2025-10-21 00:05:56The morning after Matteo’s death, New Verona awoke as if nothing had happened.
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.
He found his chance that afternoon at the Pier District, where Valente collectors were known to extort dockworkers.
Luca waited behind a stack of wooden crates, watching three men in long coats drag a fisherman toward a van.
“Your payment’s late again,” the tallest said, a cigar clenched between yellow teeth.
The man struck him across the face with a pistol. The sound echoed off the metal hulls.
Luca’s hands trembled—not from fear, but hunger. Not for food. For retribution.
He remembered Matteo teaching him to throw punches in their orphanage yard. “Don’t swing angry, kid. Swing smart.”
He stepped out of the shadows. “Leave him.”
The laughter died. The men turned. The one with the cigar sneered.
“Someone who’s tired of watching cowards hide behind guns,” Luca said.
The men exchanged glances, amused.
The first came swinging. Luca ducked, slammed his elbow into the man’s ribs, and jabbed the switchblade into his thigh.
Before the others reacted, Luca grabbed a rusted pipe and cracked it against another’s jaw.
The third aimed a pistol—Luca kicked a crate into him, sending the bullet wild. The shot echoed, scattering seagulls into the grey sky.
Adrenaline burned like fire in his veins. He had never fought for his life like this.
Luca pressed the knife to his throat.
He sheathed the blade and walked away as sirens wailed in the distance.
By nightfall, Luca sat inside a diner on 14th and Riverside, nursing a bruised hand and a cup of black coffee. The city buzzed outside—the same noise, the same filth—but now it felt different. The first step was taken.
A shadow fell across his table.
Luca looked up to see the same man from the alley the night before—the one who’d told him Matteo was “too loyal.”
“Name’s Rico Falcone. I work for the Valente family. You made quite a noise at the pier.”
Luca said nothing, eyes narrowed.
“You’re lucky I got there before the cops,” Rico continued. “Word spreads fast when blood hits the water. You got guts, kid. Stupid, but gutsy.”
“I’m not here for luck,” Luca replied. “I want in.”
Rico studied him. “In? You think we take in street rats off the curb? What makes you think Don Emilio would even know your name?”
Luca leaned forward, voice hard. “Because I’ll make him remember it. Matteo Marino. That name ring a bell?”
Rico’s smirk faded. He lit a cigarette, exhaled smoke slowly. “Your brother was loyal. Too loyal. He died for a cause he didn’t understand. You want to follow that?”
“I want to finish it,” Luca said.
Rico’s eyes glinted with something like respect—or curiosity. “You’ve got fire, kid. Fire gets attention. But fire alone burns out fast. You’ll need something else—discipline, patience, fear.”
“I’ve already got fear,” Luca said. “I just stopped listening to it.”
Rico chuckled softly. “Alright, tough guy. I’ll take you to the warehouse tomorrow night. That’s where the Don handles new… recruits. But you cross a line, and no one will find your body.”
He slid a matchbox across the table with an address scribbled on it.
Rico stood, dropped some bills on the counter, and left with a low whistle.
Luca stared at the address, heart pounding.
Tomorrow night, he would walk into the lion’s den—not as prey, but as an aspiring predator.
Outside, the rain started again, soft at first, then relentless.
He looked up at the towering skyline of New Verona—steel, smoke, and sin.
“You built your throne on blood,” he whispered to the city.
“I’ll build mine on your ashes.”
The wind howled. Lightning cracked across the harbor.
