Concrete Thrones: The Making of a Mafia Boss”

Blood Beneath the Bridge”

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 flashy. But Dario felt the weight of silence in the air — the kind of silence that hums before thunder.

As they drove through the industrial stretch, Dario’s instincts screamed. The city looked the same, but something about the quiet felt wrong. No guards outside, no trucks running, no chatter. Just the hum of the streetlights.

When they stepped into the warehouse, the world tilted.

Bodies — three of his men — lay facedown on the concrete, blood blooming beneath them like dark flowers.

Dario froze. “What the hell—”

Then the gunfire erupted.

Muzzle flashes cut through the dark, echoing off metal walls. Dario dove behind a crate, pulling Vince down with him. Bullets ricocheted. The smell of gunpowder filled the air.

“Ambush!” Dario shouted.

He fired back blindly, hearing screams from both sides. It lasted minutes but felt like hours — until silence fell again, heavy and thick.

When Dario stood, chest heaving, only two of his men remained. He turned to Vince, who was still crouched low, hand shaking.

“Who knew about the pickup?” Dario demanded.

Vince swallowed hard. “Just me… and Carlo.”

Carlo. The driver. One of the first street kids Dario had ever helped. He’d been missing since yesterday.

Dario’s blood ran cold.

“Find him,” Dario said. His voice didn’t rise — it dropped, deep and sharp like a blade. “Now.”

---

By dawn, they found Carlo.

He was at the East River docks, sitting on a crate, staring at the water. His eyes flicked up when he saw Dario approach, flanked by Vince and two of the surviving crew.

“Boss… it ain’t what you think,” Carlo stammered.

“Then start talking.”

Carlo’s lips trembled. “They came to me, D. Said they’d kill my sister if I didn’t tell ‘em where the money drop was. I— I didn’t think they’d—”

Dario stepped closer, his shadow swallowing Carlo whole.

“You thought, Carlo? You thought betraying your crew was thinking?”

Carlo shook his head violently. “I tried to warn you! I left you a message—”

“Message never came,” Vince cut in coldly.

The wind carried the faint smell of salt and oil. Dario stared at the boy — nineteen, scared, desperate. He saw himself in him. But he also saw weakness — and weakness, in their world, was contagious.

“Who was it?” Dario asked quietly.

“Alvaro’s crew,” Carlo whispered. “The Red Serpents. They’re moving south. Said they wanted to make an example outta you.”

Dario’s jaw tightened. Alvaro’s name was poison. The Serpents had been sniffing around Southbridge for months.

Vince stepped forward, hand on his gun. “We can end this now. Clean shot.”

Dario hesitated. He looked at Carlo again — at the tears streaking down a dirt-covered face, at the fear of a kid who’d lost control of his fate.

“You want to live, Carlo?” Dario said finally.

Carlo nodded, hope flickering in his eyes.

“Then prove it. Bring me Alvaro.”

Carlo blinked. “W-What?”

“You heard me. You opened the door for them. You’ll close it. You get me the man who put the bullet in my boys, and you walk out of this city alive.”

Vince gave Dario a look — half respect, half disbelief. “You’re trusting him?”

“No,” Dario replied. “I’m testing him.”

---

Two nights later, the test was over.

Carlo came back broken. Limping, bleeding from a cut on his arm, but alive. He brought something with him — not Alvaro himself, but one of his men, beaten and bound.

Dario looked down at the Serpent soldier tied to a chair in the back of the warehouse.

“So,” Dario said calmly, circling him. “You shoot my men. You take my streets. And you think I won’t respond.”

The man spat blood. “You’re just another punk who thinks he’s king.”

Dario crouched down until their eyes met. “No. I’m the one who kills kings.”

He straightened and gave Vince a nod. Vince turned up the radio — old jazz crackled through the static — and the rest of the crew turned away.

When it was done, the silence returned. Dario stood over the slumped body, feeling nothing but the hollow ache in his chest.

“Bury him under the bridge,” he said.

As the others dragged the body away, Vince approached quietly. “You know Carlo won’t last. The Serpents will find him before sunrise.”

“I know.”

“You could’ve ended him yourself.”

Dario looked out at the river through the warehouse windows. “No. I let the streets decide. They always do.”

Vince studied him — the calm mask, the steady voice, the storm brewing beneath it all.

“Boss,” he said finally, “you’re changing.”

Dario lit another cigarette. “That’s what kings do.”

He took a slow drag, eyes fixed on the dark skyline where the city lights flickered like dying stars. Somewhere out there, Alvaro was planning his next move. Somewhere out there, the throne was still wet with blood.

And Dario knew — from this night forward, there would be no more hesitation, no more mercy.

The bridge had been crossed.

And beneath it, the river carried the bodies of men who thought they could betray a future king.