Concrete Thrones: The Making of a Mafia Boss”

New Verona City. A place where dreams rot faster than corpses. Where every alley tells a story, and every shadow hides a debt unpaid.

The rain had been falling for hours, pounding the cracked pavements like God was trying to wash away the sins of the city — but the dirt ran too deep. Neon lights flickered weakly over the graffiti-stained walls, casting ghostly reflections across puddles of oil and blood.

Seventeen-year-old Luca Marino crouched behind a dumpster, his clothes soaked, his stomach empty, and his fists clenched around a stolen switchblade. He wasn’t a thief by choice. He was a thief by survival.

Across the street, the butcher locked up his shop. Luca’s heart raced. He hadn’t eaten in two days — his brother Matteo had promised food, but Matteo hadn’t come home. Not since the fight at the Valente Tavern last night.

Rumor said a body was found in the alley behind it.

Luca refused to believe any of it. Not until he saw the body himself.

He slipped from the shadows, feet silent on wet concrete. His reflection — a hungry ghost with brown eyes too old for his face — stared back from the puddles. A city rat darted across his path. Luca followed it, knife in hand, heart beating like war drums.

When he turned into the back alley of the Valente Tavern, the stench hit him first — gunpowder, rot, and something metallic. He froze. There, beneath the dim light of a flickering sign, lay Matteo.

Face-down.

Luca dropped to his knees. The world became soundless — no rain, no city, no breath. Just the cold truth. His brother was gone.

Pinned to Matteo’s torn jacket was a playing card: the Ace of Spades — the Valente signature for “payment made in full.”

“They think they can kill a Marino and walk away.”

His voice trembled — but not from fear. Something inside him cracked open that night, something raw and vengeful.

From the far end of the alley, a figure stepped into the light — tall, broad-shouldered, in a black trench coat. A cigarette glowed faintly between his fingers.

“Shouldn’t be out here, kid,” the man said. His accent was heavy, New Verona-born.

The man paused. Without looking back, he said,

“Ask Don Emilio Valente. But don’t expect to live after you do.”

That night, Luca didn’t sleep. He sat beside Matteo’s body until the dawn bled through the skyline. By morning, he wasn’t the same boy.

He took Matteo’s jacket, his knife, and the Ace of Spades.

Then he walked into the city — into its crime, its corruption, its hell — and began his journey to the throne he didn’t yet know he would build.

One street. One chance. One bloody path to power.