stories high didn't just blow; it roared, trying to tear apart anyone foolish enough to stand on the edge of the steel skeleton without safety gear.Down below, New York City looked like a giant circuit board soaked by the remnants of last night's storm. A thin mist shrouded the tops of the skyscrapers, hiding the sins occurring in the billionaires' penthouses.Agent John Parker stood inside a construction hoist that rattled violently as it slowly ascended toward the top of the unfinished building. This building, "The Spire," was officially owned by an anonymous investment consortium. But Parker knew who the real owner was. The money for this cement, steel, and glass came from Cartel vaults, illegal casinos, and the blood of Marco Rossi's enemies.Parker wore his signature beige raincoat, but this time he carried no arrest warrant. He brought no SWAT team. He came alone, carrying only an old leather briefcase contai

GODFATHER'S OFFICE - TOP FLOOR OF THE VILLA02:00 AM A thunderstorm raged over Long Island tonight. Lightning struck, illuminating the dark sky with blinding white-purple light, followed by thunder that vibrated the bulletproof glass windows. In the pitch-black study, Marco Rossi sat on his throne, a high-backed leather chair facing away from the giant window. He didn't turn on the lights. He didn't need lights. His red eyes could see in the dark with perfect clarity. In front of him, on the vast mahogany desk, lay a digital map of New York projected from the table itself. The map was almost entirely black (the color of Black Dragon territory). There were

THREE YEARS LATER...  ST. JUDE'S ELITE ACADEMY - UPPER EAST SIDE12:30 PM Time is a healer for some, but for the Rossi family, time was merely concrete hardening over the grave of their sanity. Three years had passed since the night the Long Island sky burned and Senator Thorne became a rain of blood on the coastal cliffs. The Black Dragon was no longer just a syndicate or a street gang. They were an institution. A shadow empire whose roots gripped every layer of life in New York. From the docks to Wall Street, from the police precincts to city hall. Not a leaf fell in this city without Marco Rossi's permission. And at St. Jude's Elite Academy, that power manifested in the form of a ten-year-old girl. <

OMNI TOWER - 65TH FLOOR (BLACK DRAGON COMMAND CENTER) - 11:00 AMThe holographic globe in the center of the dark boardroom was covered in a web of glowing red lines. Three years ago, Marco Rossi was a dockworker struggling to pay off a fifty-thousand-dollar debt. Today, his digital map tracked illegal shipping routes stretching from the port of New York across the Atlantic, cutting through the heart of Europe, and reaching deep into the fractured territories of Eastern Asia.Marco sat at the head of the obsidian table. His metallic gray skin was hidden beneath a tailored midnight-blue suit, his red eyes concealed behind pitch-black Tom Ford sunglasses. Hovering above the table was a live encrypted video feed. On the screen was a scarred, thick-necked Russian ex-general named Volkov, smoking a cigar in a bunker somewhere in Chechnya. "The price is forty million Euros, Volkov," Marco said. His voice was a heavy, unnatural synthesizer rumble that seemed to vibrate the glass of the boar