2025-10-21 00:10:31The warehouse sat at the edge of the river like a forgotten relic — steel ribs rusted, windows blacked out, and guards posted at every corner. The air smelled of gasoline, rain, and quiet menace.
Luca stood beneath the flickering light of a broken lamp, his breath forming pale clouds in the cold night. Matteo’s jacket clung to his shoulders, heavy with memory. He’d been waiting twenty minutes, maybe more. Long enough for the nerves to fade into focus.
A black sedan rolled up, headlights slicing through the mist.
“Get in, kid. No turning back once we roll through that gate.”
Luca nodded and climbed inside. The car’s interior reeked of smoke and leather. Two other men rode in silence, faces expressionless behind dark shades. Rico didn’t speak again until they reached the gates.
As the sedan rolled inside, the world shifted. Men moved like machinery — unloading crates, counting bills, checking weapons. Each nod or glance carried hierarchy. Luca recognized it instantly: organized chaos with rules written in blood.
The car stopped. Rico gestured to a door at the far end of the warehouse.
Luca followed him through narrow corridors lined with crates of contraband — liquor, cash, and things better not identified. They stopped before a heavy oak door guarded by two men in suits. One frisked Luca, the other opened the door.
The office was nothing like he expected. Dimly lit, quiet, almost sacred. A single desk stood at the center, draped in black marble. Behind it sat Don Emilio Valente — silver hair slicked back, suit perfectly tailored, eyes sharper than knives.
He was older than Luca imagined, but there was power in his stillness. The kind that didn’t need to shout.
Rico bowed his head slightly. “Don Emilio, this is the boy from the pier incident.”
Valente didn’t look up immediately. He finished signing a document, capped his pen, then finally raised his gaze.
Luca met his gaze and forced himself not to flinch. “They were beating an innocent man. I couldn’t stand by.”
Valente chuckled softly. “A moralist? That’s rare in my world.” He leaned back in his chair. “Tell me, boy, what do you want?”
“I want in,” Luca said.
“In?” Valente echoed, raising an eyebrow. “You mean into this?” He gestured around the room — the guns, the ledgers, the stacks of money. “Do you have any idea what ‘in’ means here?”
Luca hesitated, then said, “It means power. Respect. A place where no one can hurt me again.”
Valente studied him in silence, then smiled faintly. “Power, respect, safety… admirable illusions. But illusions nonetheless. Do you even know who I am?”
“You’re the man who owns New Verona,” Luca said quietly.
The Don laughed — low, deliberate. “A poet, too. Tell me, Rico, where do you find these kids?”
Rico grinned. “This one found us, boss. Said he wants to serve.”
Valente’s eyes returned to Luca. “Serve, hmm? Then let’s see how well you follow orders.” He snapped his fingers.
A side door opened, and two guards dragged in a bound man — bruised, gagged, trembling.
“This,” said Valente, “is a courier who thought he could steal from me. Money, loyalty, time — I take all theft personally.” He rose from his chair and placed a revolver on the table. The gun gleamed under the lamp.
He looked at Luca. “You want to be one of us? Prove it. Handle my trash.”
The room went silent except for the rain against the roof.
Luca stared at the gun. His hands felt cold.
They think they can kill a Marino and walk away.
He stepped forward, picked up the revolver.
Valente watched, unreadable. “Choice defines a man, boy. What’s yours?”
Luca’s finger hovered over the trigger. His pulse roared in his ears. The room shrank until it was just him, the gun, and the weight of his brother’s death.
Then, in a sudden motion, he turned — and aimed the gun at the Don.
Luca’s voice was steady. “If you’re going to test me, at least point it at someone who matters.”
For a long, endless moment, no one moved.
“Courage,” he murmured. “Or madness.” He slowly reached out, placed a hand on the barrel, and lowered it. “I like both in moderation.”
He nodded to his guards. “Release the courier.”
They hesitated, but obeyed. The man collapsed to the floor, weeping.
Valente turned back to Luca. “You pass. Not because you pulled the trigger — but because you didn’t. You showed control. Fire without restraint is chaos. Fire with focus… that’s empire.”
He extended his hand. “Welcome to the Valente family, Luca Marino.”
Outside, the rain had stopped. The air was thick, heavy, electric.
“You’re lucky he liked you,” Rico muttered. “Half the room wanted you dead.”
Luca smirked faintly. “If they wanted me dead, they should’ve pulled the trigger first.”
Rico laughed. “You’ll fit right in.”
As they stepped back into the night, Luca glanced once more at the warehouse behind them. Somewhere inside, Don Emilio was probably smiling—pleased with his new recruit.
But Luca wasn’t smiling. He knew this was only the beginning.
“You wanted loyalty, Don,” Luca whispered into the night. “You’ll get it.
Until I take your crown.”
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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