Previous Chapter
Latest Chapter
The Birth of a King”
The night after Enzo’s disappearance, Southbridge looked quiet only from a distance. Up close, it vibrated with the same tension before a thunderstorm. No one said Dario killed his lieutenant, but everyone felt it. The city breathed through its teeth—slow, careful, waiting.From his penthouse window, Dario watched the glow of the docks spread like molten metal across the river. Containers moved in mechanical rhythm, cranes creaking against the wind. Everything down there—every gun, every shipment, every man—answered to him now.He should have felt invincible. Instead, the silence pressed on his chest like a hand.He kept seeing Enzo’s chair at the table—empty, accusing. Vince’s ghost had been loud; Enzo’s was worse. It said nothing. It just waited.Dario tried to drown it in routine.At sunrise, he met with suppliers from the north side. By noon, he reviewed the books. By dusk, he toured the warehouses. Every hour accounted for, every weakness patched.But paranoia breeds from order a
Concrete Crowns”
The city didn’t celebrate Vince’s fall. It mourned in silence. Southbridge’s air grew thick with something you couldn’t name — fear, grief, or maybe just the aftertaste of violence that lingered long after the gunfire faded.For Dario, it was the first night in months where no one came knocking on his door. No calls. No gunshots. Just silence. He should have slept. He didn’t.He sat alone in his office above the butcher shop — the same place Vince once stood, giving orders and breaking men’s spirits. The bloodstain on the concrete floor had long been scrubbed away, but in Dario’s mind, it was still there. He could still see Vince’s last glare, the betrayal painted across it, the way he fell — slow, heavy, final.Outside, the city lights flickered against the rain. Southbridge was his now. Every street corner, every warehouse, every frightened whisper of his name confirmed it. Dario Costa runs the game.But power was never quiet. Power had a voice — and it screamed.The paranoia came s
“Ashes and Crowns”
The rain had stopped by morning, but the streets still looked drowned.Southbridge smelled of smoke and gunpowder, the air thick with the stench of what the night had taken.Dario stood at the window of the old station office, staring at the rising smoke from the yards below. The city felt different now — quieter, like it was holding its breath. Somewhere beneath that silence, Vince’s blood was drying on the concrete.The body was gone. The men had buried him by the East Wall — no ceremony, no words, just dirt and memory. But Dario didn’t go. He couldn’t. Kings didn’t attend funerals; they made sure no one else held one.He turned as Nico entered the room. The young man looked pale, his hoodie stained with dried blood.“Boss,” Nico said carefully, “the boys are asking what happens now.”Dario lit a cigarette, his movements mechanical. “Now?” He exhaled a slow cloud. “Now we rebuild.”Nico shifted uncomfortably. “We lost twenty men. The docks are gone. The Serpents—”Dario cut him off.
The Fall of Vince
The city was restless again.Rain fell in thin, crooked lines, sliding down cracked windshields and broken glass. The storm didn’t wash away the blood — it only spread it thinner.Southbridge slept uneasily, but Dario didn’t sleep at all.He sat in his office, the lights dimmed, staring at an empty chair across from him. Vince’s chair.It had been three days since his right hand walked out the door. Three days of no contact, no word, no trail.Dario’s men searched the docks, the safe houses, even the dive bars that only ghosts remembered. Nothing.Some said Vince had gone underground.Others said he’d joined Alvaro’s remnants.Dario said nothing at all.But silence, in his world, was louder than betrayal.By the fourth night, the rain had turned to mist.Nico entered the room, his hoodie dripping. “Boss,” he said, out of breath, “we found him.”Dario didn’t move. “Where?”“Old station yard — north edge. He’s holed up with two of Alvaro’s lieutenants.”Dario rose slowly, the chair legs
“The Ghost of Kings”
The war had ended, but the silence that followed was worse than the gunfire.Southbridge reeked of smoke and iron. Windows were shattered, cars burned to their frames, and the river ran dark with what the streets refused to bury. The news called it a cease-fire. The cops called it chaos.Dario called it unfinished business.He stood at the edge of the bridge that bore his empire’s name, watching the city breathe in the distance. The skyline shimmered through the haze like a promise he could never keep.Vince joined him, nursing a bandaged shoulder. “No word from Alvaro’s crew in forty-eight hours,” he said. “It’s quiet.”“Too quiet,” Dario muttered. “The dead don’t stay silent that long.”Vince glanced sideways. “You think he’s gone?”Dario exhaled smoke through his nose. “No. Men like Alvaro don’t vanish. They wait. They rebuild. They whisper.” He turned toward the city. “And then they bite.”In the week that followed, Dario rebuilt.He moved his headquarters from La Rosa’s ruins to
“Southbridge Burns”
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
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